Letters from the Northern Lands

 

27.07.XXXX

My Love

I have tried to find madness in fish. After one kilogram of mackerel filet, deep-fried, I am not convinced this was the right choice. Everything now smells of fish. My clothes, my body, my dishes and I. Too much fish kills the fish. And me.

On the other hand, it would not be wrong to call this experience a mackerel-madness, and in that sense, I have won today a small victory. Regarding fish, it shall be the last for the foreseeable future. Not only because soon, I will be leaving the coast, but also because I am (literally) sick of fish.

But this experience also allowed me to study the madness of seagulls. Constantly shrieking even at the best of times, the frenzy that overcomes them when feeding in flocks on the mangled remains of our catch is something else entirely. Screaming, flapping their wings madly, their beaks red with blood, they fight over one fish carcass when there are three more, not two meters away, and with no competition. They pick them up, drop them into the sea only so that the next of their kin can pick them up again. Fighting impressive areal battles, they pursue their meal in single-minded madness, the tastiest morsel always the one already in someone else's beak.

Great masters of madness they are, the seagulls, and there is much we could learn from them. But mad as we are, we shan't.

W.

Papers Please

The room is dimly lit, the dirty-white walls sucking up the cold neon-light. The floor is made of grey linoleum. There are no windows. There is a counter in front of one of the walls. To either side is a door.

The man behind the counter has a slightly arrogant look on his face, even though there is no one there to see him. Hidden behind a glass wall, he shuffles around some papers absent-mindedly, then puts them on top of a pile on his left. He pushes a button on the left side of his desk. The door opens a few seconds later, and another man enters the room.

He is dressed in old but well-cared for clothing, slouching slightly. He shuffles slowly towards the counter, as if unsure if he should be there. Then he glances fearfully at the man behind the counter, and hands him some documents through a slit. The man behind the counter starts organizing them without sparing so much as a glance for the other.

“What are your reason for coming to our country ?” the man behind the counter asks. His eyes have not left the documents on his desk.

“I come to join my wife who moved here,” says the other. The man behind the counter looks up from the passport in his hands, meeting the eyes of the other for the first time. Then he turns his attention towards the other documents in front of him.  The other seems to have regained a bit of his confidence. “We have always wanted to live in –“

“And your name is ?”

The other is startled by the sudden interruption, but obliges nonetheless. “Gregor Claymann.”

“Date of birth ?”

“Eighteenth of November, 1948.”

“Where is your birth certificate, mister Claymann ?” the man behind the counter asks. Even though he has been curt before, now his voice is cold as ice.

“Ah! I’m sorry! I have it right here!” The other fumbles in his pockets for a few seconds before producing the certificate.

The man behind the counter glances through it. Then he looks at the other. “This picture doesn’t look like you,” he says, pointing at the picture in the passport.

“It’s an old picture. But the passport is still valid!”

“I will need you to press the fingers of your right hand on the scanner to your right, please.”

Again, the other seems taken aback. Again, he obliges.

When he is done, the man behind the counter glances at a screen to his right. His eyes flicker between the screen and the passport for a few seconds. Then he picks up one of the documents in front of him. “It says here that during your physical examination last week, you weighted sixty-eight kilograms. The balance underneath you indicates that you now weight seventy. Why is that ?”

“I must have gained some weight, or maybe it’s my clothes. I don’t know-“

“Could you please step into the scanner to your left ?”

“What ? But it’s only two kilograms! I was naked when I was weighed at the check-up, of course it’ll –“

“Sir, please.”

The other gives the man behind the counter a resentful look, but ends up obliging.

Once he has closed the doors of the body-scanner behind him, the man behind the counter pushes an icon on his screen. The machine starts to produce a low humming.

After a minute or so, it stops, and the other exits the machine. “You see ? I’m sure there’s –“

“Sir, if you keep interrupting me, I will have to call security.”

“What ? But –“

“Sir!”

Even though he can’t stop the outrage from showing on his face, the other remains silent.

The man behind the counter looks at the screen again. He manipulates the angle of the picture with a few well-practiced flicks of his fingers. Then he takes out a tray with two rubber stamps on it. He picks up the one to the right with his left hand, and the passport with his right. Just before the stamp touches the paper, he stops. “You said that you are coming to live with your wife, correct ?”

“Yes, we always wanted –“

“Your passport says that you are not married.”

“Well, it was only a religious ceremony, we did not have the money to buy a license and –“

“Please wait here, sir.”

“What ? But I –“

The man behind the counter pushes a button to his right. The door opens, and two soldiers enter the room. They grab the other, and start to drag him towards the door. The man behind the counter shuffles his papers together and clears his desk without looking up.

The other protests. His voice is full of resentment and fear. And resignation.

 Inspired by the game.

Letters from the Northern Lands

 

26.07.XXXX

My Love

Today we crossed the island we are on. A harsh walk up the mountain granted us yet another splendid view. On one side, the mountains falling down onto a small lake, with the sea off in the distance. On the other side, the mountains falling down onto a small lake, with the sea off in the distance. Like a mirror-image, both sides were the same, yet different. The climb was hard, and the descent even more so, but as we gaze upon the small bay a few dozen feet below our camp, it seems well worth it. We finished of the day by going fishing, my friend for mackerel and myself for crabs. But without success.

The sea ! What is it good for ? Absolutely nothing !

Well, except the view, of course. Now we are cooking our frugal diner, writing and reading, the sun still warm even at this late hour.

As I sit here, thinking, dreaming, I realize that I have gotten used to the traveler's way of life.

I sleep better, I am in better shape, and my fuel efficiency is also higher than before.

My mind feels sharp, so much so that sometimes I fell it is cutting up my brain. But I do not care. My thoughts have been sluggish, slow and patient, but now they fly again, soaring from one subject to the next, defying logic and common sense. And I let them. We have recovered from the harshness of the first few days, from the short, sleepless nights under the never-setting sun. And now we shall do as we please, knowing that we have earned that right.

Lo and behold, we shall go mad ! For madness is our birthright, our path to salvation. Only those who do not live shall stay sane. And we live, my Love, more so than most. But you already know that.

Remember those first weeks we met. Remember those frenzied days, where everything that was new was good. Remember as we raced down the street, leaving our restaurant bill unpaid, as we made Love on the rooftops of Paris. Remember that gondola we stole in Venice, and the night we spent in jail, laughing and singing so loud that they let us walk free in the morning.

Madness is our due, it is who we are. It is what makes life worth living.

I know that we have become calmer since, and I do not blame you for it, not anymore than I blame myself. Society tries to calm us down, to tie us down, for society is order and calm and rules. But we, we are madness and chaos. We will break free of the calm, of the chains they lay on us again and again. We will fight, and fall, and stand up to fight again. For they can not harm us. Nobody can. Madness is freedom, madness is love, and nobody will ever be able to tame it.

Even though I had forgotten, here I have found it again. Had I left for less time, I might have missed it, I might have felt the need of calm comfort and not the urge of madness.

But I did not, for my steps guide me to madness. And to you.

For you bring out the crazy in me. You have done so before, and you are doing it again.

And so I shall go find madness, in the vast blue oceans and the windy mountaintops, and I shall bring it back to you. And once again, my Love, we will be mad together, mad about each other. Like we were meant to be.

W.

Letter from the Northern Lands

 

25.07.XXXX

My Love

Another day, another island, another lake. I don't know if the water is less cool here (we are further south), or if I am getting used to it, but this time around I felt comfortable enough to swim for a few meters after washing myself. The cool water felt so nice on my bare skin after our day's walk in the sun, I could not resist.

Tomorrow we shall cross the sheer mountains that surround our lakeside paradise, but before then we enjoy our evening, writing, reading and basking in the warm sunlight. I find myself thinking more and more about what will happen after my friend leaves, and I will be alone. Facing the hardships of travel without someone to talk to, in a land where chance encounters are sparse, I wonder how my mind will hold up. Even now strange thoughts swirl at the edge of my consciousness, and I fear that without company to keep them at bay, they may well take over. What will happen then ?

But it is no use fearing the unknown, I tell myself. What will happen will happen, and I shall deal with it when the time comes. Until then, I will enjoy these last days of companionship, and hope that the time I will spend alone will be as fulfilling as the time I spent up until now.

And whatever happens, my Love, I shall keep writing to you, and that at least will give my mind a North to follow.

W.

Strange Times

Strange times indeed !

As spring is melting the last snow that lingers in the shadow, I myself find that life has taken a rather sudden turn. And now that my man-parts seem to finally be in order again (even though reduced in number), I find that inspiration lacks. Indeed, after all that, normal life seems too boring to be worth mention. Such is always the case with intense (although not necessarily good) experiences. Everything else seems so band afterwards.

So I look ahead, dazed and confused, and while around me people scurry about their lives, like so many tiny ants scrambling for their queens, I find myself oddly disconnected from the mundane needs of mortal women and men. I see the fire that makes them run, yet I care not for the flames that burn me. I have becom numb to the world.

Or so it seems to me, anyway, but Life goes on and so do I. There should still be some things out there of which I am as of yet ignorant. They may be few in numbers, but all the harder to achieve because of their sparsity, and they shall keep me busy for the years to come. That is my hope.

And if not, I still have one ball left to loose !

Letters from the Northern Lands

 

24.07.XXXX

My Love

It is already the third day since we arrived on the islands, and still their beauty does not cease to amaze me. As we sit in our little shelter, gazing over the sun slowly setting in the distance, we feel at ease. The temperature is much warmer now, and during the day we no longer need to wear our coats. It feels like summer, even though the higher peaks still have patches of snow here and there.

I have been thinking a lot, these past days, about what it means to travel, and what it does to oneself. Whether you go from city to city, like we did together, or whether you walk into the unknown wilderness, travel takes you away from comfort. The comfort of knowing people, culture or places. The comfort of being able to communicate easily, to know your way. It breaks the plans you made, and gives you new ones. It pushes you, always, to overcome your limitations. We leave to lose what we have, and then we fight to get it back.

Sometimes travel breaks us, and then takes the pieces to make us whole again. The tiniest of things can lift our mood and make us smile, or send us to the depths of despair. Those who say they never wavered, never travelled. If you single-mindedly march on, not caring what happens around, fixed only on reaching your goal, you might just as well stay home. It is those with an open mind who travel best, letting the voyage set the pace. Listening to the voices of the weather, of their body or the people that they meet. Let yourself drift, and be guided by your steps. Only then can you truly enjoy the travels that you make.

Of course, you need the will to see through what you have been told to do, but not for glory or fame, not to impress or amaze. But because you know that otherwise, you will regret it.

I feel, sometimes, that so few people listen, even tough so many talk. Always trying to become something else, without taking the time to think about what they would like to be.

We have so little time on this earth, so why squander it with haste ? We should enjoy it as much as we can ! Enjoy the long summer sunsets, enjoy the cigarette you smoke. Enjoy the autumn leaves falling, the cold wind blowing. Enjoy the waiting, and the blur of action when it happens. Enjoy the company of friends or lovers. But do not spoil it with impatience.

Do not try to control, or be controlled, but go with the flow, slowly, gently. Push a bit here, a bit there, but do not try to force your way through.

Do not be afraid, for death comes to everyone, at any time. So before it happens, enjoy !

These are the thoughts that fill my mind as I sit near our small lake, watching the geese fly gently in the sky. In a few days my friend will leave, and I do not yet know if I should then continue south or go back north into the wild. I feel like I have missed something there, in our short stay, but facing the harsh cold alone, my pack even more full than it is now, scares me. Yes, my Love, it scares me.

If you were here now, what would you tell me to do ? Go where I must even though I might break, or go where I want, even though I might leave regrets behind ?

I do not know, my Love, and I have but a few days to decide. I hope that something will show me the way, for I am afraid I have lost it.

But do not worry, for wherever I choose to go, my heart will carry you along, my Love. And you shall be no burden.

W.

Letters from the Northern Lands

 

23.07.XXXX

My Love

Today as well, the sun is shining. After walking inland for an hour or so, we cam upon a small lake, where we could wash our clothes. They were in dire need of it too, since we had not had the chance to do so since we left. Afterwards we took a quick bath in the clear, fresh water. We rinsed the grime and sweat off of our bodies quickly, for even though the sun was warm and the water invigorating, it way still too cold for a long swim.

Afterwards we ate, and then napped under the gentle rays as our clothes dried. It felt good to feel clean again, and we left the lakeside with a smile on our faces.

In the afternoon we crossed a small mountain-pass to get to the other side of the island. The view form the top was, as you can probably guess by now, breathtaking. As we reached the seaside again, a brisk wind started blowing, but we did no mind, for the heavy packs on our backs kept us warm, sweating even. Now we have made camp in a small copse near a bay, to take some shelter from the wind. Wild blueberries growing between the pines served as desert, but we did not wait long to go to rest. Long days and short nights are taking their toll. But it is a rewarding fatigue, full of things accomplished, that will lead us to sleep tonight.

But not before I have written my letter to you, my Love. For the more I experience the wonders of the northern country, the more I long to tell you about them, to share them with you. I would like to be able to show you what we see, to let you smell the rich aroma of the ocean and the forest, to let you feel the brisk wind blowing through your hair, to let you taste the freshly caught fish. But all I have to let you experience what I do are words. And as poor an excuse as they are, I still feel you are near me every time I write.

W.