the corpse-grinders of berlin - episode 29
In the morning he sat at a wooden table in a bar with an open hearth, the fire raging. Our so-called Pierre took a sip of his coffee and then ordered a Spanish brandy. The waitress had short dark hair and black glittering eyes. He held the brandy glass up to his line of sight and looked at the world through its amber brilliance. The world set on fire, bright and golden. Alchemy was never about transforming metals, he thought. It was about forming an esoteric language dealing with metaphysics, which was guarded from initial, and therefore superficial, understanding.
Pierre never took a step towards enlightenment, without taking an equal step towards endarkenment.
He was skeptical of all illumination. The flash of the photo-camera always destroys the situation. There was a reason why the dark stone innards of the Gothic cathedrals in France were kept in a subdued, indirect half-light. This dim light, stained by the coloured glass was necessary to provoke meditation. He didn’t believe in stainlessness. Alchemists knew that all things were conceived in darkness- whether it be the seed of a tree or an embryo in the womb.
He took a cigarette out of a pale blue package. The half-light in the room was a rich umber.
He lit the cigarette. The ignition of the flame- the sacrifice of Prometheus. Isn’t all creation born from the duel face of devotion and challenge?
The secret of alchemy laid in measurement. In a world of increasing expansion and distraction, he still believed in measurement. If something is made for measure then it follows that it will be undone by ill-measure.
He was moved by Bratislava, the most hopeless city he had visited in all of Europa. It was even more fatal than Liege.
Every morning he would go into the city, which was often shrouded in mist. He would go to a bar and have coffee and brandy. He would sit there hunched over and think, submerged in stillness and silence. In the afternoons he would hang out in the bars drinking large glasses of beer in the setting sun.
She asked him if he had a map. “No map, no clock.”
He had many discussions over death and resurrection with this curious girl with the half-moon eyes. “The eyes of Pythia” they said about her. Misty eyes of disinheritance, thereby inheriting the world.
As the days darkened, he would burn brighter.
Leave a Reply