96

Zenon was standing in the chilly part of the supermarket, just at the fruit stall, holding an apple. He swung around as if he was seeking those jumbo packs of apple juice, five, ten, twenty-liter cartons. Apple juice was mixed with other flavors because apples are cheap, right? Then there was cider and calvados, then apple vinegar, what else... ah yes, Germans are crazy for apple mousse, then there is baby food, Zenon nodded to himself. He wondered if apple pies are still America's favorite. Every store carries at least apples in their fruit sections. But the entire world production was close to a million metric tons. Some of it goes bad, never reaching the customers, but still... There simply can't be enough apples for everyone.

What about strawberries, then? Zenon shook his head and put back apple on the rack, turning to face those red berries. Well, there aren't more than ten million metric tons of those and they are quite a popular flavor! Strawberry ice cream, strawberry chocolates, strawberry jam-filled biscuits, and tarts, then fresh strawberries consumption, then factor in their short shelf life. Impossible! Zenon angrily thumped with his food.

They lie to us!

Either there are more strawberries in this world than the statistics report, or there are fewer strawberries in the product than the label declares. Maybe both are correct, mused Zenon. Whatever the answer may be, Zenon left the supermarket firmly determined to discover where do our strawberries go.

95

I slept for a thousand years.

It all started as a nap. I didn't even cover myself. I just let go and gravity pulled my flesh sank into the rut of the bed. Behind me remained an invisible cloud of thoughts, fears, dreams, and foggy notions, but it lingered just for a split second and started flowing downwards.

Absence of my consciousness already started sucking all that I've left behind by embracing the other side.

I don't remember what came next. I was probably sweating till my pillow could not soak any more, trickling my acrid flow onto the scarred flooring, pouring on and on till the bed started floating, with me in it as my cradle.

That made my dreams softer, fluffier as if someone was whispering kind words to me.

And that's all.

Whatever I've seen on the other side is none of your business, and even if you think it is, I would never ever tell you.

R94

They caught us, red handed.

We sat on the sand, watching the breeze sift it. Mep and Tuni managed to roll a spliff from crumbs in their pockets. Rul watched them, inhaling their puffs greedily, but they didn't let him toke. They didn't offer me, either, but even if they did I was in no mood or condition for it. I was barely able to keep down sickness from fear, grass didn't smell like relaxing, more like nauseating. Guard frowned as he felt the spliff. He didn't move, just sneered at them, reaching for a sucker that snaked from his helmet down the jawline. Guard audibly sucked few gulps of rasa.

That attracted Rul's attention.

"Just look a that, we can't even get a puff and this guy sucks like there's no tomorrow", Rul was acrid.

I could bet that behind that dark visor guard's eyes were shining like opals, his mind being sprinkled with orange shreds of pleasure. Dull pain in my stomach reminded me that there is no peace or joy for me, not even in daydreaming. I shivered and spat, Rul got slapped. Mep and Tuni were determined to defend their spliff. Fucking fools, anyway.

We would never get caught if they weren't high. We were just about to dig to the lower levels. Rul found some pictures, real photos, shiny glossy paper and all... whole bunch, too. Tuni unearthed something that could be an ashtray, and damn coppers took from me a real glass Coke bottle, you know, that sweet little 0.2 thing... fuuuuu!

R94

Bird has to fly, man has to dream. My friend Sergiu and I were close to fulfilling our dream. Monkette Kelsang Namtso was also on the brink of her dream. It happened one autumn morning high in the Himalaya.

Last base before Cho Oyu peak was near the Nangpa La Pass. Some mountain climbers thought that Turquoise Goddess was therefore a less of a challenge. That morning, refugees from Tibet were traveling trough Nangpa Pass.

To Sergiu and me, this morning was about the final test. Snow and ice of Cho Oyu was challenge to us, just because "it was there". We were grateful to Edmund Hillary for putting the essence of mountaineering in this concise sentence. To hundreds of frozen people that we saw as thin thread of hope in the distance, Cho Oyu was the cruel goddess. They prayed to her to let them pass trough Nangpa La.

The climb was exausting. Thin air was draining our energy fast and we didn't bring our oxygen tank. I chiseled ice and glacier retaliated with snow dust that stung at my cheekbones. I was panting into the jacket and marveled at the heat that made me sweat, eight thousand meters high up in the mountains. From above, I could see row of freezing refugees. They snaked down the glacier, trying to find the easiest way to the valley below.

At the last stop, Sergiu was panting like a tired puppy. I manged to smile and pat his back. Though we were exhausted from heights, cold and wind, we felt some kind of magic that was pushing us upwards and onwards. We moved slowly, like in a dream, like in a slow motion. Down there, refugees were moving trough the pass. Little Kelsang cheered her friends and smiled to them, her cheeks all flushed up. Their hearts were pounding, their desire to see Dalai-Lama gave them strenght to fight their way trough the snow. The Spirit was guiding us, The Body just obeyed.

Finally, we advanced step by step, inching towards the top. And then we just climbed to our dream. We made it to the peak! Sergiu removed his hood, we kissed and hugged. Squinting at the sun we enjoyed in quiet ecstasy. I didn't have the strength to scream, nor to laugh, nor to feel happiness.

Then shots echoed trough the valley and filled our universe with dread. We rushed down the cliff, towards our base. Soldiers appeared on the far ridge. They took potshots at refugees, as if they were hunting rats or rabbits. Thin line kept going on, like enthralled. To them, bullets were not important, only their pilgrimage was. Shots were falling closer to the column of people. Sergiu reached the base and grabbed his cam. Refugees broke into run, slow, painfully slow, much slower than the bullets were falling.

Glacier turned red. Young monk-girl Kelsang Namtso dropped to her knees. She looked into the sky and her soul started to ascend to heavens.

As if the wind from Cho Oyu scattered them, refugees split up. Frantic people swamped our base camp. Like a pack of wolves, Chinese soldiers fell on them, picking on those who strayed. I felt anger but I was unable to react. I turned to the mountain peek and felt as if the entire Cho Oyu is standing on my chest. I gasped in the thin Himalayan air, too petrified to cry. Shots kept echoing, glacier was still bleeding.

I couldn't believe what I was witnessing. Pain rose from my guts. Pressure was pounding in my temples. Bowl of sufferance gathered in my central chakra. I wanted to breathe air, to inhale hope, but cries of children and rattle of gunfire cut deeply into my soul.

Base camp Crew were enjoying the autumn day in the mountains. Chinese soldiers were just a nuisance, a minor menace. Mountaineers were having their coffee, lazily milling about. They chose to be invisible to frenzied soldiers. No one helped the fallen man, no one fed the hungry, no one sheltered the hunted.

I found Sergiu, he was giving some biscuits to the kid and showing to refugees how to evade soldiers, how to reach Nepal quickly. I fought trough my pain and horror and I joined Sergiu. Thin thread of hope was was broken, eight of them were lying dead in the snow. Thirty of them were captured by Chinese soldiers and herded across the border, like cattle. Half of them reached the valley, some of them died on the way down.

Day was reaching it's end. But for me it will never pass. Sergiu and me decided to speak up. It was the only way to save our souls and fight back at the doom of Turquoise Goddess.

-

Dedicated to Matei Sergiu and Gavan Alexandru, two Romanian climbers who taped the massacre of Nangpa La and forced Chinese government to admit the crime. This story is also dedicated to all those mountaineers that did not 'mind their own business', to those who spoke out and helped Tibetan refugees.

Also, this story is dedicated to monk girl Kelsang Namtso, seventeen years old, who left her body eight thousand meters high up in the Himalaya.

R93

Some people just don't have a story in them. They just don't. And they live without a story. They maybe have some anecdotes, but that's it. However, what is a writer to do if he or she has no story? That's hell, right?

I can't create a story. I feel empty. But not just empty, I feel like I have a leaking holes. It's not a tragedy if artist is empty. They can fill up. I don't claim it's an easy task, but it is doable. You listen to the classical music, or read good books, or go to excursion, collect the impressions. You get filled up. But when a man is hollow, full of holes, you know, then the story just leaks out. And if you are trying to be a writer, then it's pure hell. Stories just elude you, they wiggle out of you as if you were a rotten apple abanoned by even the worms.

So what else can I do, but record my dreams. They are the stories from the other side. I hunt them carefully. Gently wielding my net. But dreams are like creatures from the bottom of the ocean. Brought to surface they decompose with suprising speed. Rotting almost instantly. Then only the jellified bits remain. I try to stitch them together. Taxidermy them. Decorate them. Color with random colors, I have no idea what I'm doing there. Then I wait for them to dry and solidify. They don't turn bad. Almost the real thing. But they are not stories. I can sell them to a naive tourist, but not to real experts. I can't even show them to everyone. What if there is an expert among the crowds?

Sometimes even the dreams die. Sometimes they don't survive the journey to the surface. They remain without form. Like untold prophecies. Just hints. Some dull impulse.

And what if I told everything there is to be told? What if the whole story expired and there will no more be any. That's it. You had a pocket able to hold a single story and now it's gone. And you still want to write. Then you fill the void with anything, evn trash. Sure, the stories will be trashy too, but they will at least be stories, don't you think? Maybe there is something there... But what kind of writer am I, if I write trashy stories? Is that writer any better than the one who robs from his dreams?

R92

Start writing, she said. Without any plan or preconception. Suprise yourself, just see what comes out. What a bunch of crap. Who ever writes like that? Kids... well there it goes, she says herself that it's not working out any longer. What am I to do? I am no longer a kid. Maybe she is right, though, maybe I should just relax and write whatever comes to my mind. But it's not easy! What if my story bends. I did write like that once and then suddenly my story ended up in a ditch along the road. That's so frustrating. I mean, really... no one should write so recklessly like that. Seriously.

At the other hand, I am itching for writing. Without any plan or goal, just to write. Is that too much to ask? Can't a man just write and let go at the sweet flow that wells straight from the subconsciousness, without even pronouncing each word as I write them.

Because once I reach that level, it will be a different kind of writing, because under the treshold of conscioussness there are treasures hidden, naked people, spurting blood, kidneys and tallow, gosh how can I even start to explain this, you see, you shouldn't be ashamed of your subconsciousness that's why it's called sub-consciousness, because it's underneath, and yet it is strange how humans can neatly manipulate it, as if there is a band between consciousness and subconsicousness, maybe in ths band the things can be shifted...

Where do stories come from, at all? Deo they arrive from subconsciousenss or preconsciousness or unconsciousness? I'll never understand...

R91

I sit in the bath tub and watch the water flowing out. I didn't do it in quite long time. Since childhood. I am enthralled by whirlpool that just disappears, the gurgling sound when water goes away. I was again amazed by the speed which bath tub loses the liquid. It seems like there is ample water, then suddenly there is none. Just a bit of foam, silver creeper that wiggles up and down the tub's spine.

Today was different. At the very moment when the drain gurgles, I hear slurred whisper. How odd, I think to myself. Imagine if at that moment when tiny black hole of the bath tub dies, imagine if then a connection with another world would form. I think to myself, hey there it is, that will be my story. Like... there is a character... like me... and he is also admiring the whirlpool in the bath tub.. and then he also hears the whisper from another world and then becomes obsessed with the maelstrom of the bath tub and repeats it countless times and records them, explores them, and then he finds words in the whispering gurgle, and then tries to communicate with the being or beings across the horizon, but he fails and sits alone and sad in the bath tub.

Just like I sit and grow sad right now, because I begin to understand that I will never write that story...