Once upon a time, no, not once upon a time,
actually a year and two days ago, there was a girl who wanted to become a
ghost. Back then there were storms with lightings tearing the night sky, in
which she wished to dissolve, and with thunders by which she wished to be
carried away. She remembers the same acid rain but whether the moon looked like
this, crooked and of burn orange colour, she doesn’t know. She even had an arm,
a secret tool, which would turn her invisible forever. All it takes to become a
ghost is to cross a frontier between two worlds. If you feel heavy in this one,
there you’ll become lighter. But it doesn’t mean you travel light, too. You
don’t. You must pack up all your life, including the moths that appear on your
window when you stay up and write. But at the same time you leave everything
behind: your beloved dog, your favourite pen, your bookcase, a handsome
stranger, a new job, your own apartment, first Spanish class and a taste of
quesadillas the taste of which you still don’t know. If you are serious to
become a ghost, you don’t care. You are none of the known forms already. You
are a bullet aimed at the target, preparing to become a hit of the season, a
hit everyone who hears it will talk about and that will spread around. So, a
year and two days ago there was a bullet-girl covered in a glossy shell. When a
shell opens a pearl appears, a pearl ring with a colour of spermy cream. A ring
which divorces you from life. Are you taking it to be your bride? Do you want
your name to disappear? Do you want to become a substance, a smear? Ask the
bullet girl questions beginning with “do” and she will obediently answer “I do,
I do”. Don’t bother with Wh- questions. Where, what, when and why are details
from another, human time. She’s aiming high, where there is no gravity in the
way, where there is only light.
Once upon a time, no, not once upon a time, a
year and three days ago (yes, time moves on, it actually flies), the realm of
ghosts was full of electricity. Someone was trying to break the gates, get in,
without permission, without ghosts allowing it. An example of human
stubbornness and will. Humans think being a ghost is fun and a relief. They
have a romantic idea of no memory, no duties and random appearing with a
purpose of scaring or lecturing. In fact, being a ghost is a pain. They have a
task: show humans the truth or lie but it is up to people to work out which is
right. It is like a school of higher intelligence yet without an input, guiding
or correcting the mistakes. Ghosts even have a saying: “Has your man found a
meaning?” when one of them seems to be in unusually high spirits. But if the
question required an answer, it would always be “no”. The reality is, there is
no meaning, just truth and lie, dark and light and that’s about it. Everybody
eventually dies. This soul trying to break in was simply about to take a short
cut to another place without a meaning. What’s worse, she wouldn’t put up with
it. She had force and exceptional drive for good, fair play and justice. She
would be able to tell Jesus that letting Jews crucify him would be rubbish and
to equip Stalin’s mistress with a weapon much worse than syphilis. She wouldn’t
be able to be unbiased; she would take sides and leak the higher knowledge. She
was dangerous as all idealists are in any system where unquestioned hierarchy
is set up. The realm of ghosts decided to bolt up.
Once upon a time, no, not once upon a time, a
year and four days ago or now, it doesn’t matter; because what is time, just an
illusion, there was a clairvoyant and she sensed death. The sensation was
getting stronger and denser day by day, it was approaching but whom and where
from she didn’t know. She asked the angels, cards and consulted her crystals
but the answer wouldn’t show. Until the July 20th when the parcel
arrived. The post woman was a new one, probably a substitute for someone taking
a vacation, not young not old, pretty, but unconscious of her looks, and with a
feel of a cloth doll. Her spirit was escaping like air from an inflatable ball.
The clairvoyant, had she believed it possible, would have thought there was a
ghost at her door. She also saw the woman was not possessed. She had simply
chosen a new identity to which she set off with a determination of a bullet.
For a split of a second she also saw the woman was not going to succeed. But
there was something wrong, she saw the post woman caught up in a cocoon or a
net, she couldn’t move and was mute but in her mind was this one though: I want
to die, I want to die. This woman has clearly stopped seeing light. The
clairvoyant shut the door but didn’t let the woman out from her mind.
A year and five days ago, or was it once upon a
time?, the bullet girl decided to shoot in three days time on her father’s 60th
birthday. It should stop when it started, the seed which has been abused and
molested, causing only repulsion and hatred and triggering violence in all
people around it should be eradicated. Together with her the evil will cease
and her father will be reborn to innocent years. The realm of ghosts was
boiling and constantly murmuring. There were voice calling that she should be
given the truth on a silver plate – she’s not capable of seeing it herself, for
supreme power’s sake! - , others were arguing that her act could serve her
father as a source of light or a punishment. Agreement was impossible because
who if not ghosts know that all good can turn evil or the other way round
depending on people’s response which is unpredictable. However unpredictable
the universe can be, though, the clairvoyant was now sure that unless something
diverts it, the post woman will soon end up paralysed. She couldn’t know if
that was right or wrong but she could see the woman had no light. Or rather,
there was something around her that was poisoning her mind and heart. She asked
heavens for permission and when that arrived, the clairvoyant started to
restore light in the post woman’s life with all her might.
The bullet person doesn’t think. What about? There
is a target, a clear bull eye, all will is compressed to fly and hit, merge
with the target, disappear. The mission becomes you, you may perform stuff from
the past but you don’t even know where you are, your orbit has shifted and you
revolve with it. All laws have lost power over you, you obey nothing but you
and your ultimate freedom the mouth of which is sucking you up and destroying
all you have behind. The clairvoyant was confused. She could swear there was an
increase of light and warmth but the death was still sitting there like a moth
with claws. She was constantly trying for three days and nights, the feeling
has changed but the image has not. The forth day she realised she had done all
she could and now she must leave everything up to life.
Three days later, or have ages gone by?, the
clairvoyant was working in her garden when she spotted an old retired postman.
She looked up, greeted him and asked: “Do you know what has happened with that
post woman before you?” He looked at her with surprise. “Haven’t you heard? It
was a tragedy, tragedy indeed. Her father shot himself, and on his birthday.
People say he found a gun which somebody else prepared for himself together
with a goodbye letter. God knows what was in it, but he burnt the letter and
used the gun on himself. There was only one bullet. He was immediately dead.” The
clairvoyant shook her head. The picture was clear now. It wasn’t a dark moth
with claws but a butterfly clinging to life. The colour wasn’t its, it was a
deep shadow hanging over it. The shadow, which will have to be lifted, if the
butterfly finds the strength and will to spread the wings and fly. Well, her
beloved dog, her books and pen, a handsome stranger on the way, a new job, flat
and language and even a new taste of quesadillas will be there to help.
After a few stormy days, the sky calmed down. The
gray metal look broke up and heavens started to shed light. The realm of ghosts
accepted a new soul and it was alright, it was ripe. From this one no troubles
or danger were expected, it entered the sphere where there is no good or bad,
where everything is as neutral as life. In some fifty years it might be called
on a worldly duty again. Or earlier, when all traces of its actions have been
healed or erased, when all has been transformed, all that looked like a crime
but nobody with certainty can say whether it was wrong or right.
