Rublev- Part One, Youth, Book One, The Beginnings, Chapter One, Waking
IT was eleven in the morning, when a soft trace of breeze barreled through the window, arousing quite neatly, a man's nestled heart. Thereupon the passing of this breath of spring, the man opened his eyes and set his gaze to the white ceiling bearing down upon him. He then pulled the blanket up, covering his chilled chin, wiping away a small bit of dribble that happened to run down that eve before. He groaned, and curled his toes, shutting his eyes, as that shiver of stretched skin began its symphony, once again.
The street just below his window filled every corner of his room, and thus his mind, as he were the sort of man that was perpetually made of the world immediately around him. But these noises, at this time, no longer disturbed him, no longer impressed upon him any sense of dissatisfaction, for he had quite plainly, grown accustomed to them. He was, in fact, so deeply entrenched in these sounds, of a wobbled cart full of vegetables, of a woman shouting for her son each morning, of the sounds of cold and hardened feet stomping and sludging through the cobble, that if he found himself in a place where these noises could not be heard, a certain malice would overcome him. A malice that made his eyes yearn for some image, some moving beauty to pull them away from the still air around his whole heart. Soon after, he rose. And he ran his hand through his thick hair which piled ever neatly upon his shoulders, bringing out a minute, and delicate sensation of joy. The man walked to his dresser, and pulled from the greyed wooden drawer, his clothing, so as to exchange his nearly nude nightgown, which consisted of a white button-up (albeit now mostly yellow), a pair of undergarments, and a black pair of frayed pants.
Thick and thin pants, white and yellow skin, a decent prick in my skin, something here, or there, the floor is too cold, when will the sun bless my room with his kisses?
As was with his routine, he then walked to the small table affixed below the window, and he sat. For a brief moment, his ears opened, as a sound, freshly unusual, rang out, and up to him. A sound which could only be described as a loud crack, followed by a womanly bellow.
What was that? A split and tear? A cart broke?
He leaned forward and set his soul certain to find some visual affirmation of what the noise was. But his eyes were only met with the old paint of even older apartments.
Eyes so crammed to these bricks, to these stones and walls, only the sliver, free and small, can give me a something like sky.
His eyes started once more, and each was tracing that path he so often began in those midmornings.
Window through, window black, white, reflection of sun, reflection of the soft skin like lamb, shining a fleece, up and through. These clouds, like Paris, Rome perhaps? We all see these clouds, or maybe I see only this one, right there in that window, across, and behind my room, bent on the surface, cracked, and silhouetted on that wood table, just like mine. Has a woman sat there before? Staring too, at the clouds on my window? Seeing me for a moment, maybe then we would, or could cross-eyes, a gaze. No, sheâd see, me. I donât think she would like that.
He got up and moved his seat, to the other end of the square table, so as to not be able to be seen by any who would happen to sit in the apartment window directly across from him. But he hardly knew that that apartment was for some time abandoned, the floor being caved in the area to the left of the table.
Maybe she wouldnât not like me, maybe we would smile at each other and she would come knock on my door, later that night. She could come in, and tell me where she was from, her parents, if she knew what it was like to be in a village, about the chickens and the way the wind happens upon the wheat, bending them in unison, like a great sea of gold, wet with the wonders of sustenance, wet with the tears of God. Maybe even she would listen to me, with her eyes wide, and ears set to me, her lips bent with a smile. Then I would stop, embarrassed, and she would, draw me in, with her hands, no, no, no, she would, draw me in, with her breath, her slight exhale, going out through those, pink, those pastel lips. And maybe for a moment, we would be one, strangers a mere moment before, strangers across the window, across this cobble trodden path, but now lovers, lovers like the earth had never felt on her surface before.
He leaned back in his seat, and his eyes grew tired, and warm, as a ray had broken through the clouds, coming in bent and crooked through his tiny window, landing up on his face.
Warmth would shower us, as we would walk, we would dance deep in the fields, deep, in that earth. And it all had begun from the table, how we would tell our children, our grandchildren, and they would tell their cousins, how the author and the baker crossed their gazes from their two and tiny windows, how their one gaze led to child upon child, how their gaze led to his essays on love, to his words on marriage, to his novels on the earth and God. What would I write there, in that paper on love? Something of endurance, can it endure? Maybe we must have faith that it must, something like that, I should write, write, where is my paper?
He sat forward, pulling his legs, which were until this moment extended out, and atop his bed, down to the ground. The sharp cold stung him, and he lifted his feet straight up. He twisted his body in his chair, so to get a glimpse of every small corner of the room, in order to cross his visual path with where his notes were resting. Finally, after his adventure through the many sights of his room, he spotted the pile of writings beside his bed, having fallen off his chest in sleep, since, like most evenings, he was writing up until the very moment his soul decided it no longer wished to write, and instead, wished to slumber. After the aftermath of this âwar withinâ the papers had flown around the surrounding area, which created a stack of confused words, of ideas now lost, each one ebbing into some foreign place, each one praying that it would one day be placed finally in ink, deep within some serious volume concerning love and mercy. But, seeing that papers were some two feet away, he decided it was not worth the effort, so, for now, these prayers would go unanswered, as his legs and bod began back to their previous positions. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â
What could I have said anyways? Where was I last? Warmth, spindling, past, tables, together with the vastness of a quieted family, our eyes, and lips, the children, images after images, where do they begin, where shall they end? Maybe it is not such a seeming curse to have this, to see well, to see unwell? Where would I be without my mind and the images it makes? In blackness? No, that would be, without any senses. There we would begin to be a man, maybe not even thus, for no skin can feel the shape of body, the flesh, and soul, intermingled in some blessing, without such ways, without such tingles, such pricks and pulls, without eyes and nose, without the ears to cling to noise, man would be, nothing but nothingness. For no image would be able to be made without the sense of what the image was, for we know a horse simply because we have seen it as a horse, simply because the eyes recall it. Without recall, there is no image, without the sound, there is no pretended shape, without scent, there is no association, what then can I know, being a being incapable of the basic place of knowledge? Maybe that is a philosopher, to Plato, this being without sense, something entrenched in this great gasping gulf of a shifting sea, something here, nor there something, not man, not woman, something, even beyond the form of forms, something which rises and smashes against the sea of being, a board to crack, a board and sea that dives below, perhaps never even beginning to dive. Oh, I should write this down!
He had now realized that his efforts to remain within comfort were detrimental to his artistic habitus, and such a realization caused him to jump from the seat, making him dance upon the frayed flooring with the fronts of his feet, working toward that tower of words. He bent down, and a lightness struck him, propelling all of the words that he just constructed a moment ago, into oblivion. Such spells of lightness were commonplace to him, yet in spite of this, all musings, which were immediately previous to the spell, would vanish. Yet, he plucked the papers from their position, and he placed them gently within the curve of his palm, so as to not damage them. He moved back to his chair, now impatient with the cold, and as such, his movements were deprived of the delicacy exhibited a moment before. Instead, his feet were reduced back to their calmness, to their apathy of treading. He placed himself within the chair and let from his mouth a deep and warm breath, one which pushed out a small cloud of white. He watched the warmth dance out of him, and he sat back, beginning again.
A castle of breath, spinning out and dancing up. How can I do such a thing?
He breathed out from his mouth; however, this breath did not produce the same effect as before.
Deeper, deep in, how can such a sightless silhouette of the soul become so visible, so prominent, merely for a moment? Maybe that is my worst assumption, the soul, that thing. Or maybe it is my best assumption. The sun will rise, the sun will set, we assume such things, yet we are not fools, but the soul, to assume of that, of it, is to be a fool to some. But, then again, the sun is visible, clear, and we all know from the natural laws, or just science, that it will act like that. The soul, however, the soul is more than that, but the fact it is more, or rather that is not visible convinces people that it is less. Perception acts as a plague that way, a thing which one lives upon, centered in. I think Paul said something of it, or even Christ, to see and believe, or not seeing and yet believing, that we are closer to Him for never setting eyes upon him, yet having faith. Where did I come from with this? Oh yes, write, I need to write. What was it before?
He sat forward, and he placed his right hand upon his face, stroking his mustache ever so slowly. His left hand reached for the ink and quill upon the desk, and finally reaching them, he readied himself to set off upon the documentation of his thoughts. But the quill did not touch the paper, he merely sat, his gaze, fixed upon that pooled blackness, his heart, fixed upon something utterly removed from him at that moment.
What will be the first word, that first draw, everything they will see, that first letter, that first image of the world, what will it be? A world made of glass, or one of stone, the dirt, made to be moss? No, no, what sense is it to start with an image. I mean it really neednât be a rule, to be against the image, to be against the perception, but one cannot sustain oneâs own self on mere perception, or at least if they live. Many people do live in spite of that, being a being, which only sees, eats, touches, a thing that doesnât have anything below, or to the side, they become nothing more than some mark on a brick. Even then I use my perception to understand it, to understand the flaws of it, maybe the flaw of perception is that it convinces us, or trains us, into believing we can only use it to understand existence. Life is in the coin, life is in the breeze, even the poet is a thing of seeing, of singing, a thing of some order, removed from truth. But if that is the case, if perception is even present in those who claim to not be superficial, does that make perception a thing that is both superficial, and not, or are the poets, liars? Are we liars too?
He then dropped the quill and promptly set his face on the table. Looking over at the sprawl of blurred writings below his eyes, he turned his head and closed his eyes.
God, where can I begin? Maybe about a man, walking from his village and he sees a girl standing between the trees, he approaches her, and she vanishes, and then, no, no. Nothing. Nothing at all. One cannot force the mind to birth ideas, one can only hope. What use is it for me to write alone like this, here I am, not one word set down, and my head is already gone in frustration?!
He propped himself back up, and he sighed, still keeping his eyes firmly shut. He began a rhythm of breaths, deeply in, and deeply out, deeply in, and once more, deeply out. After five repetitions, he decided to open his eyes, and his gaze met the table from across the road. However, this time, nothing had enthralled him, and he merely turned away, shifting downward in his old wooden seat.
Why, again, and again why, thought after thought, in to in, everything, I think of everything but writing, women, grain, windows, the sky? I canât sit anymore.
He stood, as his legs had run hot, and his chest began to tingle with his usual sensation of anxiousness.
What else can my flesh do, tear, and pull, itâs too hot.
The man had begun to pace, carrying his feet across the cold floor, so that the heat that was trapped in his body would vanish within the wood below. He moved in a circular pattern in the room, as a small child would when left all alone in his room on a summer day, endlessly following the same rhythm, endlessly droning on within.
The way my head spins, when my body is attached to this circle, how delightful, such a lull, slowly and slowly, round and around. And then I stop, suddenly, scraping. One day the earth must stop too, that law of sorts, a tendency. But the tendency does not mean it is forever, reaching out and going. But the earth would not halt, would it? A blue ball about a rope, staked to the middle, it would spin around the stake, and slowly, it would slow. Its patterns would give way to decay, eventually causing slack, eventually changing a path, then decay would gnaw, and decay, decay, that thing, that thing of decay would just overcome. A rotting deer, falling apart, to be eaten by the trees, by the mushrooms of white that slowly fruit out in the damp air. The universe must do the same, decay, back into growth. But what use would this planet be, or could be, in that future, when a world is made of stone and bones, nothing alive or crawling, what would eat this ball of rock? I suppose the sun would devour us, if we stopped spinning, we would just pull in. Well, wait. The earth wouldnât be able to stop, since the earth is pulled in by the sun. Do we then descend? If we are pulled in, surely, we would move closer and closer all until everything was within the flames? How tedious! Maybe the universe does not have the harmony that we do on earth. We would tumble in that hot yellow mess, spinning about, eaten, slowly, surely, dissolving away, neither adding to the flames, nor taking away. If you throw ore within a fire hot enough, the flames do not roar. What then can the corpse of our world be, if it falls to the fate of impending nothingness. When we die, we live on, furthermore in all things, but then is such a thing true, if the universe has no use of the dead rock, of the dead ash, piled up, built and stacked, evermore to the sky? If the city gives revelation about the man, and the universe does not reuse, if destruction goes on, how can we be sure we are truly reused? If there is this flux of harmony, this deer to plant, plant to deer, and forever onward?
Having been absorbed in thought, he had struck his foot on the corner of his bed, igniting a sharp pain that rippled upward, sparking a fire of profanity and groaning. He fell backward onto the bed and clutched his foot, as he was hoping that the pressure from his hand would wash away the now dull, and all enduring agony that simply ate away at his trembling soul.
Ow, ow, just go away! Go away! Ow, it is all, all right, all, all right, just breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Itâs okay. Shit! Breathing isnât doing anything! I need to pace, perhaps pacing will keep my mind off of it.
He then had set his aims on trying to stand, but upon letting go of his foot, he had noticed a blotch of red, beginning from the nail, and running down the body of the toe itself. Upon this sight, he had let loose a sharp growl, not because the pain worsened, but because of the fact, he seemingly had nothing to care for the injury. Realizing that he did not wish to let this fluid spill about the bedding he had just received a month prior, from his aunt, of course, he stood, and scurried to his drawers, and drew out an old article of clothing, one so old, and one so worn by the frightening movements of living, that the nature of what the clothing used to be, was indecipherable. Often times, when men possess something for a lengthy period in their lives, they impart upon it some item of their soul, refusing to do away with it, for they have grown so accustomed to passing by it briefly, or setting their nimble hands on the form of the object. In these instances, they have not even attached a memory to them, nor has one been involuntarily attached to it. The item merely had become an object of pattern, a schema of repetition, one small and minute stitch in the sewn patches of living. And as such, that it is a stitch, albeit small, and albeit minute, men come to fear that this whole tapestry of living, of flow, would simply unwind itself, ultimately causing the total and complete downfall of their lives. Such a clinginess leads one to hold it until their very deaths, causing ridicule and teasing to be set upon them by their wives or brothers, âWhy do you keep such a rag in your drawers? Why must you insist on keeping this broken teapot? Why must you hold onto everything? Why must you horde this dust and filth?â But such ridicule means nothing to the man entrenched in this repetition, for their words have all blurred into one small voice, one voice so indistinct that it is but a drop of moisture upon their brow, one drop so small and so seemingly infrequent, that they would rather wipe it away than move out from under the leaking roof. However, this was not one of those items. He ripped the piece of cloth and moved back to his bed so he could bandage the wound. Having thus completed the bandaging, he reclined in his bed and rested his back against the wall.
Finally, it is going away. I need more sleep, always more and more sleep. I ought to stop writing so late, but seeing the sun rising from the grave of black and white as I pen my final sentence is so wondrous. Oh yes, the sun! The sun, the city, where, what was I trying to get at?
He moved under the blankets and shut his eyes, his mind moving back into the abode of sleep that he had departed from a mere thirty minutes before.
The sun, eating away, yet revealing, a great ball of duality, something rising, and setting, yet something endlessly fixed. Could it truly be goodness? Does goodness gnaw? And eat away, or does it build, and rise, does it shine, does it fall? How can any one of us know if the sun is one thing, or I mean, if goodness is one thing, or another? Even Socrates understood empiricism, even Plato understood, to be good, is to live in goodness. But what of art? What of the sketches of stores, of the sun itself, what of the busts of him? Plato would topple his own statue, wouldnât he? Heh. An image, lesser than all, an image now rubble, before his, his, um, his bare feetâŠ
-Fyodor! The door flew open, and the man, Fyodor, sat up suddenly in his bed.
-Mercy! Why do you burst like that! Knock and come in slowly!
-Oh, good friend, get up, up and up, why are you still set in your prison of sleep! The sun is high, the sky is blue, the pretty women sing and dance, all for you!
-Very likely. Fyodor got out from the blanket, and stood, stretching his back, and listening to the small cracks that worked their way up into his head.
-Come, I have great news, Fyodor! The man gestured to the door, and urged Fyodor to leave with him, not noting the fact that he had hardly anything on that was suitable for public.
-Calm yourself, Rolan, let me dress, just tell me now. Fyodor chuckled, and Rolan smiled at him. Rolan then sat in the chair and rustled through his pockets. As Fyodor tried to take his first step, he recoiled silently and began to limp to where his clothes were stored.
-Are you all right Fyodor? You are limping.
-Yes, I am fine, I believe I just broke my toe, hitting against the damned bed.
-Oh well, be more careful, I beg of you. Rolan turned his head so as to finally pull out what he was grasping at.
-You neednât tell me, what is the weather like to-day?
-Neither too hot, nor too cold.
-Mm. Fyodor started his search through his clothing, so as to dress suitably for the mild weather. What did you wish to tell me, Rolan?
-One moment, ah yes! We have received a very strange letter, you see-
-Yes, yes, we. I assume it was delivered to my house as it is more, he paused, formal.
-Ah, yes, formal. Fyodor chuckled, and finally drew out the clothing he wished to put on.
-Well, considering the state of your bedroom, it makes the most sense it would be sent to me. I still have no idea why you decided to reside here, I mean, I have noticed you are oddly less poignant when you were living with your uncle. Fyodor merely nodded in agreement, and Rolan went on. You know my invitation to come live with me with still stands, we have several rooms open, and auntie adores you.
-Yes, it is just, well thank you, but I moved not simply because I dislike my family, which I do, I moved because I need to be alone. Not that I yearn for loneliness, just time to be apart. When I am ready, I will accept your offer, donât worry. He looked to Rolan, and Rolan smiled. So, what of this letter then!?
-Oh yes! Rolan unfolded the trifold paper that had been resting in his soft, squared hands. Do you wish for the summary, or shall it be read?
-You can read it while I dress.
Rolan cleared his throat, and began:
- âAddressed to both Fyodor Ivanovich Rublev, and Rolan Vasiliyevich Kozlov. I hope the two of you receive this letter well, and I would have rather each of you receive your own copy, but admittedly, there were some issues with finding the house of Mister Rublev, and I hope this is forgiven. The nature of this letter, is in every regard, congratulatory, namely for the play that the two of you have written, âThe Words of Spring.â I shall admit that at first, I was hesitant to view this play, as an artist is when consuming the art of another. But, upon my first viewing, I was moved to tears. I do not know which of you wrote the scene wherein which Anton is left destitute after the death of his wife, clutching her lifeless hand, and weeping, lamenting over a love that he took for granted, but I will say that that scene alone shall be remembered for years to come. After that first night, I went home and did all I could to remember the play, but memory is never as grand as the true art itself, so the very next night, I returned to the theatre. And for two weeks I was there, in my seat, each time expecting not to cry, but alas, and thankfully, I was proven wrong.
Because of this, gentlemen, I extend an invitation to you, the nature of what I am inviting you to cannot be expressed here, and I pray that this not deter you from attending. I ask you both to please visit the small inn (a small map is attached to the back for sake of ease), on May 31st, of this current year, at midnight. Come in through the first floor, and, once present, simply show the man with brown hair, no facial hair, and green eyes, situated in the left corner of the inn, the small pendants I have included with this letter. I do hope that this is not an inconvenience and that you shall attend this evening (assuming this letter was delivered in the proper fashion). Signed, P.â There also appears to be Latin on the bottom of the page, but it isnât handwritten.
-A stamp I believe, I think it says, âFloreamus.â
-Interesting, so tonight then? Are you going?
-Yes. And I assume you are too?
-I do not know, it could be a ruse of sorts. Fyodor sat on the bed and prepared his shoes.
-A ruse? What would they do to us? The man who wrote this clearly loves our work.
-Well, we cannot be for certain, what if they wish to rob us, or, I donât know, Iâm, Iâm simply apprehensive. Rolan stood and sat beside Fyodor on the bed and spake calmly to him.
-I believe it would be a mistake to pass on this, I cannot give you rationality to support my point, but, as an artist, you must understand this âfeelingâ, do you not? This urging, as if something is driving you forth to keep going. Like when you would sit up at night, when we were working together, and I was already asleep. Something urged you on to keep penning, to keep on with line after line after line. Well, Fyodor, something tells me to keep on and to go to wherever this âPâ tells us. Plus, look. He moved the letter, and revealed the map, pointing with his left pinky to the spot marked. See, it is just right outside a busy street, if we get robbed, or there is a commotion there are people outside. Fyodor exhaled loudly, and paused for a moment
-Yes, I suppose youâre right.
-Yes? Rolan asked. Fyodor nodded reluctantly. Splendid! Rolan leaped from his position and headed to the door. Fyodor stood, and forgetting about his toe, winced.
-Pardon, one second, I need my cane. Fyodor plunged his hand into the dark area behind his dresser, and he pulled out his slender, black cane. The two began toward the door, and as Fyodor passed the bright window, he stared out for a moment, at the empty table, across the way.
