Niko’s Eye

Chapter 63.

Isis.

She always felt her stomach do an inside out flip every time Alejandro mentioned that he wanted to "talk.".

She had succeeded in dodging the deed, and now she was avoiding him.

Isis was not ready to hear whatever it was that Alejandro wanted to say to her. There was just too much going on in her life. She had gone through so much that she didn’t need any more surprises or to engage with any bearers of bad news.

Every race I ran there was never a question of stopping until the finishing line was crossed. I can’t say I was good at pacing myself, that skill still eludes me, but I knew how to keep going even when my body told me there was no more in the tank. There is always a reserve if you’re stubborn enough to demand it, and I am. Every finish was a sprint followed by bandy legs and collapse. I learnt as a runner the true meaning of "giving it your all." It means giving until you think you’re spent and then finding more to give anyway. That kind of endurance is without a doubt the most valuable lesson I ever learnt.

She watched Alejandro as he took his morning jog along the track lines of his estate.

Alejandro jogged along the railings by the park of his estate, but that wasn’t even nearly how fast he could run. In those thighs, was enough power to be clean across the park in seconds should he choose. Every footfall was soft, every movement practised so often he could be perfection even on autopilot. From his shirt came blue wires going right up to his ears - music. That’s what flowed in his veins. I swear if he were ever opened up it his heart would be pumping soul-tunes instead of blood.

She thought about how she started being an athlete in high school.

It was an accident that I became a runner. The entire school was turfed out to run a race and mostly my friends wanted to walk. Half way up a long hill of stubby grass and soggy mud I just got bored and began to run. Getting back sooner seemed like a good idea. I recall crossing a small wooden bridge close to the school and the teacher yelling at me that I was in second place. After that I was on the running team. I guess it was the first positive label I ever got - "the girl who can run." So I never stopped. I just added swimming and cycling when I got the chance.

She withdrew her gaze from Alejandro as he was about to turn around the corner. She continued painting.

The painter is a healer of the self and others, for their art is a story told in the foundational languages of the brain - in emotion, in visual dream-language. And so their painting is societal medicine and the reason we are so drawn to art becomes ever more obvious. When we let the "tings" of pain, the stings that linger, out into the painting, then we see it. Then we can comprehend it at every level of the brain from the conscious to the subconscious. For we speak in many languages other than words.

Her father always wanted her to follow her heart. She felt the strings of her heart being plucked along freely as she lethargically made brush strokes onto the canvas.

She felt anger flash through her veins as she remembered that Aisha had killed her father.

Self control is a finite resource because the part of the brain exerting control gets tired - it requires energy and that gets depleted. So, the repressing of anger needs careful thought. If it is boiling up, how will it be cooled? If it explodes, whom bares the brunt? Because they psyche under seige will naturally seek a more vulnerable (hence "safe") person to explode at. Stress bubbles down to less dominant people in a society where the more powerful have reduced ability to handle their anger and stress. Thus, how you deal with your anger is vital. It is as steam in a pressure cooker, you have to find a way to let it out in a safe manner. That can be through physical activity or by finding inner peace, or often a combination of the two. Sport releases the need for self control, finding inner peace expands your endurance and ability for self control. As such, they are a winning combination.

He would always say,

"Kid, my job is to remain as your steady arms that hold you aloft, that keep you safe, that nurture and protect your soul. I am your parent. You can’t let me down because it is I that hold you. I wish I could do better, but in reality, growing up has these challenges. We learn from it, grow stronger and move onwards, always onwards."

It’s been there a while now, this anger, escaping when I’m away from those I love. I’m angry at store clerks and car drivers, heck, I’m even angry if my sandwich isn’t quite right. But the truth is, my life needs changing for the better, because there’s more going into this brain and body than I can handle and still be me. So, even if it’s not okay with you, I’m gonna start working on my real dreams. And this real love that Alejandro is showing me.

Part of love is to protect, with life and limb, with everything that you have, even your soul. We can only take down our fences when there is safety and trust - something that only comes with a real sense of love based fraternity. Until then, we need defence. Just as a parent may protect their child, a leader may defend their country. It is right to work as hard as we can to bring peace, to share food, technologies that bring a comfortable and healthy life for all on Earth. We can learn to see religions as the result of the divine spirit interacting with culture and respect one another. We can take every step we can to reduce pollution, to care for our Mother Earth. Yet in the face of aggression we stand as parents to our nation, and in the name of love we may defend, loving like a hurricane, full force.

The radio blared jazz music through the speakers.

Sergio.

White heaven-bound birds were as brilliant rays from wind-dappled sea-water; their brightness amid otherwise infinite blue, gliding as free souls. In each wing-given arc they were the tips of a conductor’s wand, a music for both eyes and soul, bringing a wave of sweet earthly joy.

Sergio was over the moon.

It had been quite some time and he still hadn’t recieved any phone call from Aisha.

She probably couldn’t find anything.

He was downstairs in his basement, trying to clean up after what had been years.

The old paintings leaned against the wall of the hallway to the attic, dusty and unloved. Sergio ran a finger along the gold framing, his clear nail almost translucent in the half-light, and it comes away dirty. In the grime that must have taken years to form there is now a streak of gold. He holds it up. With the light that struggles to make it through the grime on the window the colours are subdued, but he can already tell it’s a country scene. The hills roll green, interwoven with the golds of autumn. How it could have lain here in the dark for so long without him knowing? It was a beautiful painting. He moved slowly down the attic stairs, one hand on the rungs, one on the painting.

It’s time for it to have pride of place.

His house maids did not care about the attic and this had him aggravated. He was irritated by it.

How could they pretend to do their jobs and yet they couldn’t even wash the rungs of the stairs to the attic.

He picked up an old mirror, lying at the foot of the bottom of the attic stairs.

The mirror was small and cheap, about the size of the cell phones all the up-town kids were carrying. It was the kind you see in a dollar store thickly rimmed in white plastic, the kind that’s in landfill not even a month later. The shiny surface was covered in greasy fingerprints and there was a lipstick smear. Sergio stuck it in his pocket anyway, tacky though it was it could be useful in a pinch - a flash of light at the right time from the right place could make all the difference.

The attic was filled with all of the things that he used to sell when he was still a young man, trying to get his money right. Memories flashed through his mind.

The second hand store near our condo complex got the worst of the worst. All the old hand-me-downs from our destitute neighbourhood ended up there. You might as well wear a garbage bag as shop in it. I found it well worth the bus fare to go to an affluent area and shop in their second hand stores. Their throw offs were often brand new, bought on a whim and cast off never worn. I’d come home with designer goods, all for a song. After a while I got so good at shopping in them I started my own eBay store and made good money reselling them, enough to leave my shitty neighbourhood and move across town.

He sighed.

His telephone rang.

And then all of a sudden, his heart began to race.