Niko’s Eye

Chapter 60.

Isis.

To nap in the dapple shade and dream in poetic muse was such sweetness in the summertime. A nap is my luxury. To feel the birdsong in my soul, to let my heart relax into a steady tempo, it feels so good.

Isis stretched in her hammock, arms wide over her head.

In this light that paints my skin so warmly, the trees are dancing ladies, each in dresses more fabulous than any designer can craft. They move, choreographed by the wind, in perfect time with one another. They are the life and soul of this early summer morning, and I wonder how many hues of green my eyes are witnessing. As they stretch upwards and outwards toward the light, drinking in rays as pure as the rain, I stretch my arms up too, fingers spread toward the sun and slowly begin to dance.

When I am most awake, most present in the moment, every sense of nature converges into a single energetic joy. It is as if there is a feeling passing between each living thing, a bond that is tangible and blended, a melody beyond the range of ears but available for the heart. And so, as the each leaf moves in the wind, a part of me does also. It is the togetherness of what is separate, the glue in the universe.

"What did you dream about?" asked Alejandro, creeping behind her and throwing himself next to her. "

This world is quite astonishing, when you claw

your way out of the mire of dysfunction. When you first peek over the horizon and see nature without the haze of discontent. Without any filter, with the naked eye and the brain open to the beauty of this reality, amazement comes. It is the amazement of the baby when they first meet a dog, or see a leaf move in the wind. And when you see those simple things, when you can in love with the small, everything gets so much better. The larger things become almost overwhelming, the sense of love so much stronger. It is then you realise that before you lived a half-life, greyed and without the warmth each human is born with.

But in my dream we were soldiers, you and I. We were dressed as soldiers are, in combat camouflage, guns at the ready. It was nighttime and we stared up a mighty cliff face, yet as we tried to climb the bullets came from all around. Together we fought them, shot dead each one, then resumed our task of reaching the higher ground. I dreamt of a coin, old and covered in dirt, the engravings worn and the head of the king so tarnished as to be stolen from view. I held it in my left hand, watching the mud dirty my skin. So close to my face the coin had the aroma of stale blood. I turned to my right hand and in the palm was a new spring leaf, crowned by a perfect sphere of dew, reflecting an image of my face, softened and relaxed. When I turned back to the coin, the image of the king had freed himself and journeyed over to the leaf, igniting the growth of strong roots and new foliage that reached for the sunlight, robust, virescent. In the dream I am sitting in a field of green wheat, the stalks bend lazily in the wind and I marvel at the grains. Each one is distinct and though different from the others, still perfectly formed. I run my hand along the edge to feel the combination of rough and smooth and then hold my face upward to feel the warm light of the mid summer day. The air smells just right and the birds fly in an almost cloudless sky. I start walking, the filed goes on forever and after a while my feet become roots, digging into the soil. My hands become green, soon I am also wheat, and I wave happily in the wind. I dreamt of so many things in one but I remember everything so visually In the dream the sky is blue, the birds sing and there is a bee on clover nearby. The streams run clear and there are fish in the river. Next to me is a small boy and he tells me how he sees the world. His answers to my questions are so precious. I ask him if we should care for the world. He says "Yes" like he’s surprised I should even have to ask. I ask him if we should be nice to animals, his response is the same. I ask him if we should kill or harm animals and his eyes fill with tears. I ask him if humans should kill one another and he runs, runs like he just saw a monster. I call after him but he won’t return. He’s a child, and like all children he’s still able to see through the light of the creator - he was never taught the answers, he feels them within. In the dream the sky is blue, the birds sing and there is a bee on clover nearby. The streams run clear and there are fish in the river. Next to me is a small boy and he tells me how he sees the world. His answers to my questions are so precious. I ask him if we should care for the world. He says "Yes" like he’s surprised I should even have to ask. I ask him if we should be nice to animals, his response is the same. I ask him if we should kill or harm animals and his eyes fill with tears. I ask him if humans should kill one another and he runs, runs like he just saw a monster. I call after him but he won’t return. He’s a child, and like all children he’s still able to see through the light of the creator - he was never taught the answers, he feels them within."

Alejandro kissed her forehead," I don’t know what all of that was about but I think you should write it in your notebook love."

Zainab.

The woman observes me with the gaze of a stranger, that aloof judgement with no strings. From afar she has made some opinion of me. I don’t mean to speak ill of her, she must do this, as must we all. Though we walk in a modern age with gadgets our fore-bearers could never have dreamt of, there is a part of us that is forever the tribal hunter. We must make an observation, a casual assessment. Friend or foe? And how do we make such a judgement? Clues to social class, to stage of life and group affiliations. At the same time we judge attractiveness, fitness being a key part. There’s nothing to be ashamed of should these thoughts "pop up." But always our logical brain must dominate and know, that whilst these "first impressions" kept our ancestors alive, they are social poison for us. To rise above such primitive assessments is to win a future without war and prejudice, but then I’m a deep thinker, a dreamer. Maybe most folks are mulling over dinner options and their next coffee.

Zainab was not afraid of judgment anymore. That was why she was planning on telling her father everything. Fear was not a part of her vocabulary anymore.

I know I’m scared when those old fears run through my head, when I hear the taunting laughter of years past, when I was a skinny kid and punchline of teenage jokes. I know I’m scared when these bad memories cut loose their chains and invade my confidence, eroding the person I have built since those dark days. The fear comes most when I’m tired and flees in the nighttime, vanquished by the time I awake. So when my thoughts tumble into that abyss and the rope ladders burn, I put down my phone, turn off my computer too, and curl up where it’s dark and warm. For my dreams are my helicopter, my dream-self is the pilot, and she’s waiting to take me out of here the moment I let it all go.

I’m scared to fail; I’m scared to succeed. I don’t want to be lonely; I feel tense in a crowd. There’s something about blending in that feels safe; there’s something about never standing on a stage that would just kill me. I love to be with friends; I worry about what they think. We’re all supposed to want to be popular; I can’t breathe in large social groups. Every step I take is a path between two fears, being scared is just part of the course.

She felt the sweat drip down the nape of her neck.

The heat wave brought long days best for the dreaming of new poetry than more physical endeavours. The streets were quiet, the construction work paused, and together we gathered in where there was air conditioning, music and iced drinks for all.

She saw her father’s car pull up into Alejandro’s driveway. Taking a deep breath, she went to go and face her fate.

Sergio.

He still hadn’t recieved a call from Aisha and that was driving him crazy. He thought about the dream he had before he woke up that morning.

No longer is the door open, no bright light comes from the hallway. No handle, no way out. Four concrete walls, a linoleum floor, a toilet with no paper and a bare mattress - this "seclusion room" is a prison cell by another name. A steel-blue gown falls to my knee, fabric distressed by so much wear yet still rough. There is nothing to hold my mind or attention. Outside this room could be anything, anyone. There is nothing even to mark time. Would someone come in five minutes or five hours? Would I know the difference? The panic is no less than with the straps, trapped is trapped.

Disembodied eyes peep through the only window, a mean rectangle of glass in the flat iron door. I ask to be let out. I try to reason with them, show how sane I am. Nothing works. The anxiety that was being kept at bay begins to win. My voice gets higher, but I’m not just terrified, I’m angry too. I hit the door, a mistake. More of that and they’ll be back in with more needles. I swallow the rising bile and sit on the mattress, feeling the cold floor right through it. No noise. No movement. Only a complete display of passivity will get me out. Time to meditate. Time to bury my screams in my bones, shut my eyes, empty my head. The only way out is inhuman levels of self control and a "professional" demeanor. It works. The staff are confused.

He shook himself out of it and diverted to the biggest issue he had.

But one thing he knew, was that his partner had already cleared everything up, that’s if there was something to clear up.

He sat at the kitchen table working on some conservation methods for his favourite foods.

I don’t command an army, or a nation. Mostly I struggle to even command my pet dog. But I refuse to be powerless, to not even try to put my faith into action. My first task was to reduce convenience foods, all that extra transportation and packaging - plastic and heavily dyed cardboard - that’s a lot of extra pollution. With a sac of flour, yeast, sugar, salt, I have bread, pizza dough. Add some eggs and I have fresh pasta. Add some butter and cinnamon and I have mouth watering buns. I cheat a bit with my bread machine making the dough sometimes, but every step in the right direction is a good step. With a sack of rice and lentils, some spices, onions, I have many meals. It’s more work for sure, but there’s joy in that too. The kids are playing less shoot’em ups and making tagliatelle before dinner or whipping up a batch of butter-rich dough, or macaroons.

Instead of expensive entertainment we work together, jar pickles, chutneys, salsa and pasta sauces some weekends - enough to last months and it’s good for a year. Our grocery bill has halved and we eat more healthily than before - more fresh whole fruit, vegetables. Meat or fish is once a week if that, and even then we make sure it’s from an ethical source. But once that was done we noticed something else - we were putting out less than half of the garbage we did before, less recycling too.

So over the next year I’m going to be working out how to get us down to as near zero waste as possible, scrutinizing purchases for their planetary impact, "voting" for the ethical products. It’s about time the nice guys finished first, green-washing isn’t enough. This is my faith in action, to show our Creator I care enough not to carry on in my old ways - buying plastic junk and disposable or short-lived products that will be in land-fill or in the oceans in less than a year.

Being your own boss means bossing yourself about - keeping yourself accountable for doing tasks at the right pace. Yet it is also being a good boss to yourself. Did you give yourself enough time off to exercise, to eat properly, to be a good friend, spouse or parent? Being your own boss is about having the mental clarity required to achieve a balance that is healthy and maintainable in the long run.

He was swept out of his own head as he looked up and noticed his wife’s beauty.

Her dress was the yellow of a thousand warm suns, the promise of light that gives energy to nature. It was the colour of childhood happiness and the brightest of spring flowers, and as I hugged her close I could feel that was her too, that energy and warmth.

He loved being at home with his family. Which had reminded him that he needed to go and see Zainab.

Vacations are the little luxuries rather than the travel. Airplanes are boring, airports are a hassle. I’d rather spend some money on the house, the garden and the kind of food that makes me feel as good as royalty. That’s vacation, that’s holiday... and it’s the kind that makes the rest of the year all the better for everyone.

He wrapped up his last jars and stored them in the cupboards, far away from the sunlight.

Picking up his car keys, he kissed his wife on the cheek and told her where he was off to.

In 8 minutes, he had arrived at Alejandro’s house. Pumped and ready to see his daughter.

He was ushered in and waited for her in the lounge.

"Hey dad!" He turned around and saw her beaming with happiness, running towards him.

She was still a child at heart. How heartwarming.

He opened his arms and embraced her. "Zainab, my baby."

"You good? Let’s chill right here. I’ve got something to tell you."

He creased his brow and sat down, hesitantly. "What is it?"

"I’m going to cut straight to the chase. I’m a lesbian dad."

Alejandro.

The vase has the undulations of natural vines, as if it grew from the earthen hued table in search of the light. The glaze has so many hues of blue, the colour that brings so much resonance with my soul. I guess I’ll always be a lover of the ocean, of the sky and of the Iris with it’s blaze of yellow. I touch the vase to feel a welcome coolness, a removal of some of my fire that brings a sense of rest and ease. It is a work of art, truly, to be so beautiful and yet have its purpose to allow the flowers to be the stars of this stage.

The vase was an embodiment of humble beauty, rustic in an unfinished appeal. It was as if the clay was born of sunlight and wanted no more than to stay as the earth it came from. To the touch it was as comforting as any fisherman’s calloused hands. It was just a vase, but it brought a feeling of realness to the room.

Isis had painted the vase and had given it to him as a gift. He didn’t know for what but she had said that she just wanted to thank him for his kindness.

It was the best thing anyone could’ve ever given him.

He thought of her.

Very clever people are binary thinkers. They do dot-to-dot exercises very well. They make good technicians in society. Geniuses can weave three strands or so, handling more than one thought at a time to triangulate a good answer. The most clever people draw with multiple "pens" on their mental "page" simultaneously in both their subconscious and conscious brains. You, my love, are one of the latter, and the most efficient one I’ve ever seen. You make it appear easy. That’s very, very impressive. It is also very, very sexy.

"I can’t believe she’s going to be my wife," he whispered to himself.

With the biggest smile on his face, he lit his phone and scrolled through her pictures.

It was the blush of autumn leaves, that peek of champagne amber. The colour infused cheeks dimpled with the blossoming smile and her eyes shone in a way that only deep happiness can bring.

His thoughts had him blushing.

I wish I didn’t blush so fast, that I had some ability to keep my emotions to myself. In an instant my cheeks are rosy and everyone sees my feelings as if I wrote them in little notes and handed them out.

He cleared his throat and straightened himself up as he sat in one of his board meeting, bored as a rock.

"Only in a society of great diversity, where there are people who feel secure in specialising in unique abilities, can new heroes arise in relation to a wide variety of changes in the environment; evolution can only function well when there is such diversity. As such, a diverse and cooperative society will suffer less during periods of adversity and recover faster. A "monoculture" of educational outcomes is thus more vulnerable in challenging times. To unexpected problems will arise unexpected solutions from unexpected heroes whom had talents that were previously less useful..."

What is this all about anyways? I can actually just get up and leave? I’m the boss right?