Listen to the album here before or after reading:
1. Hwæt
2. And that was a good king
3. Simon
4. Snapple Cap Misinformation (Pottsburg Steelers)
5. I have no brain (and I must dream)
6. 95&
2. And that was a good king//Þæt Wæs Gōd Cyning
4. Snapple Cap Misinformation//Pottsburg Steelers
5. I have no brain and I must dream//Cosmic Excuse
6. 95&1//The Ballad of Jenny Gore
7. Munchausen by Proxy//The Greater and Lesser
8. Self-immolation//The Tale of the Drowning Man
9. Sons of Catskill//Drowning in the Sea of Phosphor
10. Labyrinth//Pests of the Qu
11. Bitter Tea Leaves//Ballad of the Greenland Shark
12. Sr13//Errare Humanum Est
The following words are not autobiographical and do not resemble any real-life person or event. The music accompanying this allegory is not a concept album, nor does it tell a cohesive narrative. This is a story of fiction screaming for presence. Stories of fiction are not only to be told for our entertainment but to foster the consciousness of human growth directly. If this has reached you, you are now part of this process. These words now live from the text temporarily within your eyes, behold their limited lifespans decaying before you. The words below will either lay dormant in their text or reanimate in the climb of your eyes. Reader, do bear this consciousness in mind. Those in this text will disappear into nothing after you read unless the idea persists in your head. The last time we die is at the last utterance of our name, and the final reference to our soul.
It is my creation myth guiding me. The only thing I have to cling to, the one thing that will not go away. I don’t care if you think it’s silly or weird or false or blasphemous. I was never a holy man, but this is the closest to faith I will ever have. Without this, I have nothing, I am nothing. To have anything at all in your hands, I simply cannot fathom that. I don’t care about how insignificant I am, I am just afraid of what comes after this. But I comfort myself with this story because if the future is uncertain, the past can give you foresight. I am not a religious man, but I firmly believe in these truths to deliver me from myself.
My family used to live in Utica, New York for most of their history. I don’t know much about my family ancestry quite frankly. I’m not so certain about my own last name, Kato. All I know is that we used to be very wealthy and affluent in times past. Utica sits right next to a large canal that had just been constructed in the 1800s. It ran from Lake Erie to New York City, linking together many small towns and bringing trade to Utica. My family were merchants and quickly rose in profits after the canal was built. As the years passed, the roads and cars surpassed canals and boats, and their business began to lose profits. The prosperity ran out over time, but my family remained. The family name was passed down to a certain William Kato and profits continued to slowly wane. Finally, a terrible flood came from the mountains and destroyed Utica in a single day, sweeping the Kato business into disrepair. Now without money, the Kato family moved away to a small town called Catskill, where I was born. My family has tried to cope with the great disaster and recover. However, this great flood was the only one to occur in the area in centuries. Science has tried to claim the answer to this, but only I know the truth, only I know the cause of the misfortune.
I have investigated my ancestor William Kato’s journal a few times growing up. Among many things, he was a poet. He loved the people in Utica and frequently had poems published in the local paper. One such poem he published is described as a “popular refrain” among the people of Utica. Of those remaining, this chorus penned by my ancestor was sung in the city, in saloons, mines, factories, and anywhere by those who were left to pick up the broken pieces.
“Tell me River betrothed to Rain
Son of seas and limestone caves
Why, in all the world must I
Tear from my fellow mans’ eye?”
William Kato laments at the flood in the other pages of his late journal. He blames the flood as if it were a person, not an inanimate event. He noted how when the sun finally appeared behind the clouds and the flood waters calmed, the mere sight of the destruction and carnage around him made him guilty of living- the death around him too much to bear.
And I don’t think his begging and pleading to the flood was metaphorical. He did not pray to God, he lamented at a single force. How can one entity control the will of the world? There can only exist a plurality. He capitalized “River” and “Rain” in his journal because they are actual gods able to hear his pleas, but they choose not to.
Of course, River and Rain would affect us the most. All I have ever known of my family is living by the water. Scattered on a canal or a large lake. We depend on the inland water to function, so it will always haunt us. I believe that River and Rain are always out to destroy my family. We are cursed because of our profits- and our desecration of land. The canal was never meant to be built, and yet we did not protest, we made profits and prospered. Now, we are forever cursed by River and Rain to live in complacency, in destitution, in shame. Since the flood, all my family has been born in this town called Catskill. Never has a Kato hailed from Utica since. River keeps us close in range with the water around us, while Rain hides in the Catskill Mountains whenever we stray too far from home. He hides in the Hudson and the woods behind pothole-ridden roads. I have suffered under the wrath of River and Rain for far too long, and I will explain to you all they have hindered me, and how this all begins.
Listen! Here are my words to you. Reading through the lines is not necessary, this is not a large metaphor, this is an account of the heavens and the powers above. In the early days of the Earth, things of wills like ourselves traveled the surface of the planet. We would know them as Gods, and as Gods, they brought forth more Gods. We begin with the Rocks, who were fractured into trillions of pieces after their hubris. The rocks and compounds unified into a single force and challenged their creator, hoping to take its place. The Creator fractured the entity and never again gave consciousness to the rocks and compounds. The rocks broke into different types depending on their circumstances. One such rock was Limestone. The smiting of his kin shook him greatly, moving him to bury himself underground out of view of the Creator. However, he was not alone. Other rocks came before him to seek refuge from the Creator, and they fought amongst themselves for centuries. After losing battles with all the other rocks, Limestone was kicked back up to the surface. However, the Creator now populated the surface with new beings that kept him down. The Creator begot Sea, who pushed Limestone against the rocks of the ground. Over time, many rocks tried again to challenge the Creator by rising from the surface, only to dissipate at the hands of Limestone. Sea and Limestone fought greatly to keep where they were by keeping the demons of the core down, an action commended by the Creator. Sea and Limestone became fond of one another, harboring each other's realms respectively. The Creator blessed their bond and valiant actions by granting them a son, River.
River was the favorite child of the Gods. All looked upon the boy with joy and prophecy. The Creator generously extended many powers to him. In his early years, Limestone and Sea were preoccupied with fighting the demons of the core who had now begot armies of sons and daughters. The Daughters of Terra from the rocks breached the surface and created Land, the soil we walk and live on. A great war ensued between Sea and Core, but all was well with the Gods above. River was watched over by the Stars and Skies, who raised him as a son. He initially grew up far from the fields of warfare. As River grew, he developed the powers of his mother and created streams in all directions he traveled. Even in his youth, he waged war on his mother’s behalf.
Around the same time, Storm is blessed with Rain as a daughter. Coveted by the Gods from the war, River does not know Rain for the years of his youth. Rain and Storm help Sea against the core, stuck in constant fighting. River and Rain both inevitably meet and are charmed by each other instantly. Their parents arrange the day of marriage. As the day draws near, a prophet and messenger emerge from the core into the heavens and calls upon all the Gods to listen to their words. A prophet warns that the marriage between River and Rain will destroy the balance of everything and irreparably damage the current world. Amazingly, the Gods decided not to proceed with the marriage, angering River, Rain, and both of their families. However, River and Rain both vow to one day wed when the prophecy is to no longer be spoken or known by the Core, thus its trickery can never convince the Creator again. They believed the prophecy false and waited for the perfect day to commence.
And that day came to William Kato in the form of a great flood. From a great line of beings, humans were born from the rocks. To keep the balance the prophet warned of, the Gods let the humans live on the surface. Now, River and Rain reclaim what they believe is theirs. The Canal forced water to our will, and now we must suffer from it. My family gained the most from the Canal’s existence and will forever suffer under River.
But what about me? What must I do in this powerless position? I have suffered since the day I was born with the promise of a future, of ambition, of travel. All my life I grew up believing I would someday leave this sleepy town. I would imagine taking a boat down with my friends to Manhattan and seeing the city. I so desperately wanted the city blocks and skyscrapers to consume me, but I missed that boat long ago. I stay at home for weeks at a time in my mother’s house on my computer. I only go into town for groceries and gas. I have lived like this since I left high school, and I see no end to this. But I remember when things were different, I remember when I was happy, and life wasn’t so hard. But I was blinded by ambition then, listening to my friends as if we came from the same family and the same cloth. In school, they gave me ambition, and hope. They taught me bigger ideas and how the world worked. The teacher trained us for jobs in bigger cities and formulas for more intelligent fields. Why did they teach me futures that could never be mine? Why would they tantalize me with knowledge I will have no use for? It’s no use asking these questions, nobody will ever be able to answer them. I need to get some rest.
Last night was one of the clearest nights that I could ever remember. I ate my dinner as I did every night and slumped back into my room as days before. Of course, my mother lamented how lazy I had become. I ignored her because she had done this for years. If only she realized what I had, the laziness is a family curse. She herself is lazy, always sends me out for errands or books or CDs or the newspaper. She lost her motivation long ago, and now she is a grumpy old woman who reads all day until the sun sets. She had always been a quiet woman, I never really knew much about her. I don’t say this to spite her, she just has always been distant from me. I was never quite sure what her job was or how she made money. Again, I don’t know much about my family history, only about William Kato. Nevertheless, she seemed a bit more lively than usual at this hour. She whined in a slurred voice how I had never been outside in a week and how I never do work. Frankly, I could hardly hear or understand her, those are just guesses as to what she said. Finally, she clamored desperately in the most articulate I had ever heard in her, “You know what, boy? I oughtta put ’cha ta some real work. Open that cab’net, will ‘ya?”.
She pointed her crooked finger at a nightstand next to the leather couch. I opened the cabinet and was instantly pummeled with dust. I cleared my eyes to find a dull and torn blanket withered from age. “I neva’ taught ‘cha ‘outta sow, did I? Figured if ya’ gonna stay for ‘while I’d ‘gitcha off the screen” she continued.
The blanket was a patchwork of many colors and had a very strange shape. It wasn’t a square or a rectangle, it was just a large sheet with patches stitched onto random sides of the blanket. The colors may have once been vibrant but were now very dull and fading. I couldn’t tell you how old these sheets of fabric were. My mother lifted herself slowly from her chair and stumbled over to the couch. “Hand the quilt here,” she said. We both sat down as she pulled out needles and a sewing kit. I thought it was strange how she gave it such that eloquent name “quilt”. It merely was a nest of fabrics meshed together. But I no longer believe that.
This was the first time in ages she had ever talked on her own. I would only ever hear her talk in response to me or on a phone call or scolding me for laziness. It started as a soft murmur, not as a cracked clamor. She explained the blanket’s history. The blanket was hers, more, she had bought every fabric and sewn every piece since she could write her name. She told me how her mother refused to buy her a blanket, for one made-up reason after another. Every single fiber and patch came from anywhere she could find. Some she was shown pity by the adults and gifted, while others were found on the streets of Catskill. The lore of the patches gave beauty to the quilt. As she grew in height, more patches had to be found and sewn- often in irregular shapes in places where she grew the most. She recounted stealing cloth from others and scavenging whatever came downstream in the Creek from the north. The family lived in poverty, but she stood self-reliant with her quilt.
This is the only story she has told me about her childhood. I could no longer see the quilt as a dusty relic that had seen better days. The quilt is a story of self-reliance. After she taught me to sew (which I barely paid attention to), she told me to walk up the driveway to check the mailbox. I stepped outside into the brisk winds. The sun had set minutes ago, and the last light had now rapidly disappeared on the horizon. The light on the garage had long since died, forcing me to find my way in the dark to the mailbox. I came upon the pitiful wooden post, choking from vines and mosses below. After tugging at the rusty hatch on the box, it lurched forward to the sound of rotting wood. As the box opened and leaned toward the ground, I reached my hand inside. Nothing. Not a single piece of paper had been placed inside the mailbox for three weeks straight now. At least before came subscription services or advertisements, now it was as if they thought we were dead. They don’t seem to know about this crooked house in the middle of nowhere. I walked down the driveway in silence. Silence, I could not hear a sound from the trees or birds around me, not even the sound of my shoes. Even though I thought I knew where the walls of the houses were, I suddenly bumped into the brick wall. But the walls were different than how I remembered them. The bricks were stacked irregularly, jammed and wedged into place with occasional holes. The concrete mix barely covered the space in between the bricks. The walls arranged themselves in the same way as my mother’s quilt, ramshackle, but built to stand. I have lived in this house as long as I can remember, and never before has our house suffered structural damage. All the patches had been sewn before me, in the shelter I call home and in the room I board myself in. All my life, I have become dependent.
A strange dream came to me that night. I usually don’t remember dreams all that well, but this one seemed rather vivid. I remember I was in town, walking home to my car with groceries in my hands. I looked up at the town’s utility tower above me. Its large structure imposed itself over all of the town, larger than I remembered. The tower moved in strange ways, careening and wobbling on its own. The tower was trying to communicate some message with me, something it had wanted to convey for years. Lights beamed from its prongs and static began to emit from its antennae. I looked around for others and found that there had been people around me the whole time, but paying no attention to the crying tower. Through a broken voice emitted through static, the tower poured out these few words:
that helped take the place of my legs
But now it’s those same stilts
that keep my whole body in place
for the best thing I know is the other”
This phrase was repeated, over and over in the same tone. I realized only I could hear these spoken words. The mantra filled the air with sound, drilled into my head, and shook the ground. But none seemed to notice. Everything continued as meant to be, with no change. The tower seemed to be everywhere, looking upon the people and buildings above, perched upon the stilts of itself. The presence of the tower dominated everything, yet none seemed to notice, and none seemed to care.
That same utility tower appeared this morning on my weekly drive for groceries. I couldn’t help but think about if it could talk to me or not. Some days I think being the recluse I am has driven me crazy. There is some strange desire I have to hear the great pillar’s voice again. If the tower were alive, she would have suffered too many abuses by the people of this town. Or perhaps the tower was once alive in years past and suffers from the steel cage around her that once helped her walk. The great pillar has seen the habits of Catskill, suffering and trapped.
I remember when I still believed in the people of this town. I was once younger and ambitious, infected with dreams and hope. My friends around me talked of futures and careers as if they were inevitable. All hate and anger were to cease when all became wealthy. This is the phrase they lived by, and they had every reason to prove it. They made it out of slumber, out of this sleepy town, out of dusty complacency, out of blocks and blocks of retirement homes and cemeteries, out of roads riddled with potholes that reappear after winter, out of a ground where all the patches have been sewn and no more houses to weave. They sheepishly return in the fall when the leaves turn, and leave conveniently when the potholes begin to appear. Their ambition has softened them, their success has put shame on their past. But I cannot blame them. I would do the same, if I grew a hide of skin to leave here. But there is nothing in the world that could pull me out of my fate, River and Rain still stalk my mother and I. I have not left this town, because I simply am not destined to, and for my safety. It is my own fault for not accepting this.
I’ve considered how I came to the conclusion concerning River and Rain over many years. It is the only motivation I have anymore. Back in high school, my friends worshiped Failure as their motivation. Failure motivates one to try harder again, failure harms- but does not kill, failure merely is a part of the learning process, failure is just learning the hard way. So maybe, I should be the most motivated out of all. But I have the weight, the fight, and all the fists pushing me down from living, and nothing seems to drive me to any point of success. And this Failure has driven those I know to great heights, but I am stuck here in Catskill, whining about the same power that simultaneously jolts them forward.
I despise every person who has ever seen my face in this town. I have been taught nothing but false hope and complacency. I cannot be happy or content without willingly becoming ignorant. All of my friends have left for larger cities with their expensive cars or glamorous plane rides. Every child born in this town will never live an unluckier life. Why should anyone be forced to live in a town where half your life is spent full of ambition, and the other half learning to rid yourself of it? Why should anyone live in constant cycles of waking up to merely breathe and fall back asleep?
We are free as people, I can move my body and bring myself anywhere. Maybe I can function alone, but I will not be able to maintain myself alone. This is what River and Rain have done to me, allowing me to be free to my own decisions, but taking many things away to hinder me. They have granted me sovereignty to exist, but not autarky. They grant us sovereignty, and never autarky.
It is now time for me to go away. I will now break the cycle of death and birth in the Kato family. Riverine Rain will no longer stalk future generations of us. I will die as a martyr, as a sacrifice. I came from the rocks, and to the rocks I will return. There is nothing left for me to give to the world here, only to destroy this torment. I will prove myself in this final act. Half-submerged, I will fall into the creek, and drift away with the currents. I will reach the River, and flow downstream. I will finally perish at the hands of my oppressor and no longer suffer. And only finally, will my words no longer steal air to breathe and ink to write- in place of those more worthy than I. And nothing will be about me. Even after death.
The newspaper reported his death three days after President’s Day. I did not know him personally, I would only see him now and then at the grocery store. He always kept to himself, as everyone does around here. I always assumed he lived on the outskirts of town, near the creek where they believed his body flowed down from. I have always seen that man since I moved here, I presume he has never left Catskill. The newspaper gave more details about him: from the Kato family, longtime residents of Catskill, lived solely with his mother, attended Dutchman High School down the road, briefly worked in construction, and rarely went into town. His mother said he left a note in his room the night of his death, but she refused to release it. A rumor is circulating that some teenagers broke into the house and stole a few things after his death, including his journal. Isn’t this unfair? The final message of man, the cry he must relay, is coveted by his own mother. Why? Why should his significance in his final moments be kept from us? Now stolen by some rascals along with his belongings. The last words of our fellow man, a treasure more precious than gold- tossed into the category of scrap.
I believe there must be more to this man, more than a miserable drowning soul. Why did he choose to leave in this way? His body was found with clumps of leeches solely on his legs, barely any signs of resistance before drowning. I found the autopsy report documents in the hospital next to the department store- there are too many inconsistencies. They speculate he jumped into the creek and drowned in the currents of the Hudson River. Death was deliberate. He is reported to have no pre-existing medical conditions or diagnosed mental illness. All we knew of him as was a recluse. His aging mother refuses to comment on his death- she briefly was a suspect when the case was fresh. All of this just seems so strange. There is always something that drives a man to such depths and despair, I just cannot fathom the possibility of this event. No other friends or family have come down to pay respects, we would have noticed by now. In most places, our lack of knowledge is simply a choice of their privacy, but word gets around quickly here. He must have had friends or acquaintances when he went to Dutchman, they must be somewhere. The fact that his life was deliberately swept away does not make sense, and I stay awake because of it. My eyes are glued to the ceiling fan in the middle of the night, my brain bounces within its skull. Kato’s final cry will not go unheard.
The newspaper reports the self-immolation of two Tibetan monks in Lhasa. Of course, not the local newspaper- I have subscriptions to all sorts of magazines. Such violence among us humans, it is quite strange. The world has gone mad nowadays. Buddhist monks long known to be peaceful- turned to burning themselves. It is easy to believe they simply betrayed their philosophy, but perhaps the world’s gone mad. Their home turned prison. Their beloved temples and city walls have morphed into the bars that trap them. Home is not a haven, it is a pressure chamber at worst and a narrow pit at best. Maybe Catskill became Kato’s prison, and we are simply his wardens. Perhaps this was his only escape, down the river, down to New York. This feels unlikely, he could have driven away at any time, he could have flown out of town, or escaped in some way. He would have left if he felt so inclined, maybe something held him back. But I have thought about this too long, it is time for me to no longer hold my tongue.
I don’t know how I pulled it off. It’s a small town after all.
I don’t know if what I did was ethical, perhaps it wasn’t. But his words must be heard. By anyone. The very least I could do was get it out of the hands of those children. It is sickeningly juvenile how those teenagers coveted the journal from us. For what? They have already robbed Kato of his home’s dignity and now rob him of his will. But not anymore. I have his journal because I have traded something more valuable to the juvenile mind than a dead man’s final message. I knew exactly where to find them, where I used to waste my teenage years. The woods behind the cemetery on the bank of the river, where all in this sleepy town go to die. You can sometimes hear their feet shuffling and malformed shrieks in the middle of the night. I don’t blame them, it’s the most fun I ever had in my younger years. Things never change here. We are the town that eats itself. Those kids handed the journal over to me without issue. It was a spiral notebook with delicate cardboard paper on either side. There were very few pages, but all were filled. The journal was seasoned with fingerprints and lead markings on its covers, patching its fabric with the weight of something archaic. There was some profound presence that surrounded this book, one I could not begin to explain. I turned around and did not thank the kids. Penance will be delivered upon the thieves soon.
I strolled further down the banks of the river when I found the spot. I was a few miles out from the cemetery at this point and had nowhere in particular I wanted to go. But here it was, out in the open before me. The image in the newspaper matched exactly to the frame. The F-shaped branch caught in the eddy where they found him. The branch fanned out like a fishing net over the rolling river, before the billowing rapids’ jaw. His soul had left, but his body had not been consumed. He was long dead and gone now, they fished out his body a few days ago. But here was the site, the ground of final escape, his crucifixion.
And it was only now that I began to consider his sacrifice. My curiosity toward him began because of his mystique, and now it is his cause. I know not only the cause of his death but why it was necessary. He chose to escape, this rat race, race of imbalance, imbalance of life. We are jammed under the weight of the world’s humors, of ourselves. There only exists two in this world: the Greater and the Lesser. The only path out of this unfair system is Kato’s escape. The monks escape by fire, and Kato does likewise. The only escape is this self-immolation, trial by man’s oppressors. I could see him caught between the branches before the hungry rapids, smiling upon his now-harmless oppressor, for he can no longer suffer in death. He is no longer the Lesser, neither must he strive to be the Greater. No longer will he bow to the weeping utility tower, seeking pity for its brittle stilts. No longer must he writhe under the pre-sewn patches of a brick house and pothole-ridden roads. No longer must his warden mother loom over his final words to a forsaken world. We have his words now, and he shall now speak to us.
In my reading, I became his disciple. I am the sole vessel of his word, and I believe the world should now hear it. They must see eye-to-eye, they must realize the escape, they must know. I am the only proof of life this man has- the moment his will is lost is the moment he dies forever. I decided to take a chance, for once in my short life.
I approached the local paper with the idea. They rejected it. Their pale faces morphed into stone when I even mentioned Kato. Why does our culture fear death when he trails us closely every step? But no matter, I drove up to Albany, the state’s capital. The people of Catskill could reject the truth, but it will reach them in time. I drove up I-87 as snow began to fall from the overcast sky. It was only noon, but the sun hid protectively behind the clouds. The sleet intensified, growing thicker by the minute. I turned the wipers up to the highest setting and marked the path ahead by the streetlamps. The skies rumbled with hunger, like some sort of omen. I was alone on this road. Just the clouds and I.
The car trudged through the piling sleet. I felt every clump of snow that pummeled the windshield. The lampposts’ lights waned from sight. The snow’s impact transformed the car into a car into a metallic echo chamber. Suddenly, the snow stopped falling. An eerie silence fell over the roof of the car. I began to regain sight of my windshield. As I peered ahead of me, a loud clank resounded throughout the metal box. Then I saw it, enormous growths of hail rocks dropping from the cumulonimbus clouds onto the highway. I floored the gas. The first bombs dropped mere inches away from the doors and windows. A familiar neon green sign read Albany in 5 miles. The metal box swerved on wide turns, and I began to see ice on the road. Another clank on the roof. Then another. Albany in 3 miles. An intense rain began to pick up, no more snow at least. I felt the steering wheel escaping from my trembling hands. I would lose control. Albany in 1 and a half miles. A gargantuan chunk of hail crashed into the hood. Its fragments bounced off into the road, dodging the windshield. Another clank on the roof. Albany in 1 mile.
A narrow shard of sky shattered across the windshield and broke through the glass on the passenger side. My vision blurred with a sharp volley of bright beams. The blistering winds broke into the metal box, but I kept my foot floored on the gas. I didn’t get far. I lost all control as the wheels slid on the iced road. I led to the right and swerved to the left, but nothing helped. I took the foot off the gas and tried to hit the brakes. The front slammed into the median rails and refracted the metal box back into the road, spinning the car into disarray. The shattered glass flew into my face and skin. The metal box slowly lost speed, and the hail finally ceased. I shut my eyes from the flying glass. I thought it was hours before I heard the trunk slam into the side of a hill, finally stopping the car. A brisk wind swept across the wounds on my face, I opened my eyes. Small blotches of blood stained the dashboard, washed away by the rain pouring into the car. I looked into the rear-view mirror, fogged and broken from the weather. I extended my trembling hand from the steering wheel to wipe away the fog and blood stains as a long drag of vapor escaped my mouth. I did not feel the cuts. The right side of my face bled profusely from the embedded glass shards. A deep red ran from my nostrils. The shards created large deposits of blood on my outer lip. I felt nothing. I gazed out into the highway for any sign of company. The familiar suburbs on the periphery of the city line. I opened the glove compartment and carefully pocketed Kato’s journal in my coat. I slipped on my gloves and twisted the keys from my car. Glass flooded out of the car when I opened the door and began to walk. Walk north to Albany.
I wandered into a gas station near a few houses by the highway. I went inside the bathroom to wash myself off. The cold stopped the bleeding, but many shards remained embedded in my skin. I realized how fortunate I was to escape the crash relatively unscathed. The pain finally engulfed my still wounds, but nothing kept me from walking. I bought a first-aid kit and patched a few spots with band-aids. I continued walking to Albany, I must reach the newspaper.
The sun set beneath the horizon when I trekked into Downtown. The emblem of the newspaper company caught my eye. I glided across the crosswalk to the other side of the street when a numbness overcame my leg. I lost my balance quickly and fell forward. Pulling my coat closer to protect the journal, the concrete slammed into my shoulder. I heard footsteps. Somebody witnessed my pitiful fall. I could hardly make out the vague shape of a woman heading towards my fallen body. She helped me back to standing, with my leg still motionless. We made it to the sidewalk when I finally regained my vision. I remember her asking a flurry of questions about what I was doing or where I was going. All I told her was the newspaper company. She helped me trudge into the front office where I uneasily pulled out the journal. They later told me that I repeated the phrase “This must be published” in a distressed tone. I fail to remember anything past that. All I remember was waking from tranquil sleep, in a hospital bed.
I didn’t stay long in the hospital. I regained my senses and control of my limbs. The doctors removed all the glass shards from my body. I realized the predicament I brought upon myself. I had no way of getting back home, paying the healthcare costs, or returning to my broken car. I’m still unsure how I even was able to get home. The woman who helped me to the sidewalk was there again, talking to the doctors who tended to my wounds. I did not see her talk, she just stood there listening and nodding. I don’t remember much of what she said or told me. There was a sense of concern, but no pity. She walked over to where I was seated.
“You’re in no shape to drive. You crashed on 87”
“I know. Where is my car?”
“They towed it into the dealership. They’ll send it back to you”
“Is there a shuttle to Catskill?”
“No, I’ll just drive you home”
“Thank you so much, what’s your name?”
“Beatrice, what’s yours?”
“It’s nice to meet you, what was that notebook you kept waving in the air at Albatross Gazette?”
“You’ll see, when it’s published”.
I stood up and walked over to the doctors. I asked about paperwork and insurance, but they informed me that Beatrice had covered all expenses. I greatly owe this woman my life. But in this process, I had become the Lesser, the dependent. I continued to perpetuate the cycle Kato so despised. Perhaps this is only a temporary step to my final salvation, I am only a pawn in this grand game. His words will be published, and I will finish my mission.
Beatrice dropped me off later that day. Other than my customary words of gratitude, we were both silent the entire ride back. She drove the same way as I first arrived in reverse. The site where my car crashed had become completely unrecognizable, everything had been cleaned and the roads salted. Beatrice exited the interstate into Catskill, and I navigated her to my house. She told me my car would be returned in about a week, patched up but without a new windshield. I waved goodbye and slept until noon the next day.
The journal has been featured in the Albany newspaper for a few days. Copies reached Catskill very recently. I have stayed boarded up in my house for the past few days, living as Kato did. I’ve been able to call sick into work for around a week, but they’ll catch on soon. My days as a recluse are numbered. The car came in the other day, patched with white film and duct tape in the spot of the fracture. The large dents on the roof remained untreated. The car had sustained enough wounds, a necessary sacrifice. I used the past few days to reflect on all these events. All the chaos, yearning, and wounds from my journey. Kato’s thesis on dependence, like the cycle of Samsara. The world depends on Greaters and Lessers to function, and a natural hierarchy to govern. But at the same time, can this hierarchy be linear? The Greater cannot exist without the Lesser, and the only way to destroy the Greater is by negating the Lesser. Even in my discipleship, I remain dependent on Kato’s thesis- the mark of the Lesser. Mortals are dependent in their every step of life.
A strongly worded letter arrived in the mailbox this morning. Kato’s mother. Her handwriting was abominable. It took me an hour to fully decipher the letter. I squinted at her ungainly scribbled cursive for any clues of words. She threatened legal action if I did not rescind the journal’s publication. Parts of her vocabulary I had to look up in the dictionary or guess definitions. The letter ended with a demand to discuss the matter at her house, the address and directions were provided below. This discussion would go nowhere. I am firmly against rescinding this important message to the world. Legal action will not prevent a revolution. But I must satiate the obstacle with false promises and white lies, the safest way to move forward. I hate that I must act in this way, but it is the only way. The world is unfair, I am only part of it. This woman will no longer hinder the final wishes of Kato.
Today is the end of all shame chained to Kato. I pulled out of the driveway and headed west, to the final place of pilgrimage. The snow sank gracefully into the ground before melting in place. The sun illuminated every shadow in the forest. Not a single cloud in the sky. I swerved through narrow pass after narrow pass, through rocks and wood. I turned on sr13 when the trees blocked the sun. The dense forest cover soon enveloped the sky above. I could barely see patches of sunrays through the labyrinth of branches and twigs. The forest opened briefly to a small bridge over Catskill Creek. The great sun pulverized my eyes, adjusted to the dark beforehand. I caught sight of the descending creek, terraced with silt and mud, forced into rapid currents, and hemmed in by shale rock. The site of the immolation. The road returned to darkness as the branches extended closer to the car like a hand placed on the shoulder. The branches choked away the last gaps of sky and sun. The lively greens morphed into an eerie black. Mosses hung in limbo from trees. I turned the high beams on. A sea of dust blockaded the lights from reaching too far. A high-pitched ringing pierced my ears. I winced in unbearable pain, forcing me to stop the car.
A deep clamor commanded through the dense forest. I covered my ears and braced for another. I took the letter out of my coat pocket to check if I had missed a turn. This was an unfamiliar road, but not completely foreign. I had hardly unfolded the paper when a wispy voice entered my head.
I brazenly shook my head and restarted the car. The voice dissipated into murmurs as I drove farther down sr13. I finally spotted the house mentioned in the letter. The driveway led down into a cove near Catskill Creek. I turned down into the lone homestead to find a ramshackle brick structure, the one I previously mistook for a house. I tucked the letter back into my coat pocket and opened the car door. A million voices flooded into my ears, of different people, of different origins. They repeated my last name, monotonously, rhythmically. The trees suffocated more sunlight. The air thickened.
I bolted to the door and pounded on its brittle center. On the fifth push, the handle swung open to an empty house. The voices multiplied. I cried for help but could not hear my own shrieks. I scurried around the building, hoping to find Kato’s mother. She is supposed to be here. She demanded I visit. I stumbled into a blank room where the final ray of sun broke through the trees. I knew this was Kato’s room. With volleys upon volleys of voices overbearing me, my vision and awareness collapsed. I barely caught a glimpse of the lone sunray beaming directly onto a single lithograph on the wall. My vision focused for a split second before I fell to my knees. A massive whale, lost at sea from all souls. I collapsed completely, the voices singing me into sleep.
My eyes opened to pitch darkness. I did not remember where I was when I woke up. The memory of the sunray on the lithograph returned shortly. Despondent melodies from around the house floated into Kato’s room. The forlorn voices of a single melody repeated. It was fortunately more pleasant than the infectious voices. The mournful hum resounded from the other side of the house somewhere. The atmosphere was not dreamlike, I felt entirely lucid. A great fear enveloped my body. I frantically felt my way around Kato’s walls for a spot to hide while staying silent. His mother must be a ghastly woman, living among these decrepit walls. The forlorn hum continued, becoming dissonant among its echo around the house. I covered my head and reached around for anything to protect myself. Kato’s room had nothing of use as I remembered before I passed out, so I remained defenseless. It became clear why I was lured here. The motive from his warden mother is all here. And now in my rage, I am trapped. Perhaps it is symbolic to die in Kato’s own room. I hunkered down in a fetal position, contemplating eventual death. I could finally escape but in disgraceful hands. Self-immolation is the only rightful path to escape, to die without self-decision is to admit dependence on your killer. I will soon betray Kato’s message of self-reliance.
Kato’s window ruptured into a thousand pieces during my train of thought. I held myself tightly and braced for death. But in a deep rumble, a voice from the window spoke,
“Erratas, why do you cower? Your life has only begun,”
I glimpsed through my arms to see a dim light emitting from a large creature. Whatever broke through the window was alive, and speaking to me. I could barely see the outline of some sort of large marine animal, perhaps a shark or a whale. My vision slowly adjusted, revealing its fins and a large tail.
“Erratas, how many years have you lived on land?”
I wanted to believe I was dreaming. I wanted to believe this was a strange stunt pulled by Kato’s mother or the teenagers who sold me the journal. I did not answer, I did not want to. I needed to escape. I needed to run far away from the despondent melody in this prison, and this probing creature.
“No matter, you have lived enough to experience glimpses of life. I am over 500 years old, and all of us here are. You came here for Victoria Kato but will not find her here. She left before you got here. It is just us Simon, be not afraid.”
The melody abruptly stopped. I took a closer look at this mysterious creature. Its pale white skin illuminated the ground below and the ceiling above. I finally began to realize how gigantic the lumbering creature was. I could not see its teeth or any features of its mouth, but I knew the deep rumble projected from its voice. I still felt threatened, but I could escape if I talked my way out. Or perhaps I was hallucinating after all.
“Please,” I pleaded, “Release me at once!”
“Yes, there is a Me to be released and a Place to be released from. There is a Better Place somewhere else and a Better Time to be.” The voice lingered before these words in a sarcastic tone.
“What do you want from me?” I finally asked. There was a great pause.
“What do you want from yourself?” The voice responded.
“I don’t know you, why should I tell you?”
“You can only change if you let yourself change. I demand nothing from you.”
“Then why have you come to terrorize me here?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Kato, his journal, your publication, your defaced car, the fractures and wounds, your bloodied face in Albany, the ice on I-87, the storm, the woman who drove you home, the letter in your coat pocket, how do you think any of this happened?”
“What are you even talking about? How do you even know me?”
“Erratas, I have roamed this Earth for more than 500 years. I witnessed the rise and fall of every soul since then. I knew Galileo, Napoleon, and John F. Kennedy while they were alive. Of course I know you.”
I did not know how to respond. I began to doubt if this was some strange prank. The creature was there, alive. Its voice was distinctive, not quite human but not quite animal.
“Simon,” the creature began after a long pause, “You were summoned to this place for a reason. You will observe how the world works properly, but only you can accept what I will show you. Kato was a flawed man, he was not a martyr from the Greaters or Lessers, and you will see to that”
“No, stay back! I want no part in this. Get out of my head!” I shot back.
“Kato is the only voice who lives in your head,” it calmly responded, “and if you leave with his voice remaining there, you will suffer for a long time. It is solely up to you”
“I will not suffer when I am martyred”
“I knew you were stubborn. Who will celebrate your martyrdom in the afterlife?”
“I have lived more than 500 years alive and not a single one has been spent dead”
Another long pause followed. A great tension still filled the room. How many of these creatures lived in this house? Who sang those broken melodies? Who was I talking to? I was trapped anyhow, only my body to cower inside. Perhaps I am lucky to not be harmed yet. I could still sense the presence of the great beast floating in the room. Whatever it was, it knew more about me than anyone in my life. This creature knew something I did not, maybe more than what I wanted to know. The voice finally responded,
“Let’s not dwell on these things. We do not come to harm you. I am a whale, just like you- you just cannot see it within yourself. You have no harbor to moor yourself, and neither do I. We attach ourselves to ideas greater than us in mortal life. This is not dependence, this is merely landing ashore, and to us- we simply beach ourselves. But the more we cling to the idea and forget ourselves, the more we suffer from the air around us. The sun scorches through our skin and the air asphyxiates our throat. We are not ideas, we are people, we are whales, we are living”.
And with these words, a choir began to cry out from the other side of the house. The same broken melody is now joined with a full ensemble. The dissonance blended with its imperfections into a beautiful chorus. The despondent notes weaved into the air. Together, a pleasant song emerged from mangled voices. The voice spoke again,
“Walk about the house Erratas, you will see all the other whales like you. There are no Greaters or Lessers, not in the way that you know them”
I took a chance and stood up. I still felt uneasy about following the voices. I stepped out of the room and carefully trotted forward in the dark. A small ray of light revealed a doorframe over my head. A group of illuminating whales stared back at me from across the alcove. The voices resounded from their cores in a deep baritone hum. The smaller whales sang the mangled melodies in their higher range. They stared me down at the doorframe blankly. I trotted around the luminous whales to the other side of the alcove. Their voices reflected into a fuller chorus. I heard every vibration from the creatures now. Every whale works in unison, depending on the other, and balanced in volume. No creature sang too loud or too quiet, all synchronous in rhythm. There was no Greater, no Lesser, just the whales.
I turned into the other room to find a large hole blasted into the side. My feet shuffled around a pile of bricks and debris. I glanced through the hole to find an opening in the trees. Barely in view, the great utility tower snuck into sight. I imagined the great pillar crying for attention, but nothing came to mind. The tower stood still, unmoving in my head and in my eyes. Perhaps the tower is a flawed symbol, an invisible Greater trapped in the stilts it admits dependence to. Is the tower truly Greater? Everything is dependent on another, everything is interdependent. There is no linear of Greater and Lesser, it’s all one gargantuan mess where all have their place. And the tower simply does not exist. It is not alive. Catskill is not lesser than this obelisk, nor is the obelisk lesser than Catskill. There is no governing of anything.
I held a fallen brick from the wall. It appeared exactly as Kato foretold, like his mother’s quilt’s self-sewn fabric. The brick was jammed and cracked in its previous form. These malformed and foraged pieces of brick could only fit together on the wall if they stood on each other. One missing brick would collapse the entire wall which had already happened.
The great whale glided quietly into the room. The night was enveloped in silence. No cicadas, no birds, and no trees rustling. The whale approached closer and began to speak,
“Do you understand? Kato’s suicide is a tragedy. There is no beauty in his drowning. There is no greater cause he creates to call you in. He is like us, but now unable to take joy in this life”.
“He is cursed by River and Rain,” I responded, “it’s not his fault at all”.
“No, it’s not his fault, it’s not anyone’s. But River and Rain are not real. His entire belief system is his interpretation of personal tragedy. The Gods are not specifically out to get him, nor did they target William Kato. He created this mythology to comfort himself, comfort himself from life. Now it has killed him.”
I paused to comprehend these words.
“Simon, do you think you knew him well?” the whale finally asked.
“Only through words and his face,” I admitted.
“What is his first name?”
“Yes, surely you must know.”
How had I never known the man’s first name? It was always right on the tip of my tongue. I cannot remember now, did I even know what it was? Surely, I must have written it in this journal somewhere, maybe he wrote his name in his journal? The first time I read about him was in the newspaper- it had to be there. His mother’s letter? I pulled the paper out of my coat pocket and squinted into the field of ungainly scratches. There was no mention of his first name. I thought about the man and documented him in my journal almost daily, how had I not known his name?
“I-I don’t know. I don’t know how- I don’t know how I referred to him before” I finally responded.
“What is his first name?”
“Not even I know. Not in my 500 years of knowledge”
“That’s impossible, surely you must know. You lived through billions of lives, yet you don’t know this man’s first name? How do you even know mine then?”
“The truth is,” it paused briefly, “not even his mother knew his first name. No one is certain who named the man. I never saw him being addressed as anything more than ‘Boy’, ‘Sir’, or ‘Son’. I am uncertain if we’ll ever know”.
I walked out into the backyard from the house’s blasted wall. I decided then to give that man a name. If his death is in vain, he must not die nameless. Vergil would be his name- after the great poet who guided Dante Allegri through the great inferno.
“And what’s your name?” I asked the whale on my left side.
“I don’t know yet, I haven’t decided on one” it responded.
“Seriously? After you’ve lived so long?”
“No one asks that question, maybe I should start thinking about that”
“Well, whoever you decide to be, I owe you greatly”
“Have you changed your mind? All so quickly?”
“Not entirely, I cannot bring myself to change so easily. But I have seen more this past week than in the last ten years of my life. I have discovered how it feels to live again. I was dangled so close to death, yet this is when I was most alive.”
“And there Simon,” the whale continued, “is only a larger part of the rest of your life. Your life has just begun. Through pain, joy, tragedy, triumph, suffering, and love, we persist in mocking and living in death’s spite. Let nobody lie and say it is easier and more honest to dip one’s head in the water and end it all”.
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