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Chapter III

Perfect calm. That is what I have found after all. Many long years have passed since the time of the long ordeal. It was the time in my life that mattered the most, it seems, shaped me ultimately until now I am the man that I have become. For there is truth in the wisdom that a man is not entirely who he was until he is dead. Indeed, I can feel death hovering between the shadows somewhere close, so dangerously close his presence is possible to mistake for violation. Of course, I may sense Azrael's interminable shadow because he is also come to claim the life of one of my dearest and, oddly enough, the last of the companions who traveled with me along that brazen road through destruction and rebirth. The one question that remains, though, after all these years, is why. Was the ordeal really necessary in light of the one mankind now endures? Perhaps there are not reasons for everything. Of course, it matters little now. Drusus is dying and I can feel that my time, at long last, is not far to follow. He lies alone in his house, where he always felt most comfortable, with only his rusty tales to keep him company. Alone, because Nancy died years ago, and here is a man who was never intended to endure solitude. He thrives in the presence of his fellow human beasts, such an exuberant and handsome young man, who eventually grew into a wise and handsome old man.

But he will not remain alone much longer, for I plan to go to him when I have finished with this nonsense. It is my opinion that, if he wants it done, the telling of this story is his duty. I do not think I can measure up to the task. Drusus remembers me when there was a spark of creativity there, but it died what seems ages ago. "Just do it," he told me before I could begin to protest. "You've said you have no stories. You've got one." He leaned closer, coughed painfully, and added, "This is what you've been intending to do for some time." Perhaps. Perhaps I had entertained similar notions once, yes, but truly, I was never serious about them, and if you have any problems with what I'm going to write, Drusus, it's your own fault. "It's what you're supposed to do," he told me in that pathetically exasperating voice of his. But all I am, all I ever was, is just another Joseph, a witness to somebody else's greatness. Drusus was always one to believe in supposed to or fate.

Of course, there is little time for distractions or digression, and I must hurry with this. I have locked myself and Angst in this house in Santa Cruz with food and drink for three months, with my computer, and next to me there is a gallon bag filled with three ounces of Northern Lights and a bong. There is no one left whom I suspect could disturb me, no family, no living friends except Angst. Of course, these are perilous times. I suspect my work will be reasonably quick in the absence of interruption. When last I spoke to Drusus, two days ago, he wanted to slip away and rest peacefully in Infinity, but I would not allow Azrael the pleasure. Somehow I managed to convince him to wait until after I arrive with this manuscript. Isn't there a price for everything?

But I am restless and still not entirely sure what it is he has talked me into. There are ghosts in here, statues crouched around as if gathering and I know not what for. And these cackling angels at my back, how is it that I never managed to rid myself of them? Do I still live in fear? This is all so confusing. Everything has clouded over where I once thought I saw so clearly. Perfect calm? Can there be such a thing as lucidity when the vultures are plainly circling overhead?

Will there only be questions, to the very end, with no answers?

But there is also rebirth. Before the coming of the newness there must first be hardship, treacherous ordeals that eradicate what had been before. Even for creation there must first have been space. For men it is the same. Sometimes things must grow frightfully obscured before any clarity will emerge. There are rewards for enduring this subtle type of madness. Of course, the history of mankind is beginning to show the signs of a rather lengthy and compelling story, a serious pattern of switchbacks from upheaval to rebirth to upheaval again. From the womb of Earth towards mastery of his environment, from cultured beast to perverted moralism and now, sadly enough, to a meek attempt at something we aren't, and still the streets of the West simply reek of this fabricated morality. What sort of rebirth will embrace humanity this time? That is not for me to say.

There is so much that happened, and yet a proper beginning for this endeavor has thoughtlessly evaded me. Indeed, an autobiography is a rather difficult task to undertake, if not an outright painful one. And so the question inevitably arises: how does one begin the tale of one's life? Does one begin with the moment of birth and continue onward until the point of death? Ah, but that is not possible, for this is, as I have already noted, an autobiographical work, and how I could write a true account of that inevitable and last coming of newness before it has occurred I do not know. I will certainly not attempt a tribute to my life, or anyone else's, for that matter. Such pretentious behavior has never been in my blood, and if it were up to me there would be no story for you to read at all. Well, perhaps that's not entirely true. But it is true that still I am held in thrall by scattered images of extremity and passion, and, yes, I've always known that this story would emerge because no one ever quite understood, not even Sarah, or that miserable old man who taunts me with clocks.

And if you will not hear me, dear reader, then I do this for Emmanuel, who died before my very eyes, or Salvatore, who showed me what madness was, or Antonius, of whom I know little else than what he ever said to me. Or for Shanai, to whom perhaps I owe more than anyone else I have ever known, for teaching me the value of survival.

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Chapter III

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