Good Night
Baltazar had had a long day at the faculty of neuroscience at Adamkiewicz University. It wasn’t the first time a cerebrum had shattered on the floor as an indirect result of his narcolepsy. Now he lay on the cool concrete floor of his porch, and as a warm bell in the distance tolled four times, his flip-flop slipped off his foot. The smell of two freshly baked pumpkins filled the inside of the house, as did the words “Baltazar, dinner is ready!” from the well-veined neck of his housemate Mardek, who had been looking forward to pumpkin night all week.
A minute passed. Baltazar, annulling everything, had already fallen asleep.
His name was called, but not himself. “The word ‘Baltazar’! The pumpkins are soft!” cheered Mardek, who received not one response. “The word ‘Baltazar’! The food is explosive!” Suddenly the pumpkin obeyed and exploded. Frightened, Baltazar was buried under gourd fragments, which tired him immensely.
Baltazar sat in the doorway. This is bad. Immediately two dead marabous flew away.
“We could have had a great night!” said the bull, cracking a walnut for consumption.
“Are you trying?” was Baltazar’s question. “My kitchen is being heated by an explosion.”
“I can’t hear you: is your kitchen full of poffertjes?” This is what the wizard asked as he arranged his wares.
“No, pieces of nervous tissue!” This was Baltazar’s answer, which the magician-bull did not hear, and neither did Baltazar.
He cut further to where a great discussion was taking place in the marketplace, three thousand years ago and miles away.
“A big cube?” shouted the bull-mage-merchant with a worn face, his hands full of the brightly colored fruit. “Didn’t you see it? Only two shekels.” And so forth.
“Do you have any walnuts, or did you eat them all!?” Baltazar escalated out of sheer disorientation.
“Five less!” sang the merchant. The power was turned on.
“Do you want thunder in the afternoon?” threatened Baltazar, wondering helplessly about the walnut supply.
“We could have had a wonderful evening,” the bull-magician-merchant repeated, as the dead marabous landed among the cubes, right on top of a small book entitled “Clavis of Dreams.” As they opened it for Baltazar, he heard a voice that seemed to come from the merchant: “This is the clavis at current prices. Be happy and be wise. Good luck, boss! Aloha hahaha!”
Baltazar, flattered, nodded “Aloha” and bought the clavis. Anything but the cube.
The end result was very desirable: Baltazar returned to the doorway. This is good. “Who is?” Baltazar asked twice.
“Are you trying?” asked the bull.
“I hear your question” was Baltazar’s response, who still had one layer to go.
Suddenly, one pumpkin imploded. Baltazar was called; not his name. He woke up from his strange sleep and wanted to go to Mardek, but he fell right under the gourd fragments.
How is that done? Where is the dream–
From ‘Clavis of Dreams’:
Do you live in your own constructed reality? Are there claves you can acquire to understand the layers of your own mind? Do you prefer walnut or cube?
This was the story of a narcoleptic assistant neurologist, Baltazar, who fell asleep and entered a dream. In this dream he fell asleep again, dreaming. And so forth. Thus he dropped from reality, the zeroth level, to the third level of dreams.
With the help of this clavis, Balthazar could try to return to reality. Mardek also did his best to bring Baltazar back so they could enjoy the pumpkins together. Even though Balthazar didn’t understand anything, he felt satisfied and informed.
Good night.
