In the Night Time of the Mind, Part III

A Social Education

I see a graffiti artist, a boy of eighteen, tagging a wall, “Amor y Rabia,” he writes. I wish to speak with him, but he disappears before I get the chance to say hello.

A little girl appears in his stead. She offers me a beautiful flower, which I put in my lapel. I ask her name, but she turns away bashfully. I ask if she goes to school, but she runs away with a giggle.

A woman hears my questions and answers for her, then teaches me all about the education here.

“Our schooling is called ‘an early bird’s education.’ This means children are encouraged to attend school in the early mornings. When they are young, it is easy to see which children enjoy the learning environment of a classroom, and those who do not.

“The children who do not enjoy school, simply do not attend in the afternoons, which are optional sessions dedicated to advanced learning. In the later parts of life, along with the later parts of the day, less and less children attend the classroom.

“The dwindling of academic students is expected, and perfectly accepted. Those who find no interest in school still receive an education, an education in the city streets, with their families or friends, watching and imitating to learn.

“Those with similar interests are drawn to one another. Being in a group of like minds, whether it be a group of two, or three, or four, or more, helps motivate everyone to work and learn.

“Forcing people, especially children, to be in a place or group they are not comfortable with is altogether counterproductive. What is the use of a teacher who doesn’t want to teach or a student who doesn’t want to learn?

“Likewise, forcing children into a single standard year in and year out is counterintuitive to the development of diversity and creativity.

“For these reasons, there are no strict distinctions made between ages. People of all ages can be seen interacting, intermingling, and even playing around.  

“When there is a multiplicity of personalities, and there is, it is best to allow them to develop naturally, with a little guidance and encouragement, from an early age.”

After her short lecture, which I kid her about, asking if a park bench is what she considers a classroom, we go on discussing the ways and nature of knowledge.

Revolution Through Art

Feeling another wave of inspiration, I part ways with the lady (who happens to be a teacher) and journal some more:

The most curious aspect about this city, thus far, is the degree to which rebels and radicals join in with normal, everyday life.

Instead of isolating eccentric individuals or pushing them to unhealthy extremes, the city integrates and cultivates them, for the reason that these types have a tendency to be gifted in the arts, or, as one poet likes to put it, “Rabid with the whispering of muses.”

Once recognized, these poets and painters contribute to the cultural well-being of the people. They are lauded for such contributions, but they remain humble, for without the encouragement and support of the people, the artist is simply a man condemned to his own delusional ravings.

The people give purpose to the artist and meaning to his art.

The City Center

Under the glow of a full moon, I find myself sitting on the edge of a fountain. I see a man pronouncing the word God. The people seem to think he is bat-shit crazy, as do I, but we let him be, some even indulge him, for this is his meditation: discussing the nature, names and relevance of a word which contains so many ideas.

A Self Portrait

As I get up, I step out of my body. In a moment of lucidity, I stare at myself like a painting:

Sitting on a fountain’s edge, back straight, legs crossed, hands in my lap, a street lamp twinkles the gold of my watch.

Donning a fine beige suit, the brightly colored flower tucked in my lapel, brown shoes shined, and pant legs up exposing my high dress socks.

My eye is drawn to a gnarled tree draped in the background.

Then, I see my slick, black hair parted down the middle, my thin, black moustache neatly trimmed, my smooth, olive skin glistening, and the detail bringing the whole grand scene to a characteristic fullness, my sly, barely perceptible smile, indicating a shrewd, playful air.

The Libertine

I fall back into my body and explore the city further.

I uncover a company of actors who produce shows of their own at a playhouse called Teatro de Rococo. They, and they alone, serve as a biting reminder to the seven-day-a-week schedule (without them, today is today, tomorrow is tomorrow and yesterday is already past). Each day of the week, the theater stages a different play.

The lead role in each play is the same actor. He has played the lead for as long as the theater has existed. Off stage, he is a real dog of a man, sleeping with whomever his heart, or rather his dick, desires. Men, women, girls and boys, he’s had his fair share.

On stage, he plays a different role entirely. On Monday, he is a rabbi in a synagogue, studying Torah and preparing for the daily bris. On Tuesday, he acts like a priest and performs a mass. On Wednesday, he is an imam. On Thursday, he is a pundit. On Friday and Saturday, he plays his favorite two roles, first, the shaman, when he performs a powwow, and second, the high priestess, when he recites magical incantations.

People are unsure why he enjoys the role of the high priestess so much, but it’s been suggested that women’s panties make him feel sexy.

On the final day of the week, Sunday, the theater is empty, not to represent a day of rest, but instead to portray strict adherence to atheism.

People attend the theater for all likes and purposes, but mostly, when asked, it is for worship or to get a good laugh.

It has acquired a name on the streets: Hocus Pocus Playhouse.

Of Love And Anarchy

There is another theater in the city called The People’s Playhouse. It is named such because it doubles as a house for artists and bohemians. The actors do not always perform there, so more often than not, they take to the streets and build a makeshift stage. They are wholeheartedly committed to the public and tend to perform plays that invigorate and impassion their spectators.

Unlike Teatro de Rococo, they have no fixed schedule and seem to erupt out of thin air, especially when the people need a good reminder and call to life.

One vagabond poet gives me a free-verse review of the latest performance, “You should have seen them, taking over the streets, people watching from trees, a fervor unheard of, sweeping the city like fire, it was hot, man, I tell you what, I thought I was living a dream, or dreaming my life, the truth, man, that’s all I got.”