Wright's FlashLights

As I stood outside tapping at the door of the R. asylum shivering in my dripping coat, the blood kept trickling down my forehead without ceasing. November was the coldest month regardless of the devious forecasts broadcast on TV. The experts didn’t predict a hailstorm that caused this collision. I was irate at the hospitals that closed so early and didn’t have enough unoccupied spots for emergencies like mine, but partially relieved at the sight of the dim light at the asylum to which I was transferred instead to receive an impromptu treatment. Its painted grimness didn’t repel me much, for I didn’t intend to have to stick around for long. The obliging guard who opened to my exasperated knocks looked drowsy and gave me the impression of a man who wasn’t the safest bet for security of the building with so many inmates.

After I meticulously wiped the muddy boots on the carpet, the guard ushered me in and indicated a seat to take, presumably to expect an appointment on short notice. He must’ve taken me for an abstract lunatic not worth talking to respectfully and reclaimed his position in the cabin. I felt so haplessly worn out I didn’t feel capable of bickering. There was no way I could justify my absence from school with a bad scratch either unless the accident killed me completely and would’ve served a good enough reason.. So I plopped down on the cushion beside a man in a saintly white robe. He breathed heavily as if asleep: one eye perfectly still and the other one drunkenly winking. The man caught me gazing at the tiny box he was firmly clutching in his hands with the silvery gravestone words elegantly engraved on it, withholding secrets that waited to be revealed. With the fiendish curiosity overflowing the brims I was going to utter some resemblance of a nose-poking question but he was way faster.

“Let me show you something”.

I don’t remember what I was thinking at that moment following the beckon of a shady stranger. The moonlight stroked me gently, alluring and glinting outside. We surreptitiously crouched out as spontaneously as I ended up there in the first place, for, concussed, I didn’t have anything better to do.

Looking around at the evening street of the neighborhood I noticed an abrupt change of tune in people’s attitudes. Whimsical hats, flamboyant suits, genuine laughter. They seemed to be filing out of all the places, converging at the crossing of dusty passages and marching towards….

“We call this ‘The Wright’s FlashLights’”, my chaperon said, as all my attention was attracted to the grandeur of what stood caught up in a whirl and all the world’s glitter - I would’ve thought it the fanciest of Broadway performances had it not been for the mossy-toothed rats sneaking between my feet, lacing up my shoes like little dolled up servants, almost carrying me obsequiously toward the entrance. I lost sight of the man a second later. There was nothing surprising about people wearing animal masks and cheering wildly and parading and feasting as if they’d been fasting all covered day. All the bedlam of opulent garments mixed with no less vibrant rags, the hubbub of raucous voices making themselves even hoarser. Oh, those hollering saxophones around me paled with the maestro’s appearance on stage. I took a shot to enjoy the performance more intimately and be only mildly serious and paranoid.

“Loving the show? Is it any good to you?”, the velvety voice from behind startled me.

“Excuse me?”

“Sleep indeed has a singular obliterating quality which blurs the harrowing disquietude you were positive you’d never survive, plants the peaceful seeds with the pliers of its own and covers plaguing alertness with a blanket and whispers its lullabies and assures you’ll see everything in a different light once you rise. Doesn’t it? It’s all about light in ephemerality, isn’t it?”

The young man now in front of me was wearing a colorful attire with all the pieces of wardrobe not matching; he looked vaguely familiar and amusedly pensive. I thought this night couldn’t get any crazier among the people drawing me in their fun. My head was wobbly and reeling as another eccentric trapeze artist was swaying on the rope, chuckling or straining, I couldn’t see…

“I suppose.. but everything about this place misses the mark then”, I said squinting, examining him closer. “Aren’t you…?”

“I am, I am!” he exclaimed, interrupting me saying ‘The Wright of the Wright’s FlashLights’. “Steward is stepping in today, because I figured I needed to be the audience of my shows as well”, he said, taking off the shining cylinder. “Look! The lights are all out here, as we’re sitting in complete darkness as opposed to the stage. You’re being scrutinized under the microscope”, he pointed at the performer lit and blinded by the projector. “But you’re the scrutinizer as well. There’s nowhere to go - face yourself. Yet this capture is liberation as well and the blinding light is what repairs the eyesight. Your words are being read out loud, your! your own words coming out with the expressiveness of everyone affected, touched, stirred. With the pronouncement comes the attribution of a new meaning. If not everything is shown and told, of course.”

I wouldn’t have dared to get a word in edgewise and better kept the distance if it hadn’t been for my unaccountable interest in the person I encountered.

“I bet the acquired fame and glory contribute to the satisfaction!”

“Bet! That luck is but a fortuitous coincidence”, he replied with perfect nonchalance. “I believe, if I can, it’s when you have an ace up your sleeve and the crucial awareness of it. I might’ve as well had my word buried and stomped upon. I threw away my straight jacket a long time ago for a reason”.

“You seem to have it all and not need it then? Born or not born for this?”

“The stage felt my feet if my name would happen to enter the oblivion. And I am spread around the world. Come with us since life is motion, be it circus in the box or on the wheels. Be of good cheer if the idea that strikes you in your sleep is truly yours!”

He was one of those circus magicians whose tricks you’d volunteer for and whose offers and words you’d take unquestionably for everything, without warrant, be it the stage or another end of the world he advanced so passionately. He almost made me believe it wasn’t all smoke…

The buzz of a fly in my ear forced me to crack the lids of my eyes open and wake up to the walls of the asylum. I ran out like a madman, my pockets heavy with something, my feet collecting the misty dew from the grass. I hoped to see Wright’s ever clamorous moveable palace again at the same crossed passages, sober in the daylight, scrutinizing every stone’s beneaths. But I never did. I thought the only wise solution in this maddeningly crooked city layout was to trace my footsteps and go back, I must’ve certainly skipped a turn or two. The grass turned slippery, shamrock cut my feet and luck, tree branches whipped my face. He was no lunatic to me. The city was dead quiet except for a clique of tourists with maps huddled up around some monument I’d never seen before.

“Athan Wright used the elements of the highest human analysis in his outstanding works of.. He was convinced… he wasn’t recognized by critics, yet….. Alas, the circus caught on fire about a century ago and was never restored to its full grandness despite the exhortations of the public.”

I broke into boisterous laughter and got grunted at for disrupting the excursion. He would’ve made a stern appeal and arranged his immediate demolition to erect the moveable feast anew, the infinite mirth of it.

The crowd didn’t seem appealing enough to be around a second more, neither did their creaking adulation placate the sudden surge of despaired regret. I never saw him again but that night. Only another open-mouthed child staring at the now corroded, still mirroring box I produced from my pocket. Christ, what a night! I knew I had a story to relay, a word to impart.

“Just after my debut”, I said while the top hat was regaining its glimmer in my hands.