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| Fire Eaters Photo: Van Stein |
Our flight is called.
Summoned by Nietzsche, Van Stein and I are about to embark on an
astonishing week of motion and madness, through six countries, a different
place to sleep each night.
This isn’t living out of a suitcase—more like living
out of a toilet kit.
August is the ideal month to visit London, even for just one night.
It is calm and quiet.
The Russians and Chinese, Arabs
and Indians, the Poles, Romanians and Bulgarians—they’ve all gone home to visit
relatives, or somewhere else. Schools
are out; workplaces slimmed down.
Van Stein forks off to Reek
Pisserin’s new digs in the Surrey Downs; I sail without delay the opposite
direction into central London, to Marylebone, my center of gravity; a perfect
balmy day for covert cavorting with the spooky people.
We have chosen August for this
trek, one, because it was almost upon us when Nietzsche’s subpoena arrived and,
two, the laziest of summer months was Nietzsche’s peak period in Sils Maria,
where, in August 1881, Zarathustra first spake
to him.
And it conveniently coincides with
a bash Reek Pisserin is throwing to celebrate a renewal on life–a stab at
eternal recurrence, the concept Nietzsche invented or abhorred, depending on
whose version one subscribes.
(Some say Nietzsche perceived the
moon’s lunar cycle as the ultimate symbol of eternal return; others write that
the prospect of having to live one’s life over and over again in perpetuity
throughout the universe horrified poor Fritz.)
I am met in Marylebone by
Disordered, so named by JL (we’ll get to him) several months earlier in Monaco
when, during a chance encounter, he swiftly and intuitively deduced that this
individual enjoys more than one personality.
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| JL |
JL has a penchant for choosing adjectives as nicknames, which, though disconcerting at first, is a charm.
Disordered, a Nice-based artist and part-time spy, is in town for Reek’s party. When we’re together, we’re both eight years old.
Spontaneously, I invite Disordered
to join we Luna-seekers on our imminent road trip to Nietzsche-land.
It is our way—Van Stein and me—our Dynamic of Inclusion, opening the gateway to any and all who feel the magic, the madness, and want to throw their baggage into the trunk, add another dementia to the mix.
It is our way—Van Stein and me—our Dynamic of Inclusion, opening the gateway to any and all who feel the magic, the madness, and want to throw their baggage into the trunk, add another dementia to the mix.
As Rantanal Oldham once said, “Even
the world’s biggest idiot knows something you don’t–there is something to be
learned from everyone.”
And this: I’ve always enjoyed mixing
people like chemicals to see what combusts.
Disordered enlists without
hesitation.
We make it from door to Dorking in
an hour and check into the 750 year-old Burford Bridge Hotel, lodgings once
favored by John Keats and Robert Louis Stephenson, their ghosts still lingering.
Van Stein joins Disordered and me
for a pre-party Famous Grouse whiskey in the hotel bar, then on to Reek’s new
house.
Goblets of champagne are thrust
into our hands, a prelude to Pomerol.
Reek Pisserin and I know some of
the same characters through our murky endeavors: Schnudler from Luxembourg, EJ from
Latvia–fare for furtive huddles in far corners of Reek's sprawling garden,
providing intrigue, humor; stimulating me farther into this warm summer night.
“Any orbs yet?” I whisper to Van
Stein as we manically cross paths.
“Only the ones on those Iranian
lasses,” he whispers back. “And I’m sure
it cost them a few bucks.”
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| Painting: Fire Dancer Van Stein |
Disordered, meanwhile, changes
personalities throughout the evening, morphing from one to another and back
again with increasing frequency while fire-eaters, magicians and flamenco
guitarists roam the grounds, an aroma of grilling monkfish and lamb kebabs.
Late in the evening, my white
trousers take a hit: a few drops of
mis-poured Pomerol.
“Sparkling water,” recommends
Shani, one of the two Iranian lasses. “Or
salt.” She gets up, finds some, assalts my trousers.
Pomerol
wins.
I inspect the damage.
“So what if I’ve got a Gorbachev
wine stain?” I rationalize aloud.
“That’s the beauty of travelling in white trousers–you pick up
souvenirs and mementoes throughout the trip:
chocolat mystere from Quai des
Artistes, tomato ragu from a bowl of pasta at Autogrill, cappuccino from Café de la Costa–maybe not enough for
the kind of midnight snack Nietzsche carried in his bushy moustache, but I can wear
my travel scars with a Tom Waits swagger and through them recall events when
too much motion fogs my brain.”
