Geometry for Ocelots

by Exurb1a

The only noble desire is for the end of desire. Few are brave enough to admit this. Look to the ancient battlefields, to the corpses fallen by sword, by musket, by theta-beam. Did the generals who prevailed in those battles take their spoils and retire to some mountain hut, and live the remainder of their days in the quiet shade? For sure not. They made more war. Look to the ancient heavens, full of starships and space-bending; whole solar systems repurposed as divine machinery. Did the engineers who birthed those miracles watch matter Itself roll over and beg for mercy, and concede they had done enough? For sure not. They built more machines. So too with the poet who wants only for one perfect line, apprehends it, and is more miserable than ever. So too with the great master who levitates over the black oceans, only to reach the coast and turn back around to do it once more. So too with the drunk who swears off drink by morning, and is found ratted again then by lunch. The only noble desire is for the end of desire. Few are brave enough to admit this.

For a week Johannes returned to the oak tree each night, but the Deva bear was not there. In his bed, just before sleeping, he stared for a long time at the necklace charm the bear had given him. It contained no moving parts. It did not slow or need rest. If he kept the charm tight in his grip as it morphed, it only pushed his hand back to reshape itself with a firmness always slightly stronger than his grip. It was pleasant to watch, like the stars. And, like the stars, it required no explanation.

Lying naked on their cliff one night, the ancient and dead city glittering in the distance, Johannes said, “Do you know everything?” “No,” Ursula said. “Are you all-powerful like The Edicts say?” “No.” “Well, do you live forever then?” “We don’t have to die for a long time if that’s what you mean.” He stared at the city and imagined it full of natives; men and women planting crops and kneading bread and not living in fear of rageful deer. He said, “Some of the villages nearby are very sick.” Ursula nodded. “Why don’t the Devas do something about it?” She looked Johannes over as though debating whether to inform a child how children are made. She said, “Do you have ants in your village?” “Of course.” “How many ants do you think we killed on our way out here tonight?” “Ten, a hundred, I don’t know.” Ursula said, “You know, you could never kill an ant again if you stopped leaving your yurt.” Johannes shrugged. “Ants aren’t clever and it doesn’t bother me so much.” “Then you’re not such a kind god yourself, huh.” Johannes dressed and began walking back to his village. “Oh come on,” Ursula called after.

He walked about in a permanent feigned stupor, awake and pretending he wasn’t. Urinating one morning he became transfixed with an intricate pattern on the plaster of the toilet and mangled the tip of his penis in his trouser zip. Such is the path to enlightenment.