Nemo Neem
01-23-2010, 02:17 PM
I am the famous Rozinante,
Great grandson of famed Babieca;
Because I was all skin and bone
They gave me to old Don Quixote,
I raced my quota like a sluggard,
Yet by a hoof’s breadth never missed my oats,
This trick I owe to Lazarillo,
When his blind master’s wine he stole,
That straw hoax I praised to the skies.
—Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
I am under the impression that nobody cares about me. I mean, I toil all day under the sun and nobody gives un condenhar that I am tired or hungry. All I am required to do is work. Now, I am trapped in a hell that I cannot escape from. In truth, I am suffering. They keep me in this stall, all alone with minimal food. I am forced to listen to the rain as it falls, to the crickets and their orchestras; and now, I suspect I am about to be sold, which is never a good thing. Sometimes I wonder why I even exist. I am old, tired, weak, and depressed. I cannot do my job any longer.
I am the only living thing in this dreaded stall. It smells of feces, and flies encircle my head. The tiny man that brings me food is an idiot. He never talks to me, never keeps me company. Instead, he is more concerned with chewing his own cud than he is making sure that I am well. I do see, occasionally, the kids come by and they talk to me. So I am not completely alone. Once, I met a kid who was very smart. He told me that there is a better life out there. He said that there used to be better days, days which he called “Hyperion Days,” or days when the Sun always shown, and where the common folk could have access to knowledge; but, he said, those days only existed in Hellena. Besides, he said, they believed in multiple gods, and that is a sin against Christ.
The man returned later that day and said that I was to be sold. I said that he would regret the decision, because I was the best worker he had. Of course, he did not hear me. He shouted something in his odd language, and an old man came to my stall. He was a lanky, scarecrow-like man with a scruffy beard.
“Es un buen caballo?” said the old man.
“¿Qué crees que soy un mentiroso? Por supuesto que es un buen caballo! Ha sido arar mi campo para siempre. Tiene mucho de la vida a la izquierda en él,” said my master.
“Puede recorrer largas distancias?”
“No se, Senor.”
“¿Es un buen caballo para un caballero?”
“Yu locos, Senor.”
The old man took me. We traveled a long distance until we reached a quiet village in the countryside. The man was odd. He wore a gray, metallic something. He spoke of going on adventures in search of some lady. He often spoke in odd language, very formal. However, he did feed me. I ate my oats and drank my water. He kept me in a cleaner stall next to his house. The people that walked by commented how skinny and frail I was. I did not care. All I wanted now was sleep. Perhaps, in the future, I will achieve knowledge. My new master has knowledge, but knowledge of a different kind. He knows things that I do not, and I suspect that he may not even be a man.
When the Sun rose (which the kid that I knew said the Greeks called “Helios”), my new master came to my stall. This time he had a weird hat on his head, and he remarked that he needed to give me a new name. He decided upon Rocínante. I knew, then, that something was wrong with his intelligence. The name has multiple meanings. For starters, rocín means “work-horse,” which I am (also “low-quality,” but I do not consider myself that). In our language, ante means “before” or “previously.” (It also means “in front of.”) Thus, my new name could be deciphered as “before, previously, or in front of a work or low-quality horse.” ¡Qué nombre! How could I have been previously a work-horse when I am one? I remember once when the master said that we all lived previous lives. So maybe I was a better horse in a better life before Rocínante came into being.
Now, my life has gained excitement, although I am still weary. It has been years since I have been in my stall. I have not eaten much. My master, who calls himself Don Quixote, or more appropriately, El Ingenioso Hidalgo, decided to attack windmills for no reason. His new “squire” (whatever that is) is named Sancho Panza, who rides a donkey named Rucio. Rucio and I are very good friends. Rucio said that he, too, was old and bored; but this, he remarked, was something that he would never expect to experience. Humans, he said, are idiots, and they keep us in slavery to do their work, and we are forced to suffer! They have no reason.
Ellos tienan razón, I said. Ellos simplemente no saben cómo usarlo.
Tal vez tengas razón.
My master said the windmills were giants. Giants, he said, like the Cyclopes and the Hundred-Handed Ones. He also said that his inn was a castle. I have no idea what those things are, but those windmills did not have a hundred hands, and I cannot speak of a Cyclops, because I don’t know what one is. All I know is to believe in Christ, because my old master said that if I was not a good horse, I would never see the light or peace: meaning that I would suffer after I died, and I do not want to suffer any longer. I am suffering now, but only suffering in madness and deception.
***
I found out that straw is a hoax. I also found out some answers to my questions. While on our lofty adventures, the Don and the fat man happened upon a passing priest, who said an incantation and blessed us. He said, “Vanity of vanities! Vanity of vanities, all is vanity! What profit has a man from all his labor in which he toils under the sun?” I then said that man is too vain, that he makes no profit under the Sun because he does not work under the sun. However, the company only excused my remarks as “neighing.”
“Usted tiene un buen caballo hay,” said the priest, and he was off.
My legs hurt, my stomach is growling and he will not feed me. However, I have come to the conclusion that he is insane, and I am insane also. You see, I am insane because I believe myself to be real, when in reality, I am not. You think I am real when you read my adventures, but I am nothing more than the product of shear imagination. The Greeks also were insane, for they believed in gods that did not exist, believed that the Sun rode across the sky in a flaming chariot. My master believes that windmills are giants, that inns are castles, and other passing horses are fire-breathing dragons; he claims that washerwomen are beautiful dames, and farmers are evil knights. Whatever the case, I believe in the Christ, and I also believe my master does also, but he’s blind to the faith in his madness. The fat man, – who is Sancho Panza, meaning “false belly” – I am afraid, believes in the Christ, but we need humor in the light.
Straw is a hoax. It only exists because I think it exists. I eat it. I know it’s there. But no, says the Prophet, it is not there. Straw was out there as a means for the gods to sleep here on Earth, he said. However, there is only one God, that God being the Christ. It seems, rather, that everything in this world is a hoax, and everything in that world is real. Which is the truth? They say that you will not have the answers to your questions until you die. Therefore, as a rocín, I am to wander aimlessly through this life until the next comes. The Christ will decide my judgment, and there is a case that I could be resurrected in a new body. What will a new life bring? Maybe I will be resurrected as a caballo loco. No, I wish to become a philosopher. Yes, I wish to be a philosopher in a new life!
Straw is a hoax. Those words remind me of a poem my mother used to say to me:
The Master said,
“Remember who you are,
For life is short and weird;
The things that are not will never be
For the oceans rock with life
And the cradle endlessly rocks
In a world that is cruel and odd,
Insurmountable, cold, and insane.
Nothing will make sense,
Lest you shall be consumed,
UNLESS.”
I never knew what it meant. I just always kept it with me, even after she died. She said that it was good I had a soul, for she feared that I would be sold into slavery like my father. Unfortunately, this has happened. However, my mother would be proud, for I have become enlightened in my travels. Remember: straw is a hoax. I guess you already knew that. I suppose you already knew:—
The upheaval half-completed.
God is cold.
And,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
***
I am old, I am old. I grow weary and tired. So does the old man. We have been through a lot together. It seems, nonetheless, that I am to pass to the next realm. So it seems. Alas, I feel that my life has been insignificant. I am now in a field, lost and forgotten. It turns out that I ran away. No, maybe I think I ran away. Ever since Sancho and Rucio left for their little “island,” I have been alone. All alone, like before. I highly doubt it’s my fault, but I recollect that what has happened to me happened for a reason. After all, don’t we all have reason? I kind of regret this life, but—
A horse is a horse, of course!
Ah, but I feel as though I will get a second chance. I feel that I am not all that insignificant. In all matters of debate, I do serve a partial significance when I return through the words of Cide Hamete Benengeli, who wrote the immortal words of El Hidalgo, Sancho, Rucio, and I. For I— Rocínante—was his horse, and he could not travel without his horse; and, likewise, so a king cannot function without his horse. The horse serves as the primary vehicle by which things travel, even here in La Mancha, were the dreams of Alonso Quixano never die. Alas, for me, so goes the whirligig of time. I am, thenceforth, required to leave this world for a new one, and my final words on in this miserable life harkens to King Richard III of England:—
“A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”
Must we sacrifice our kingdoms just for a horse? Or, must the horse sacrifice itself for the sake of the kingdom? I am just a horse. I am not an intellectual. I am an old, cruel, blind, weak, weary, skinny, stubborn horse. Dead to life, dead to those who read of my adventures. Dead to all. I only exist because of my master. I am a lie. I am a hoax just like the straw. I apologize for ever existing. Blame Cide Hamete Benengeli. I am nothing more than a literary device. Therefore, as I see the light, I shall bid all thee adieu, until next time, when I hope to be resurrected to tell a very different tale from what exists now.
Great grandson of famed Babieca;
Because I was all skin and bone
They gave me to old Don Quixote,
I raced my quota like a sluggard,
Yet by a hoof’s breadth never missed my oats,
This trick I owe to Lazarillo,
When his blind master’s wine he stole,
That straw hoax I praised to the skies.
—Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
I am under the impression that nobody cares about me. I mean, I toil all day under the sun and nobody gives un condenhar that I am tired or hungry. All I am required to do is work. Now, I am trapped in a hell that I cannot escape from. In truth, I am suffering. They keep me in this stall, all alone with minimal food. I am forced to listen to the rain as it falls, to the crickets and their orchestras; and now, I suspect I am about to be sold, which is never a good thing. Sometimes I wonder why I even exist. I am old, tired, weak, and depressed. I cannot do my job any longer.
I am the only living thing in this dreaded stall. It smells of feces, and flies encircle my head. The tiny man that brings me food is an idiot. He never talks to me, never keeps me company. Instead, he is more concerned with chewing his own cud than he is making sure that I am well. I do see, occasionally, the kids come by and they talk to me. So I am not completely alone. Once, I met a kid who was very smart. He told me that there is a better life out there. He said that there used to be better days, days which he called “Hyperion Days,” or days when the Sun always shown, and where the common folk could have access to knowledge; but, he said, those days only existed in Hellena. Besides, he said, they believed in multiple gods, and that is a sin against Christ.
The man returned later that day and said that I was to be sold. I said that he would regret the decision, because I was the best worker he had. Of course, he did not hear me. He shouted something in his odd language, and an old man came to my stall. He was a lanky, scarecrow-like man with a scruffy beard.
“Es un buen caballo?” said the old man.
“¿Qué crees que soy un mentiroso? Por supuesto que es un buen caballo! Ha sido arar mi campo para siempre. Tiene mucho de la vida a la izquierda en él,” said my master.
“Puede recorrer largas distancias?”
“No se, Senor.”
“¿Es un buen caballo para un caballero?”
“Yu locos, Senor.”
The old man took me. We traveled a long distance until we reached a quiet village in the countryside. The man was odd. He wore a gray, metallic something. He spoke of going on adventures in search of some lady. He often spoke in odd language, very formal. However, he did feed me. I ate my oats and drank my water. He kept me in a cleaner stall next to his house. The people that walked by commented how skinny and frail I was. I did not care. All I wanted now was sleep. Perhaps, in the future, I will achieve knowledge. My new master has knowledge, but knowledge of a different kind. He knows things that I do not, and I suspect that he may not even be a man.
When the Sun rose (which the kid that I knew said the Greeks called “Helios”), my new master came to my stall. This time he had a weird hat on his head, and he remarked that he needed to give me a new name. He decided upon Rocínante. I knew, then, that something was wrong with his intelligence. The name has multiple meanings. For starters, rocín means “work-horse,” which I am (also “low-quality,” but I do not consider myself that). In our language, ante means “before” or “previously.” (It also means “in front of.”) Thus, my new name could be deciphered as “before, previously, or in front of a work or low-quality horse.” ¡Qué nombre! How could I have been previously a work-horse when I am one? I remember once when the master said that we all lived previous lives. So maybe I was a better horse in a better life before Rocínante came into being.
Now, my life has gained excitement, although I am still weary. It has been years since I have been in my stall. I have not eaten much. My master, who calls himself Don Quixote, or more appropriately, El Ingenioso Hidalgo, decided to attack windmills for no reason. His new “squire” (whatever that is) is named Sancho Panza, who rides a donkey named Rucio. Rucio and I are very good friends. Rucio said that he, too, was old and bored; but this, he remarked, was something that he would never expect to experience. Humans, he said, are idiots, and they keep us in slavery to do their work, and we are forced to suffer! They have no reason.
Ellos tienan razón, I said. Ellos simplemente no saben cómo usarlo.
Tal vez tengas razón.
My master said the windmills were giants. Giants, he said, like the Cyclopes and the Hundred-Handed Ones. He also said that his inn was a castle. I have no idea what those things are, but those windmills did not have a hundred hands, and I cannot speak of a Cyclops, because I don’t know what one is. All I know is to believe in Christ, because my old master said that if I was not a good horse, I would never see the light or peace: meaning that I would suffer after I died, and I do not want to suffer any longer. I am suffering now, but only suffering in madness and deception.
***
I found out that straw is a hoax. I also found out some answers to my questions. While on our lofty adventures, the Don and the fat man happened upon a passing priest, who said an incantation and blessed us. He said, “Vanity of vanities! Vanity of vanities, all is vanity! What profit has a man from all his labor in which he toils under the sun?” I then said that man is too vain, that he makes no profit under the Sun because he does not work under the sun. However, the company only excused my remarks as “neighing.”
“Usted tiene un buen caballo hay,” said the priest, and he was off.
My legs hurt, my stomach is growling and he will not feed me. However, I have come to the conclusion that he is insane, and I am insane also. You see, I am insane because I believe myself to be real, when in reality, I am not. You think I am real when you read my adventures, but I am nothing more than the product of shear imagination. The Greeks also were insane, for they believed in gods that did not exist, believed that the Sun rode across the sky in a flaming chariot. My master believes that windmills are giants, that inns are castles, and other passing horses are fire-breathing dragons; he claims that washerwomen are beautiful dames, and farmers are evil knights. Whatever the case, I believe in the Christ, and I also believe my master does also, but he’s blind to the faith in his madness. The fat man, – who is Sancho Panza, meaning “false belly” – I am afraid, believes in the Christ, but we need humor in the light.
Straw is a hoax. It only exists because I think it exists. I eat it. I know it’s there. But no, says the Prophet, it is not there. Straw was out there as a means for the gods to sleep here on Earth, he said. However, there is only one God, that God being the Christ. It seems, rather, that everything in this world is a hoax, and everything in that world is real. Which is the truth? They say that you will not have the answers to your questions until you die. Therefore, as a rocín, I am to wander aimlessly through this life until the next comes. The Christ will decide my judgment, and there is a case that I could be resurrected in a new body. What will a new life bring? Maybe I will be resurrected as a caballo loco. No, I wish to become a philosopher. Yes, I wish to be a philosopher in a new life!
Straw is a hoax. Those words remind me of a poem my mother used to say to me:
The Master said,
“Remember who you are,
For life is short and weird;
The things that are not will never be
For the oceans rock with life
And the cradle endlessly rocks
In a world that is cruel and odd,
Insurmountable, cold, and insane.
Nothing will make sense,
Lest you shall be consumed,
UNLESS.”
I never knew what it meant. I just always kept it with me, even after she died. She said that it was good I had a soul, for she feared that I would be sold into slavery like my father. Unfortunately, this has happened. However, my mother would be proud, for I have become enlightened in my travels. Remember: straw is a hoax. I guess you already knew that. I suppose you already knew:—
The upheaval half-completed.
God is cold.
And,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
***
I am old, I am old. I grow weary and tired. So does the old man. We have been through a lot together. It seems, nonetheless, that I am to pass to the next realm. So it seems. Alas, I feel that my life has been insignificant. I am now in a field, lost and forgotten. It turns out that I ran away. No, maybe I think I ran away. Ever since Sancho and Rucio left for their little “island,” I have been alone. All alone, like before. I highly doubt it’s my fault, but I recollect that what has happened to me happened for a reason. After all, don’t we all have reason? I kind of regret this life, but—
A horse is a horse, of course!
Ah, but I feel as though I will get a second chance. I feel that I am not all that insignificant. In all matters of debate, I do serve a partial significance when I return through the words of Cide Hamete Benengeli, who wrote the immortal words of El Hidalgo, Sancho, Rucio, and I. For I— Rocínante—was his horse, and he could not travel without his horse; and, likewise, so a king cannot function without his horse. The horse serves as the primary vehicle by which things travel, even here in La Mancha, were the dreams of Alonso Quixano never die. Alas, for me, so goes the whirligig of time. I am, thenceforth, required to leave this world for a new one, and my final words on in this miserable life harkens to King Richard III of England:—
“A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”
Must we sacrifice our kingdoms just for a horse? Or, must the horse sacrifice itself for the sake of the kingdom? I am just a horse. I am not an intellectual. I am an old, cruel, blind, weak, weary, skinny, stubborn horse. Dead to life, dead to those who read of my adventures. Dead to all. I only exist because of my master. I am a lie. I am a hoax just like the straw. I apologize for ever existing. Blame Cide Hamete Benengeli. I am nothing more than a literary device. Therefore, as I see the light, I shall bid all thee adieu, until next time, when I hope to be resurrected to tell a very different tale from what exists now.