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Flight of the Eagle

Updated on November 7, 2014

I remember reading a book

in my youth called Flight of the Eagle which convinced me to abandon my career in psychology in favour of deepening my studies in a kind of poetry of the mind.

And in this project I was not alone, I was accompanied by one friend who did something in the same key. I believe my motivation in this project was to achieve not a job in philosophy (which I held only for a short while, but a radical freedom which paradoxically has been defined not so much as a freedom from constraints but as an equal obligation to convert the obvious shackles of life into a life-line that keeps a great traveller alive....

My friend on the other hand was even more ambitious: he desired immortality. And I would have believed that he had achieved it, were it not for a bizarre occurrence one day (as if anything was normal in our life-time relationship) in which — I believe he yawned, upon which his timeless wrinkleless face at age 50 metamorphosed into an old haggardly trollish image, but for an instant before returning to its pristine perfection...

As if confessing, that he was Dorian Grey in the flesh (keeping his age hidden in his heart while his face remained eternally unblemished)

Of course, in the game of life that we had inherited from gods and ancestors we were also rivals as much as friends, how could it be otherwise? Who, but Olympians would aspire to immortality and a freedom so radical that only a return to biological (not empirical) virginity could satisfy it...

He was Zeus and I Apollo, and only we knew it. We even knew which chapter from the history of literature we had been exiled...Yes, you guessed it: The Count of Monte Christo; a relationship described by literature but vehiculed by intuition or at least a mind as much inspired by precognition and post-tramatic prophecy...

Nothing was beyond reach...returning to antiquity, replicating the super human powers of yoga and kung fu, inventing new languages, speaking in tongues, night journeys through worlds that were neither dream, nor fiction nor fact...

If only one fact were constant, it was that everything was Mind, and only on occasion did we descend for a brief pit stop here on earth to refuel, sometimes in Chinatown sometimes in Greektown (our foreign world languages) during which we discussed money and sex...confessing to our mortality, which did us good I think!

Portrait of Dorian Grey, film
Portrait of Dorian Grey, film | Source

And of course, everyone was our enemy.

How could it be otherwise, who would befriend two gods who refused to die? Who would befriend two earth men from Eden who re-named the world ex-nuovo? Which woman could understand a man who thought he was made of light, as if he arrived exuent from a chapter of an epistle to the Romans from a wayward Apostle buried in the dessert? Which woman would re-incarnate from a death by stoning and a burial by dismemberment to accompany such a man through images of Paris and Rome and Lisbon?...

And in this, the two time-travellers were heroes in their own minds which circumvented the whole of time and beyond, beyond the trash-heap of Jung, and beyond the haloes of Neo-Christians who carried on from the lives of the Philosophers without any reserve, nor disdain, nor loss of dignity...

But all of this was hidden from view. Only a few bystanders were privy to the drama in those Chinese restos and Greek tavernas where their conversations took place in the center of concentric circles of silence and evesdropping...

Lisbon
Lisbon | Source

Did they have

a psychopomp? Was it Virgil? Or was it Diotima? Did the first friend re-incarnate in the West or did the second friend re-incarnate in the East, and would their meeting be defined by a warping of time and space that confused place and epoch? Nobody knows, these queries from metaphysics stuffed with poetry... But it would be a safe bet to conjecture that these two decoded all the mysteries and then disappeared into thin air leaving behind — perhaps progeny — perhaps a book or two — perhaps memories in the minds of the two women who really loved them but for a brief moment and then missed them...Informed gossip, now circulating suggests, that in their deep old age — Zeus was 100, Apollo was 93 they met again after 20 years in a posh ballroom (like old days) in Vienna and were recognised as Goethe and Schiller during which the vibrant party that Saturday evening came to silence in deference to their conversation...A little book survives recording the proceedings named Black Numbers in White Wholes.

Goethe and Schiller monument in Germany
Goethe and Schiller monument in Germany | Source

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