The Unspoken Condition of the Spirit
The sun felt good on his shoulders as he walked the open meadows of his home in Banyuls-sur-Mer at the foothills of the Pyrénées. His mind raced with thoughts that never seemed to end. Always examining, wondering, finding answers that were everywhere around him—obvious, despite the blurring dichotomy of the pseudo-intellectuals he had so avidly read throughout his life; who had sold their thoughts for profit rather than spiritual gain, having to come up with ever newer, fresher ideas to satisfy the constant hunger of the followers conscripted into their armies of hopelessness.
He felt he was being led into to a new manner of understanding. There were clues everywhere. In every work that he read: Camus, Mann, Hesse, André Gide. He felt the yearning for knowing something that he felt he should already know, and it bothered him. Every night he’d come to a conclusion, and every morning he’d awake needing to confirm it. But it eluded him. He felt lost, but he was not afraid. Perhaps one could best describe his emotional intellect in terms of the story of Christ on the Cross, who in his death throes cried out: “My God, why has thou forsaken me?” He could no longer turn back to the childlike innocence of his former beliefs, though he was a child regarding Understanding.
Riding these dizzying heights of reason, he exercised his mind in a way he had never thought possible. Drawing conclusions, revising beliefs, allowing himself the indulgence of a child who questions all things, viewing them anew. He had become a man full of so many thoughts and ideas, he could no longer contain them in the pockets of his shirt, so he carried a rucksack that held the different articles of his dreams—a pencil, notepad and whatever book he happened to be reading at the time. A piece of bread and cheese, and a flask of port.
Along the summer lanes he’d walk, with his Van Gogh straw hat and a wooden cane fashioned from a stick found laying in some forgotten field. A blade of straw between his teeth.
“I have tasted the spiritual eternity!” Raising his arms to a sky the blue of summer, trees bordering a meadow bleached by the dry season, the grass beneath his feet yellowed for harvest, he shouted to the wind, “This is pure God—pure understanding!” Ah, that unspoken condition of the spirit. The transformation of the mind to the astral planes of thought.
As he bent down to scoop a handful of brook he stopped to think. “There is nothing like drinking ice-cold water from a stream.” He touched a finger to his chin, “But where have all the ice-cold waters gone?”
Maybe he was looking too deeply beyond the edge of reason. Perhaps he was merely escaping into madness. But to me, Jorge Onslaught had reached the point of genius.