by Augusto Cury
The psychiatrist, though he had been called a poet of existence, didn’t like being called out by some shabbily dressed stranger with no credentials. He didn’t seem happy at all that I no longer wanted to commit suicide. Damn his envy! I wanted to make him see that he was missing the bigger picture. But then again, I’d done the same thing inside the sacred temple of my classroom.
Then, the dreamseller placed a hand on the shoulder of the young fire chief and told him, “Thank you, son, for the risks you have taken to save people you don’t know. You are a dreamseller.”
The dreamseller turned and headed toward the elevator, and I followed him. The psychiatrist turned to the police chief to speak just as the dreamseller turned around to say something himself, and, amazingly, they said the same thing:
“Crazy people understand each other.”
The psychiatrist turned red. He must have asked himself, as I did, “How could they have been thinking the same thing?”
The dreamseller saw there was time for one final and unforgettable lesson at the top of that building. He told the psychiatrist, “Some people’s craziness is obvious. For others, it’s hidden. Which type is yours?”
“Not me, I’m normal!” the psychiatrist snapped.
“Well, mine is visible,” the dreamseller said.
He then turned his back and began to walk, his hands on my shoulders. After three steps, he looked toward the sky and said, “God save me from ‘normal’ people!”
Exorcising the Demons
WE RODE DOWN THE ELEVATOR SILENTLY. I WAS LOST IN thought, the dreamseller calmly whistling and staring ahead. We passed through the immense lobby, richly decorated with chandeliers, antique furniture and an enormous reception desk of dark mahogany. Only then did I realize their beauty. Before, my world was colored by my own dark emotions.
Outside, the lights shone brightly, lighting the crowd that was anxiously awaiting news from the top of the building. News that I would do my best not to provide. Truth be told, I wanted to hide, forget the commotion, turn the page and not think about my pain for a second longer. I was ashamed and shrank from the attention. But I couldn’t teleport myself out of there. I had to face the stares of my audience. For a brief moment I was angry with myself. I thought, “There were other ways I could have faced my demons. Why didn’t I choose one of them?” But pain blinds us, and frustration clouds our thinking.
When we left the San Pablo Building and broke through the police tape, I wanted to cover my face and leave quickly, but the huge crowd made it impossible; there was no room to run. The media wanted information. I made my way through this Trail of Tears, eyes downcast.
The dreamseller kept my secret. No one knew what had really happened atop the building; the rich exchange I had with that mystery man remained lodged in my head alone.
As we escaped the media and began walking among the crowd, I was startled. We were treated like celebrities. I was famous, but not in the way I had hoped.
To the dreamseller, society’s obsession with worshipping celebrities was the clearest sign that we were losing our minds. As we walked, he asked aloud:
“After all, who deserves more applause, an unknown garbageman or a Hollywood actor? Whose mind is more complex? Whose story is more complex? There is no difference. But ‘normals’ think this heresy.”
As the crowd kept prodding to know what had happened on top of the building, the dreamseller, seeing me withdraw, changed the topic. Instead of trying to discreetly shift the focus, he raised his arms calling for silence, which came only after a prolonged moment.
I thought: “Here comes another speech.” But the dreamseller was more eccentric than I imagined. He asked everyone to form a large circle, which was difficult given the tightly packed crowd. And to everyone’s surprise, he went to the center and began dancing an Irish jig. He crouched, kicking his legs into the air and sang euphorically.
I couldn’t stop thinking: “An intellectual wouldn’t act like this, and even if he felt the inspiration, he wouldn’t have the courage to do it.” Damn my prejudice. A little while ago, I had almost killed myself, but prejudice was still alive and well. I was a “normal” in disguise.
No one really understood the dreamseller’s actions, least of all me, but some started to join in. They couldn’t believe that just a few minutes ago they had nearly witnessed a tragedy, and now they were dancing with joy. Joy is contagious, and they had been infected with the dreamseller’s euphoria.
The circle widened. Those who knew the dance or those who risked dancing it without knowing the steps began hooking arms and whirling in circles. Those at the edge of the circle eventually got into the spirit and started clapping to the rhythm. But many remained farther away, among them several well-dressed executives. They didn’t want to be anywhere near that band of maniacs. Like me, they preferred to hide their madness.
People kept jumping in and out of the circle to show off their dance skills, each one leaving to wild applause. I felt just fine on the outside of the circle, protected. But suddenly the dreamseller grabbed my arms and thrust me into the center of the circle.
I was embarrassed and just stood there. The others went on dancing around me and urging me on, but I was paralyzed. A few minutes earlier I was the center of attention, and now I just hoped no one would recognize me—certainly not a colleague or student from the university. I didn’t fear death, but I was deathly afraid of being embarrassed. God, I was sicker than I thought.
I was usually discreet, reserved and spoke in measured tones, at least when I wasn’t annoyed. I never showed joy in public. I was infected with the virus of most intellectuals: a stiff formality. The crowd waited for me to let loose, but I was paralyzed by my shyness. Suddenly, another surprise. The penniless drunk, Bartholomew, hooked his arm in mine and spun me into a dance.
The man had awful breath and, still drunk, he could barely stay on his feet, much less dance. I had to hold him up. Seeing how stiff I was, he stopped dancing, looked at me—and planted a kiss on my left cheek. “Lighten up, man. The leader of the E.T.s saved you. This party’s for you!”
My pridefulness took a direct hit. Seldom had I seen or heard so much liveliness and spontaneity in so few words. And I started to understand. I thought of the parable of Jesus Christ and the lost sheep. I had read it once, years ago, through the eyes of a scientist and thought it ridiculous to abandon ninety-nine sheep to go looking for a lost one. Socialists sacrificed millions of people for an ideal, but Christ took it a step further. He was wild with grief at losing one soul, and wild with joy when he found it.
I had criticized how Christ romanticized that moment, but now the dreamseller was showing the same joy. Only after the loopy drunk kissed me did I realize the dreamseller was celebrating for me. The drunk was more sober than I was. I was thunderstruck; I had never thought it possible for a stranger to place so much importance on someone he didn’t know. I was lost then found, “dead” then brought back to life. What more could I want? Shouldn’t I celebrate, too? I tossed aside my status as an “intellectual.”
I was “normal,” and like many normals my madness was hidden, disguised; I needed to be spontaneous. I let go. The dreamseller had emphasized that the heart needs no reason to beat. The greatest reason for staying alive is life itself. At the university, I had forgotten that the great philosophers often discussed the meaning of life, the pursuit of happiness and the art of beauty. It was the first time I had ever danced without a head full of whiskey. It had been years since I’d felt this good.
The “normals” were so starved for joy that when this dreamseller gave them permission, they frolicked like children. Everyone was dancing. Men in ties. Women in long dresses and miniskirts. Children and teenagers joined in.
A little old lady danced by with her cane. It was the same woman Bartholomew had fallen on. Her name was Jurema. She had lived eighty good years. Anyone who thought she should be hobbling around at her age was in for a surprise. She was in better shape than me, tho
ugh she showed a slight shiver of Parkinson’s. But she could dance like a star. The dreamseller liked her immediately. They danced together, and I rubbed my eyes to see if it was all real.
Suddenly, she broke loose from the dreamseller’s arms and bumped into Bartholomew at the center of the circle. She tapped him on the head with her cane, and joked sweetly, “You pervert.” I couldn’t hold back. I rolled on the ground with laughter. She did what I’d have liked to do when he gave me that smelly kiss on the cheek.
The dreamseller turned to the old woman and said, “You’re a thing of beauty.” Then, taking her by the waist, he spun her around and she danced like a twenty-year-old.
For a moment, I thought the dreamseller had been patronizing here. But then I thought, “Who’s to say she isn’t beautiful? What does it really mean to be beautiful, anyway?” Just then, Bartholomew sidled up to the woman and started pouring on the flattery: “Yes, beautiful! Wonderful! Delightful! Marvelous!”
Then the old woman whacked him with the cane.
“You hopeless pervert! Cheap Don Juan!” she said, feigning anger. Bartholomew ran for cover before he saw she was joking. Her heart melted. It had been fifty years since anyone had called her beautiful or anything of the sort. She took the dizzy drunk by the arms and danced with him, happy as could be. I was in awe. I had known the power of criticism but was new to the power of praise. Could it be that those who use that power could live longer and better lives? My head was spinning. I had never witnessed so much craziness in a single day.
During this short time, the dreamseller had taught me that small gestures can have more impact than great speeches, that our actions and moments of silence can be more effective than all the world’s PowerPoint presentations. I knew he had a great many secrets. But I didn’t dare ask, worried that he’d again strip me bare with his Socratic method. He had become an expert in making life a celebration, even when there were ample reasons to weep with sorrow.
He would always tell us, “Those who can laugh at their foolishness have found their fountain of youth.”
I detested fools who gave simple answers, but deep down, wasn’t I a fool myself? I had so much to learn about laughing at myself. I had so much to learn about simplifying my life—an unknown art in any university.
How many students had I sent to commencement without teaching them to look at themselves, to detect their own stupidity, to let go, to cry and to love, to take risks and escape the prison of routine? And to dream. I was the most feared of professors. I drowned my students in criticism, but had never taught them to enjoy life. But how could I? No one can teach what he doesn’t know himself. My life, to this point, had been worthless.
I was proud of being just and honest, but I realized I had failed to be just and honest with myself. Fortunately, I was beginning to learn how to exorcise the demons that had made me into an unbearable human being.
Strengthened by Challenges
AFTER TWENTY MINUTES DANCING AT THE BASE OF THE SAN Pablo Building, the dreamseller again asked for silence. The euphoric crowd eventually calmed down. To our surprise, he recited a poem aloud, as if he were on a mountain top:
Many dance on the ground,
But not on the path to self-knowledge.
They are gods who do not recognize their limits.
How can they find themselves if they’ve never been lost?
How can they be human if they’ve never known their own humanity?
Who are you? Yes, tell me, who are you?
The people stared, wide-eyed. After their street fair, the emcee was now asking them whether they were human or divine. Several men in suits, particularly those who hadn’t danced and were ready to criticize, were stunned. Every day they were fixated on the exchange rate of the dollar, the stock market index, management techniques, fancy cars and luxurious hotels, but none had traveled the path to self-knowledge.
They led bored, empty lives, clouded in tranquilizers. They would not let themselves be human first. They were gods who died a little every day, gods who denied the internal conflicts that made them human.
Seeing the crowd fall silent, he continued:
“Without thinking in depth about life, they will forever live superficially. They will never perceive that existence is like the sunlight that comes with the dawn and will inevitably disappear with the sunset.” Some applauded without understanding or realizing that their nightfall was fast approaching.
Moments later, to my surprise, he went around greeting people, asking, “Who are you? What’s your great dream?”
Many were confused at first. They didn’t know how to answer who they were or what their great dream was. Some, more uninhibited and open, said, “I don’t have any dreams. My life is shit.” Others said, “I’m swamped with debt. How can I dream?” and still others stated, “My work is an endless source of stress. My whole body aches. All I ever do is work.” I was impressed with the responses. I realized that the audience watching me on the ledge wasn’t that far removed from my own misery. The audience and actor were living the same play.
The dreamseller had no magical solutions for them. What he wanted was for them to rethink their lives. Seeing their desperation, he called out:
“Without dreams, whatever beast it is that chases us, whether in our minds or in society, will eventually catch us. The fundamental purpose of dreams isn’t success but to free us from conformity.”
An obese young woman, five-foot-ten and weighing nearly three hundred pounds, was moved by these words. She felt doomed to a life of rejection and unhappiness. She had been taking antidepressants for years. She was negative and overly self-critical. She always put herself down in the presence of other women. She approached the dreamseller and gathered the courage to open up in a voice that only some of us could hear.
“I’m so deeply sad and lonely. Can someone who’s unattractive be loved one day? Can someone who’s never even been asked out have a chance of finding true love?” She dreamed of being kissed, held, loved, admired, but you could see she had been ridiculed, rejected, called names. Her self-esteem, like mine, had been killed in childhood.
Bartholomew, reeking of alcohol, called out:
“Sexy! Beautiful! If you’re looking for your prince, you’ve found him. Wanna go out with me?” And he spread his arms. I had to hold him to keep him from falling over. She smiled, but the advances of a shameless drunk were not what she had in mind.
The dreamseller looked into her eyes. Moved, he answered:
“It is possible to find true love. But even with true love at your side, you can never be happy if you cannot learn to love yourself.” And he told her: “Still, to find true love, you must stop being a slave.”
“A slave to what?” she asked, surprised.
“To society’s standards for beauty,” he answered.
Some of those listening were encouraged by his words and commented that they dreamed about overcoming their shyness, loneliness, fears. Others yearned to make friends or change jobs because the money they made was never enough to pay their bills. Others said they dreamed of going to college but lacked the resources to do so.
They were hoping for a miracle, but the dreamseller was a vendor of ideas, a merchant of knowledge. Knowledge was better than gold and silver, more enchanting than diamonds and pearls. That’s why he didn’t endorse success for its own sake. To him, there were no paths without obstacles, no seas without storms. Looking people in the eye, he said with certainty:
“If your dreams are desires and not plans for living, you will surely take your problems to the grave. Dreams without plans produce frustrated people, servants of the system.”
He fell silent and let us reflect on his words. In a world consumed with wants, no one plans to have friends, no one plans to be tolerant, to conquer phobias, to have a great love.
“If chance is our god and accidents our demons, we will be as children,” he said finally.
I was startled to look around me and realize how society
had damaged all of us. Quite a few people consumed a lot but were like robots, living without purpose, without meaning, without goals. They were experts at following orders and not at thinking. I asked myself, as an educator, “Had I trained servants or leaders at the university? Robots or thinkers?” But before answering these questions, I started to feel uneasy about my own situation. I wondered, “Does being critical free me of servitude?” I knew it didn’t. I was a servant to my negativity, to my false independence. Unless I changed, I would take my troubles to my grave.
“Victory without risk is a dream without value. Our defeats, our challenges help nurture our dreams.”
In studying the history of the wealth of nations, I understood the sociological meaning of this latest thought. Many who received inheritances without working for their success could not value their parents’ struggles. They squandered their family fortunes as if the money were unlimited. Inheritance bred empty, superficial lives. They were people who lived for the moment, trying to suck the maximum pleasure from the present with no regard for the future.
While I criticized people for not being masters of their own destinies, I suddenly realized I was no different from them. I didn’t understand why such simple thoughts were so true. I dreamed of being a happy person but became miserable. I dreamed of living a better life than my father but replicated what I most despised in him. I dreamed of being more sociable than my mother but inherited her bitterness.
I hadn’t learned what my struggles had to teach about reaching my dreams. I hadn’t dared reach for my dreams if it ever meant risking my reputation, my so-called brilliant academic career. I was barren inside and gave birth to no new ideas. I forgot that great thinkers were also risk-takers. They were called lunatics and heretics, and often became the subject of public scorn.
