by Augusto Cury
Calmly, the dreamseller said, “Yes, Bartholomew. We have no home, but we seek the best home of all. Remember our song.”
And once again he startled a crowd with his eccentricity. He interrupted his speech to sing his song, even making the gestures of a conductor. We joined in. During the first verse I was stiff. Honeymouth and Dimas went all out. We left the hilltops of reflection to revel in a relaxing waterfall of fun.
I’m just a wanderer
Who lost the fear of getting lost
I’m certain of my own imperfection
You may say I’m crazy
You may mock my ideas
It doesn’t matter!
What matters is I’m a wanderer
Who sells dreams to passersby
I’ve no compass or appointment book
I have nothing, yet I have everything
I’m just a wanderer
In search of myself.
Hearing that song, some of the listeners were completely stunned. They asked, “What kind of group is this? Where did they come from? Who’s this conductor? Could he be a speaker from some corporation in disguise as some sort of publicity stunt?” Others loosened up, followed the beat and began to sing with us. They lost their fear of getting lost, lost the fear of letting go, discovering for a few moments that they were not researchers, engineers or businessmen, just wanderers themselves. And still others moved away from the audience muttering, “That guy’s stark raving mad!” Whatever their reactions, it was impossible to remain indifferent to the dreamseller’s words. He penetrated the most intimate reaches of loneliness.
We looked around us and saw that several people were moved, especially two well-dressed female executives. Despite being surrounded by people, they felt crushingly alone. They were successful professionally, but they were unhappy with their lives.
Seeing the crowd become reflective, the dreamseller touched on another matter. He asked something apparently obvious: “Do people live longer today or in the past?”
One person, taking the initiative, answered, “Today, beyond the shadow of a doubt!”
But the dreamseller, looking at his disciples, particularly at me, turned to challenge the crowd: “No! We die younger today than in the past!”
Many jeered the dreamseller. I thought this time he had it all wrong. One scientist couldn’t resist. Laughing, he said confrontationally, “This is nonsense! Even the poorest student knows that average life expectancy has expanded because of new sanitation methods and vaccines.”
The dreamseller was no fool and knew what he was saying. Addressing the scientist, he replied:
“In Roman times the average life expectancy was barely forty years. In the Middle Ages, forty-five. Today we’re nearing eighty. But I’m referring to the average life of the mind. In our minds, we die earlier. Doesn’t it seem you went to sleep and woke up at your present age, ladies and gentlemen?”
And, raising his voice, he declared:
“Technology and science have their upsides. They have produced vaccines, antibiotics, water treatment plants and sewers, agricultural techniques, preservation of food, all of which have led to a longer average physical life. But the same system that has made us free has imprisoned our minds with its excesses. Do you understand me?”
We didn’t understand, at least not fully. He was often sparing with his words, speaking almost in code. We didn’t know what he meant by “excesses” of the system. To clarify, he once again did what he loved to do: He told a story.
“In 1928, the Scottish bacteriologist Alexander Fleming was analyzing a fearsome bacteria in his lab,” the dreamseller said. “Distracted, like any good scientist beset by an overload of activities, he left the door open when he went home. A fungus found its way into the Petri dish, producing a mold. What seemed to be a disaster generated a notable discovery: The mold killed the bacteria. From that discovery came the first antibiotic, penicillin. Millions of lives were saved. But penicillin came to be used excessively and indiscriminately. The result? A disaster. The excessive use of antibiotics has produced resistant bacteria which are now much more dangerous. Penicillin, one of medicine’s greatest gifts to humanity, stands accused today of creating so-called superbugs. By the same token, the system that expanded average physical life, through its excesses, is burying us mentally earlier than in the days of smallpox.”
Pausing to take a breath, he concluded his story:
“We live longer physically than in the past, but time seems to pass so much faster. The months rush by, the years fly by. Many are in the infancy of their mental development but look at themselves and discover their bodies are seventy or eighty. Nowadays, eighty-year-olds have the mentality of history’s twenty-year-olds. And what about all of you? What are the excesses that have damaged you?” he asked his listeners. They shouted out answers:
“Excess of commitments.”
“Excess of information.”
“Excess of social pressures . . . excess competition . . . goals . . . demands . . . the need to keep up.”
We were the society of excesses, even an excess of insanity.
Bartholomew wasn’t about to be left out. Fortunately, he was on target.
“Excess of drinking,” he said. And because he never let anyone have the upper hand, he looked at each of us and added, “Excess of ego, of crookedness, of religiousness.”
We pinched him playfully.
People were beginning to see how excess had invaded our lives. They needed to buy dreams. And the dreamseller wanted to sell them.
“How do we turn back this eccentric, stress-filled life?” asked a worried man of about sixty.
The dreamseller was direct and to the point:
“Cut out the excesses, even if it means losing money and status. If you don’t want to be old people complaining about your lost youth, you have to find the courage to make cuts. There are no cuts without pain.”
I started thinking, “Had the dreamseller found the courage to make such cuts in his own life, or was he one of those theorists who talk about something they haven’t experienced? Can a person without experience open up the mind of others?” He made me see that my own life was passing me by. I was mired in the quagmire of excess. Excess of classes, worries, thoughts, depression, complaints, debts. I had created “superbugs” that were infecting my mind.
Besides talking about cuts in lifestyle, he sold the art of observation that we did weekly. And he concluded his ideas by saying:
“Life passes quickly in this small interval of time. To live it slowly and meaningfully is the great challenge of mortal men.”
These words made me remember that in the past, the days sped by so rapidly that I didn’t notice. Now, with this uncommon family, my days stretched long and lavishly. We lived intensely.
Just as he was speaking, the dreamseller began to feel dizzy. The stress of the beating and the strain of the speech had drained him. We helped him down from the wall, and Solomon and Dimas took him by the arm and led him outside.
He left to warm applause and went to rest under the Europa Avenue Bridge across the street.
One man caught up to him just to say, “I’ve never heard so much craziness in one day. You’re a fraud!”
We turned purple with rage. But the dreamseller calmed us and responded: “I hope my ideas are those of a crazy man and yours are those of a sage.” And he walked away.
People were watching the dreamseller as he left.
“Maybe he wants to found a new society,” one said.
“How will I find the strength to make the necessary cuts in my excesses?” another told a friend.
Some wanted to go live in the countryside, grow orchids and raise animals. Others wanted to make a fresh start in society, change jobs or work as volunteers for children’s hospitals or cancer centers. They went home haunted but fueled by the dreamseller’s words. None of them slept well, understanding that each needed to lose the fear of getting lost. As it turned out, our teacher wasn’t onl
y a seller of dreams but also of insomnia.
As we were leaving the temple to electronics, a well-dressed woman, seeing the dreamseller’s weakened condition, approached him. We told her it wasn’t the right time, but the dreamseller ignored his dizziness and gave her his attention.
“My wonderful daughter Joana, six years old, has cancer,” she said, on the verge of tears. “When the doctors said she probably had only three months to live, my world collapsed. I wanted to die in her place. Worse, I can’t even stay at home. I’m here because when I look at her I drown in despair, and she’s so special that in those moments she tries to console me.”
We were stirred and, once again, ashamed of our insensitivity.
“My dear, I have no supernatural power to help little Joana. But I can say this: Three months lived badly pass like seconds, while three months lived fully are an eternity. Don’t bury your daughter in the tomb of your fear. Go home, discover her and let her discover you. Live intensely with her during the time she has left.”
The woman left encouraged, eager to make each minute a unique moment with her daughter. We didn’t know if it would help Joana live any longer. But we were certain that in those three months, they would live a richer life than most parents do with their children in a span of thirty years.
I thought about the job I had done as a father. And I felt like running to John Marcus and begging his forgiveness.
The White-Hot Spotlight
AS WE WERE HELPING THE DREAMSELLER TO A PLACE WHERE he could rest, Bartholomew separated from the group. A reporter wanted to write a story about us, in particular about our mysterious dreamseller and his intentions. Seeing that during his speech Bartholomew had asked a question, the reporter called him aside and asked for an interview. Bartholomew was excited, unaware he was entering dangerous territory.
The journalist wasted no time.
“Is it true that this man called you all to follow him, without promising money or offering the least bit of security?”
“Yes,” he replied simply.
“Is it true that you actually live under a bridge?”
“Not just one,” he answered. “We live under lots of bridges.”
“Why? Who are you all? Who do you follow?”
Not being able to give any precise answers, Bartholomew, without thinking much about it, said, “Us? We’re a group of artists.”
“Artists? Are you painters, sculptors, a theater group?” asked the journalist, thinking he was dealing with a bizarre group of performers.
Smiling, Honeymouth replied, “No, no, nothing like that. We practice the art of complicating life.” And he laughed that distinct laugh that could be heard fifty yards away.
The journalist thought he was being spoken down to. But my friend had been sincere and spontaneous. Then, trying to better explain his thought, he added:
“Throughout history, we’ve complicated life, but now we’re going through a complicated process of uncomplicating our lives. It isn’t easy, but we’ll get there.”
Honeymouth was enthusiastic because it was the first interview he’d ever given. He felt drawn—at least a little—to the white-hot glow of the spotlight.
“But who is this leader of your group? What does he do?” asked the curious reporter.
“I don’t know who he is. But I do know that he sells dreams,” Bartholomew said innocently.
“He sells dreams? How does that work? Isn’t the guy dangerous? Isn’t he crazy?”
The disciple looked all around and said:
“I don’t know if he’s crazy, but I know he says we’re all in a world of madness. And the chief wants to change the world,” he said, making the dreamseller’s goals seem fanciful. In reality, the dreamseller wanted to stimulate people to thirst and hunger for change, for only they could be responsible for their transformations.
Puzzled, the interviewer inquired:
“Wait, what? That raggedy character said that we live in a world of madness? And he wants to change the world? And you people believe him?”
“I don’t know if he’s gonna change the world,” Bartholomew said. “But he’s changing my world.”
“Are you anarchists?” the reporter said, changing directions.
Bartholomew knew nothing about the anarchist movement. He didn’t know that Pierre-Joseph Proudon, who inspired that movement in the nineteenth century, defended the idea of building a new society, one capable of expanding individual freedom and liberating the worker from the exploitation of big business. In that social order, constituted by organizing the workers, people would treat their fellow men fairly and develop their potential. Anarchists didn’t recognize the governments power, its laws or its institutions. They lived under their own governance. Without the intervention of the state, they thought, humans could live freely.
But the dreamseller disagreed with the central idea of anarchism. To him, without constitution and institutions, human beings could commit atrocities, trounce the rights of others, assassinate, extort, live only for themselves and display unrivaled savagery. Nor did he want to replay the hippie movement, which had emerged in the wake of America’s war in Vietnam. Young people’s frustration with the war generated disillusionment with institutions, and that had become the seed of a movement of peace and love, but one without social commitments.
The dreamseller’s plan to sell dreams, on the other hand, was replete with commitments to society, especially to human rights, freedom and mental health. That’s why he recommended to those who would follow him that they not abandon their activities in society. Only a few, maybe the weirdest, were called to his training.
Bartholomew didn’t know what to answer. He just scratched his head and replied with philosophical simplicity: “Look here, my friend, I don’t know if we’re anarchists or not. What I do know is that until a short time ago I didn’t know who I was.”
“And now you do?” the interviewer asked. But our friend tied his mind in more complex knots.
“Now? I know even less. I don’t know who I am or what I am, because what I used to think I was isn’t what I am at all. I still don’t understand who I am, but I’m searching to find myself. You understand?”
“No!” answered the reporter, completely confused.
“Thank goodness! I thought I was the only one who didn’t,” Bartholomew said. “Look, my friend, I only know that I used to live falling down drunk every day, but now I’m lifting others up.” And, staring at the journalist, he extended a friendly invitation: “Wouldn’t you like to be part of the group?”
“Not me! That’s crazy stuff,” the other man scoffed.
At that, Bartholomew countered, “Now, wait a minute. What do you know about being crazy? Being crazy is a beautiful thing!”
He playfully hopped up, spread his arms and began to dance and sing his favorite song in that unsteady voice: “I’m going to go crazy, too crazy . . .” The reporter left without saying good-bye, as Bartholomew sang on: “Oh, how I love this life!” He shook his hips and sang, “I’m going to go crazy, too, too crazy . . .” He was lost in the moment.
The journalist, before interviewing Bartholomew, had already mapped out his article. He merely needed to confirm some facts with Bartholomew. He had let prejudice guide him.
But Bartholomew was so euphoric with his first interview that he lost his way. He decided to celebrate the only way he knew how. He went to a bar and got wasted. It was his third relapse since he was called, except that the first two had been mild. This time he ended up passed out on the sidewalk.
We started to worry when he went missing. The dreamseller set us out to look for him. My friends and I said impatiently to each other, “Again? The guy’s hopeless.” After an hour, we found him, almost unconscious. We tried to lift him to his feet, but he could barely stand, and he just let his body dangle like deadweight. We each took an arm and lifted, while Dimas pushed from behind.
Bartholomew, his voice slurred, complained to Dimas, “Not so hard, bud. My
bumper’s a little temperamental . . .”
And he passed gas—often and loudly and noxiously, joking, “Sorry about the broken tailpipe, guys.”
We all felt like smacking him. I said to myself: “I left the world of ideas in the academy to listen to the ideas of a drunk. Unbelievable!” I had never loved my fellow man unless there was something in it for me. Now I was taking care of someone who, besides offering me nothing in return, drew me away from serious reflection and made fun of me. We had to carry him the last hundred feet to the bridge. The hardest part was putting up with his declaration of love for us:
“I love you, guys, I love you so, so, so, so much . . .”
“Shut up, Bartholomew!” sweating and exhausted, we said in chorus. But it was no use. Asking him to keep quiet just made him louder. Twice more on the way to the bridge he loved us. Maybe he was being sincere, maybe his affection was greater than ours. As soon as we got to the bridge, he tried to give us all kisses of gratitude. We dropped him on the ground like a sack of potatoes.
“Mis amigos, it’s a privilege for you to take me in your arms,” he said.
Impatiently, we complained to the dreamseller. “What this guy needs is Alcoholics Anonymous.” But without Bartholomew, there was no laughter in our group.
“Send him to a mental institution,” Dimas said.
“Master, how long do we have to put up with this?” the Miracle Worker asked.
