Korridorium

♫ Drifting Through Images ♫

2/398

I enter the Corridor of Fading Senses. It narrows and darkens as it recedes, yet the further I venture, the more vibrant and bright the images on the walls, floor, and ceiling become, and the more distinct the sounds that float meandering through the space, occasionally striking my third ear.

“Your Majesty. May I try to bring Nemo here? I have a very brilliant idea.”

Fascinated and awestruck, I observe the imagery and manifestations of my mind, listening to the inner musique concrète of my soul.

Unfortunately, despite years of training, I can only maintain a lingering spark of consciousness for a short while; a little later (much too quickly, always much too quickly), Hypnos takes me in his arms, and sleep embraces me.

♫ Los ratones bailan ♫

8/398

I enter the corridor. Small boards are nailed onto the doors on both sides, and someone has crudely carved words into them with a knife: I read “Gorge” on one, “Horn” on the second, “Cauldron” on the third, and “Cavity” on the fourth. The door at the end of the corridor also bears such a board. “The Chosen One” is written here, and a sudden tingling sensation of happiness spreads through me. Andreia! I had almost given up searching. A note is tucked under the board. I immediately recognize her elegantly scrawled handwriting. “Be right back,” with “right” crossed out and replaced by “eventually.” Never mind. I’ll wait. I’m sure she has a lovely view from her room.

♫ Vonlenska ♫

11/398

I enter the corridor and close the door behind me. I must overcome a thousand dangers before I can reach you. But now I’m safe. You have no television*, no radio, no telephone*. If I want to know the time, I have to check inside the games cabinet or behind the photo albums on the bookshelf. Even then, there’s no telling what time your clock shows.

You have all the time in the world for me, an almost perpetually good mood, comforting words from time to time, and occasionally really nice people visiting. I enjoy the quiet with you, and when my heart brims over, you are the most attentive listener.

Your tea is the most delicious; it must be because of you and your “Wupp.” (“Wupp” was what we called the goal in hide-and-seek and the safe zone in tag where I grew up.) And the sun always seems to shine in. Or the moon.

And yet—why, I wonder—I find myself drawn back to the streets, back to life. You may calmly accept it, but I can’t seem to understand myself anymore.

*that numbs
**that blares
** *that shrills

♫ Nomads of the Mind ♫

12/398

I enter the corridor. A cat is sleeping in a patch of sunlight on the windowsill. Old, time-darkened paintings on the walls depict bucolic scenes and fox hunts on horseback. I look for a good spot for my tripod to take pictures for my photo book titled “Corridors of the World—Places of Pause and Pivot.”

♫ Family Beast ♫

15/398

I enter the c… What fiend did this, balancing a water bucket high up that ajar gate?! Dares he trifle with me—the Beast—with such a silly prank? I shake my matted mane and thunder a deafening blast that rattles my palace’s hallways. I shall find ye! Let’s see if they’re acquainted with this labyrinth better than I, the man-eater.

♫ Foreshadows ♫

18/398

I enter the corridor. And, strangely, for some reason, the archetypal nature of the situation suddenly stands before my eyes—as if I were seeing myself and my circumstances from the outside:

I—the self-assured, reflective human being; the Cartesian, sovereign ego; feeling and acting separate from the world; thinking it through; proactive.

The act of entering—at once a birth process and a willful decision to move forward, for progress and development. Resonating here: the human thirst for knowledge, the craving for adventure, the insatiable curiosity, and the undaunted spirit of discovery that seeks to traverse new spaces and expand the reach of power and knowledge to the very limits of the doable and the thinkable.

The corridor—as birth canal, transit station, life path, and an opening into the possibilities of choice: doors branch off, leading to new spaces, new hallways, new rooms, new…

The vision that so unexpectedly and involuntarily overcame me breaks off. I am standing in a corridor. It is dusty, uninvitingly furnished, poorly ventilated, and dim. On a ledge, an overflowing ashtray. It reeks of stale smoke. Wrinkling my nose in disgust, I bolt.

♫ Inside the Temple of Braga ♫

22/398

“I enter the corridor just like everyone else,” said the Master to his visitor, who had asked how he might find his way through life.

“Are you, then, a seeker like me?” the visitor further inquired.

But the Master shook his head. “The path forks; there are many passages to choose from—long, short, straight, sharp-turning, leading up and down stairs—and most end in dead ends.”

“That is precisely the trouble,” the visitor lamented. “In this labyrinth, I cannot find my way.”

Once again, the Master shook his head. “Labyrinth? That would be a single, winding passage that leads to the center through many loops, but without any branches. What you are describing is a maze.”

The visitor hesitated. “And how, then, do I find my way through the maze?”

For a third time, the Master shook his head and repeated, “I enter the corridor just like everyone else.” Then he smiled. “But beneath my steps, the maze transforms into a labyrinth.”

♫ Smṛti ♫

23/398

I enter the corridor. But don’t assume that I just slip in and out quickly. No. I take my time. Initially, I make sure not to read any words, not even accidentally. Instead, I start the soundtrack and listen to it with half-closed eyes. Then, when I’ve developed a feel for the sounds, without evaluating or categorizing them, with a beginner’s mindset, so to speak, I dare to take a first look at the text—at the first words, the first sentence.

Is it the one I expect? Yes. The beginning is always the same. Nice. Carried by the accompanying music, I venture further down the corridor. Confident on one hand, but also a bit fearful because around every bend, an unnamed terror may lurk.

Yet, as in a dream, all misfortune will be mere imagination. Slowly and with delight, I feel my way forward, exploring cautiously. Most corridors are short, much too short. Sometimes, however, they continue within me, before my mind’s eye, in the rhythm of the accompanying music and the flow of my thoughts and feelings. The first step is always the same. But all the others…

The soundtrack fades away. I open my eyes. And step into life.

♫ Push’em Up! (Year of the Goat Mix) ♫

33/398

I enter the corridor that the set designers have constructed in plasticky bright colors on the game show stage, bathed in the hot glare of the spotlights. The studio audience holds its breath. But it’s always the same: one door hides a luxury limousine—the rest, a goat each. And as always, when I’ve made my choice, the game show host opens one of the other doors, and as always, there’s a goat behind it. Of course, whether I reconsider my choice or insist on it, just like always, I never manage to win the grand prize.

You know, I don’t want to bleat, but: What am I supposed to do with all these goats?

♫ New in the Area ♫

35/398

I enter the corridor. Once again. It’s almost as if I do it anew every day, stepping into the same corridor repeatedly: the one leading to the philosophy faculty. But is that even possible? No. It just seems that way. The self is no longer the one from yesterday, and even less so from last year. And although the corridor looks like the one I know and is very familiar to me—complete with the scuff marks left by the metal filing cabinets on the tiles when the secretary’s office moved, and including the stale smell from the time when smoking was still allowed here—it also cannot be the same one as yesterday.

The illusion is perfect. I could swear that I’ve already taken these exact steps here before, that these exact thoughts have crossed my mind. Even at gunpoint, I could not be forced to perceive all of this as new and unspoiled. Although: in a life-threatening situation or knowing that I am entering this corridor for the last time and will lose my life in a few moments, maybe then?

For, as the ancient saying goes, “One cannot step into the same corridor twice. Even the souls rise, as it were, from the corridors by exhalations.”