365 Years of Solitude, Sufferings and the Rise of the Creators by Benjamin Katz

Author:Benjamin Katz [Katz, Benjamin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781984574107
Publisher: Xlibris US
Published: 2018-12-27T05:00:00+00:00

Second Week

2245: Parts of the World Are Changing for the Better: A Report

Time is incomparable, more precious than money. Money you can waste without regret, but if you waste your lifetime, poor you as there is no consolation against such waste.

—Our Narrator/Creator

Spring turned slowly into the long hot, sun-sharp days of summer sung in by cicadas, shrill and excited, making the island where we had purchased some more land vibrate with their cries. In the fields, the maize was starting to fill out, the silken tassels turning from brown to butter blond; when one tore off the wrapping of leaves and bit into the rows of pearly seeds, the juice would spurt into his mouth like milk. On the vines, the grapes hung in tiny clusters, freckled and warm. The olive trees seemed weighed down by their fruit, smooth drops of green jade, among which the choirs of cicadas dwelled and sang. In the orange groves, among the dark and shiny leaves, the fruit was starting to glow orange red, spreading up the pitted green skins.

Up on the hills, among the dark cypress and heather, shoals of butterflies danced and twisted like windblown confetti, pausing now and then on a leaf to lay a salvo of eggs. The grasshoppers and locusts whirred like clockwork under his feet and flew across the heather, their wings shining in the sun. Among the myrtles, the mantis moved carefully, swaying slightly. They were lank and green with globular frosty-gold eyes with an expression of predatory intensity. The crooked arms, with their fringes of sharp teeth, would be raised slightly when a butterfly flew too close.

Toward the evening, when it grew cooler, the cicadas stopped singing, their place being taken by the green tree frogs glued damply to the lemon tree leaves down by the pond. With bulging eyes staring as though hypnotized, their backs as shiny as the leaves where they sat, they swelled out their vocal sacs and croaked harshly and with such enthusiasm and intensity.

2246: “Our World Is Slowly Recovering,” Notes the Narrator/Creator with Joy

In this summer when the moon was full, we took to bathing at night; for during the day, the sun was so fierce that the sea became too hot to be refreshing. To celebrate my girlfriend’s first entry into the sea, we decided to have a moonlight picnic down at the bay and sent an invitation to Theodore and his wife, who were the only strangers whom she would tolerate on such a great occasion as admitting our relationship. The day for the great immersion arrived, food and wine were prepared, the boat was cleaned out and filled with cushions, and everything was ready when Theodore and his wife turned up. We staggered down to the boat loaded down with food, wine, towels and set off down the coast.

As soon as the moon had risen, we would make our way down through the trees to the creaking wooden jetty and clamber into an old-fashioned rowing boat—Margot, his wife, and the consul on one oar and I on the other and in the bows to act as lookout for my Eva.

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