I Promise I Will Never Change

 

This fictional story is a culmination of anecdotes, snippets of conversations, discussions, and more “formal” interviews that we had over the years. They were anything but fictional. Still, there’s a fair amount of creative embellishment going on; but not too much. I do not apologise for that—he wouldn’t want me to. It was (and is) meant as an ode to his quirky awkward brave brilliance, his inspiring and yet often infuriatingly revolutionary ways. It was written in 2018 and has been edited and tweaked for the April issue of HLT, 2025
Bink Venery: neverbyink@teachers.org

 

I Promise I Will Never Change
Bink Venery and Mario Rinvolucri

 

I only met him once, and even that brief encounter proved to be enough. It was back in the days when I actually cared about furthering my career and was overly keen to try and impress. I would go to conferences, do workshops, and get as many certificates for as many different specialised courses as was humanely possible. What money I had left—after the compulsory and sordid social life I apparently needed—all went on these courses. I guess you could say that I was slightly obsessive about such things in those hazy wild days. It was back then—in those blissfully naive years in Mongolia—that I finally got to meet this almost mythical figure of a man. And, although I didn’t know it at the time, it changed me forever.
    I'd heard that there were some exciting new creative methodology courses starting at the International School—a stone’s throw from mine really; I was staying at some flats just off Narnii Rd. It was probably a twenty-minute walk to the school, if I did it quickly, so I'd have no issues getting there. My close friend Ganbold had told me about the course. A stalwart, solid Mongolian lad who was as intellectually vigorous as he was stout physically; he was also some sort of guardian angel too—although, the idiot that I am, I didn't realise that then. He studied at the school, and he told me he could get me in for free as his guest on a creative writing course with an international guest speaker. Seeing as times were pretty tough back then, and I've never been one of those to look a gift-horse in the mouth—and what with me suffering from an often-crippling impostor syndrome—there was no way I was going to let such an opportunity slip by. The idea of obtaining yet another CV-boosting, résumé-enriching certificate like that was simply irresistible. You know, fake it till you make it kind of thing, I suppose.
    I was lucky to have had quite flexible hours for my normal studies which I managed to juggle with my part-time job at the local shopping centre—which was also just a short walk from the flat in the Chrystall Town area nearby. Ah, to have the same luck today as I had back then.
   
    The two-week creative writing course was simply amazing. I'd never done one that was so rich and rewarding. It was so full of humanistic principles, empathy—all of which resonated deeply with me at the time. However blind and foolish I’d been back then, it was still special—still something I could appreciate. Perhaps this was because I was so head over heels, so besotted, at the time. Can’t say for sure. Were the chemicals of love turning everything into rose-tinted beauty? I don't know. Or maybe it was just the right time for me and such magical things. Or, Heaven only knows, it might have been that I was finally becoming mature enough to appreciate such concepts. Maybe I was finally letting go of my selfishness, my solipsistic myopia. Although, on second thoughts, who the Hell am I trying to kid here?
    It was on that course that I got to finally meet this legendary course trainer. He was a prominent teacher trainer from the UK, but had the most peculiar Italian, or perhaps Argentinian surname. Thanks to my crumbling memory, a life of general abuse and delinquency—and a large dose of denial, that name has sadly flown out of the window now. Something along the lines of “Mr Revolutionary” I think we called him—but it definitely wasn’t that. My damned memory.
    He really was quite revolutionary though. Thankfully, it was much harder to forget his mannerisms and idiosyncrasies that were simply captivating and mind-boggling. The same could be said, of course, for his prowess in managing the class and his deftness in harbouring and nurturing such a safe and warm place for learning and sharing. It was like he possessed some ancient forgotten magic or something, an elixir now forbidden. Fact is, regardless of the topsy-turvy nature of things for me back then, I really believe I was at my happiest on that course. I have rarely experienced such an intense, vibrant non-threatening and engaging learning environment—and undoubtedly never one like that beforehand. I remember how jealous my partner Enkhjargal had been at the time too, which I was quite happy about as I recall. But I think we’ll skip the insanity of that particular story today. With hindsight, I regret not making her suffer a little more about the whole thing if I’m totally honest. But that really is a story for another day. And this is not that day.

    It was quite impossible to forget his features too—as gloriously unique as anyone else's are. Yet the enchantments that he wielded there transformed him into an attractively disturbing caricature of himself. His face, his glorious beard, his gestures, and his voice turned into healing tools that caressed the soul as they caressed the mind. His eyes would flash around the room as he recalled things, imagined and digested everything that happened—even the tiniest trait or detail would be gobbled up by his keen and insatiable brain. And those eyebrows. My God, they were stunning. They would surf and bounce upon his brow as if they were cheery waterproof caterpillars at Playa Grande in Costa Rica, or some other sordid place. It was impossible to not admire him as he carefully gauged and tuned in to the personalities, stories, and experiences that surrounded him and that swarmed all around him there—almost as if we were the ones teaching him. It often felt as if we were feeding him instead of what we thought was actually happening on that course. Such was his allure; his spellbinding gifts and bewitching ways all made you wonder at what manner of man we had before us. Could a man that perfect, that learned, not harbour dark secrets or be broken and defective like the rest of us seemed to be—like the rest of us pretend not to be?
    After a short break towards the end of the first day of the course, we all returned to the class to find a small pile of books unceremoniously placed slap-bang in the middle of the room. Some beautifully bound cloth hardbacks laid together with cheap dog-eared paperbacks, and yet, they all held our attention equally. Our curiosity was piqued as he revealed that they were for us to borrow if we wanted. No obligation, no pressure, of course. But for those that wanted to, we could help ourselves—as long as they were back by the end of the week, he said; eyes sparkling bright with impish mischief.
    I remember the good-natured vibe in the room drop sharply as some of the sharks rushed in for the kill. Scooping up what they believed to be the best books simply by being first there; elbowing their way to the fresh pickings. I watched him watching them. Personally, my philosophy was probably weak in comparison, and basically consisted of not really caring too much at first about getting a book to take home. So I just waited till everyone had finished—all the while watching him watching us. He noticed my reticence and nodded his head towards the books, inviting me to take one. Gingerly, I picked up one of the last ones—not wanting to upset him. It was as if I were the ousted hyena having to take whatever dregs all the other hierarchical waves of animals had left behind, after having had their fill—having displayed their strength. Perhaps those that come last can indeed also be first, as my father used to say to me—for whatever that meant. There was no way I was going to choose anything other than the green hardback that almost seemed to be carefully hiding under the remaining few books. Successfully avoiding the remaining predators, I felt its pull. I knew that that was the one for me. And yet, as it turned out, it wasn’t.
    The slightly worn green cloth cover had a thin dusty sheen to it as I cradled it respectfully in my left palm (it reminded me of the sort of book I would have picked up in a second-hand shop). Its pages were slender yet good quality and had probably turned that wonderful shade of dull yellow so many years ago in faraway places. I let them flutter softly under the inquisitive thumb of my right hand. This released a light mist of dust that swirled around me like tiny effervescent diamonds as they danced in the light of the room. I felt the dust on my forearm, then my cheeks, and finally the faint tickles on my nose; just one more thing that I have always loved about old books to this very day. I guess we could say that this is one thing I haven’t forgotten—I haven’t lost. Not yet anyway.
    It was then, with a heart-fluttering excitement, that I noticed the secrets hidden within its rigid cover. Every couple of pages or so, there were extensively penned notes scribbled snugly along margins. Tiny monologues running perfectly between gaps in paragraphs like molten metal poured into abandoned ants’ nests. There were also bold blocks of text claiming the right to exist on the header and footer of those pages like they were stabilizing the surrounding doodles, anchoring them indelibly to the page. These were not the sporadic ramblings of a lunatic, or the random squiggles of children—of that I was convinced. It only took a moment to realise that these were thoughtful reflections, random thoughts and feelings—much like fragments copied from a diary. They were also elegantly positioned with a careful artistic eye. The notetaker had clearly respected the typographer's craft, respected the text, and never once overlapped it (like I always carelessly and rashly do). These notes abounded throughout the book, and there were hardly any pages that had not been annotated. But those unadorned, unloved pages interested me little. It was the inky inscriptions and their purposeful respect that caught my eye—caught my mind that day. Lines joined streaming ideas to thoughts encased in purposeful rhomboids, allowing me to trace through the notes and decipher—to some extent—their chronological flow. They teased me to unlock the insights of the notetaker, to journey asynchronously with that previously impassioned reader who had taken the time to patiently inscribe his or her thoughts; their reflective musings made naked and manifest. Feelings and observations written in a once present moment that had become a forever frozen snippet of the past, and that was now being read about in its own unimaginable future. The stuff of pure glory. It was a masterpiece, and I loved everything about it. But who was this mysterious note-maker, I wondered? What would such a margin scribbler be like? Could this filler of spaces be just like one of us? Could it be him? Would he leave such rambling insights from a past version of himself to the likes of us? Why? What for?
    It didn't take all that long to figure out that the inspiring trainer was, indeed, the author and architect of those gloriously revealing notes and doodles. My heart, once again, skipped a little as it dawned on me that this was one of his personal books—a sacred remnant from his past development. Although, if I’d been less of a prick and a little more attentive, I’d’ve noticed straightaway the similar haphazard handwriting sprawled all over his joyously schizophrenic board work on our course. The evidence was clearly right there in front of me and, as always, I’d arrived late to the party—nearly missing it. I got there in the end, for better or worse.
    All written and illustrated by hand, these artistically scrawled thoughts seemed to have a life of their own to me, seemed sacred in some ways too—forbidden even. This just made them even more alluring. In the religiously chosen black or blue ink, they seemed to wriggle and twist anarchically upon the pages at times. A chaos within the order; specks of madness peppering the discipline, it would seem. Although how this person—him (it must have been him)—how he had resisted the temptation to write a witty remark to that future inquirer, I will never know. There was nothing like that. Or was he just too serious for that childish stuff? Maybe he thought no one would ever read these notes? Maybe he thought they were useless, expired, the moment they were jotted down. Once the thought had been expressed, consumed, and synaptically rooted, it was no longer of any consequence to him—and he would have been right, of course. An efficient anti-clutter technique that he had developed, no doubt. I would expect nothing less of him, to be honest. Just the easy stuff of geniuses that we all strive to understand, but can only observe from afar, I guess. I had so many questions.
    Ever since that course, I have made it a habit to carefully create my own still rather messy notes—as a kind of vague homage to him. And yet, unlike him, I have also left silly comments too, in the hope that one day someone will smile about them—that some future reader might enjoy the connection. Yes, even if that meant the tenuous and fleeting connection from a past ghost that no one needs or would even want to remember. Thing is, it doesn't matter if it never happens. It's the probability of it happening that gives me my simple joy. My pointless megalomaniacal joy.
    He was clearly not interested in such ridiculous self-absorption. I remember feeling a little disappointed when he waved away my questions about those notes, calling them “forgotten nonsense” and “blissfully ignorant past delusions”—words to that effect anyway. He was not living his life as if it were a story that someone would one day pick up, scrutinise, or even romanticise about as if it were important; or as if it would ever really matter to someone somewhere further down the line. But, ultimately, I suppose it did in many ways. Notwithstanding his apparent indifference, I was enthralled by these time travelling annotations and studied them all very carefully.   
    In fact, I didn't even read the actual book—I didn't need to at all. I still have no clear idea what it was about (something about drama or psychodrama in the language classroom, or something along those lines anyway). The notes were just too intriguing, too special to care about the actual book contents. Truth is, even though I put those notes under scrutiny and savoured them knowing that I was to be in their company only for a few precious days—and as absurd as it may appear now—I have to admit it really did feel like a type of violation. I felt, by reading those notes, that I had possibly gone too far. What I mean is, it was like gaining access to inside information, secret stories leaked to a stranger who had no right to read them. It was as if I were breaking some unspoken literary law or violating a literary code between the book and the reader—one of its readers anyway. I was seeing him in the past and, for me at least, this was a much more profound and revealing experience than, say, a photograph would be—or the actual book itself. Does that sound crazy? This peeking into the usually hidden and intimate relationship between the words (so public) and the mind (so private) didn't feel right. Still, unsurprisingly for one so egocentric as myself, I selfishly rejoiced in the intimacy of that moment, nevertheless. But my pseudo-closeness to the great man was nothing but a preamble, a teasing dream, quickly overturned and rendered secondary—irrelevant, and inconsequential even—to the events that were soon to occur.
    Nothing could've prepared me for a surprise face-to-face meeting with that great man—especially when he unexpectedly invited me out to lunch just after the end of the course. It still bugs me why he did that. Why me? Had he worked out I was a type of fake, and wanted to probe and try to unearth the reasons for my deception? I mean, there was no real deception going on—this was just my paranoia at work again. To this day, I’m not sure if I’ve always been overly sensitive or just proper paranoid and whether those two things are a boon or a curse. Most likely both. Who knows? Maybe he felt sorry for me or, maybe, he just decided randomly. I was hoping to finally get all my answers from him in the local café I’d chosen for us. But how could I have known that instead of those answers, I would actually be coming away with many more questions?

    The café was almost empty when I got there that Saturday. I'd managed to get the day off from work so I could prepare my head for our midday appointment. That also meant I had gone out on the razz the night before as well. I wondered if he would be able to tell. I wondered why I was such an idiot.
    I got there way too early. I always did that, just hated being late—and so I made sure I never was. I don’t think it was simply my fear of tardiness that compelled me to get there so much earlier than I needed to, it wasn’t just that. Truth be told, I was really quite nervous about meeting him, intimidated even. I couldn't quite put my finger on if it was my insecure paranoid self that was raising its ugly head again, or if there was something else going on. I picked a table with plenty of light near the huge windows that looked out over the bustling main road. I thought he would appreciate that.
    I sat and watched the people walking by. So many faces, so many lives—rich and complex. It made me think that we hardly ever engage with most people throughout our lives, just ships at sea. It was—and is—quite sad in a way.
    It was then that I noticed a strikingly attractive woman striding up to the café window. She was now standing right outside, looking in. Wait—was she looking at me? I felt a spark of panic, why was she looking at me? I put my hand up and waved meekly, but she didn’t react. Her fierce almost eagle-like features frowned, and she leant forward slightly—her eyes seeming to bore holes into me. My mind sped off trying to remember if I’d done or said something unpleasant to her on one of my many drinking sessions, but nothing came back to me. There was just the usual faint tinnitus squeal in my ears and that total darkness of my useless selective memory.
    What if she started a scene just as he turned up? That would be just my luck, just what I deserve perhaps. Christ, what had I done? Who the hell was she? She looked away from me and started to hitch up her skirt. I felt very confused by the scene. I started to wonder if I was actually hallucinating. She straightened up her stockings that were a fabulous deep orangey-red just like her fiery hair. She looked back up and looked again at her reflection—or perhaps at me, or perhaps nothing—frowning and puffing up her full lips. She tucked a lock of glowing red hair expertly  behind her ear. I felt like a total fool. She was quite magnificent.
    In that very same moment, I saw him shuffle in with his beige hat on and his weathered satchel swinging by his side. I could see the glint in his eye even from where I was sitting. I stood up and waved him to our table. I glanced back out of the window, but the strikingly beautiful woman had gone—vanished as if she’d never even been there in the first place. I still think I may have imagined her. But, paradoxically, she was probably the most real thing I’d ever seen. It really makes me wonder about the veracity of so many other things from that peculiar part of my life.
    He sat down and sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow with his thick cudgel-like hand. His breathing was slightly laboured, and I wondered if he was one of those intellectuals that just used his body as a means to transport his brain around from course to course, from place to place. His eyes were like Tiger’s though: bright, captivating, and simply terrifying all at once.
    ‘Ah, so there you are! I do hope you haven’t been waiting long?’
    ‘No, I just got here.’ I lied. Why did I lie to him? To not seem too keen? To put him at ease seeing as he was late? Why was I so nervous anyway? I looked outside again hoping to see the glorious creature from before, but she was nowhere to be seen. I don’t think I ever really saw her again.
    ‘I'm terribly sorry. You see, I had to take some clothes to the cleaners and there were some altercations.’
    ‘Oh, dear,’
    ‘Yes. My Mongolian isn't so strong—you have to remember, and my Russian is quite bad, so we ended up speaking some sort of English-Mandarin hybrid, you know? Ridiculous! How's your Mongolian by the way?’
    ‘Oh, it's OK.’ I suppose that wasn't a complete lie.
    ‘Don’t you find that people can be so strange sometimes? We can become so angry over so little—and we're all guilty of it, aren't we? Who knows if it is a consequence of the times we live in, or if we've always been that way? As you have probably seen, I am forever the choleric, you know? Thing is, I knew I might be running late because of that episode—and yet I didn't let it bother me too much. After all, and as my darling wife always says, it was just another moment in my life, another confrontation; another sharing of sorts to be enjoyed and thought about, reflected upon. Hmm. But anyway, we managed to resolve the situation all the same. So, all’s well that ends well.’
    ‘Well, that's good.’
    ‘Yes. Just don't let me forget that I have to go back there after this and pick my stuff up from them, OK? If you wouldn't mind.’
    He seemed to have finally caught his breath and he let out a long sigh.
    ‘Yeah, sure, I’ll certainly try to.’
    ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
    ‘Erm...I think I'll just going to have some soup, what about you?’ I said scanning the menu but not really scanning the menu at all. My mind was caught between rousing thoughts of the woman’s red stockings, her burning locks, and trying to picture the scene in the laundrette (and whether he could stand me or not). I was wondering if the laundrette staff were purposely losing or even ruining some of his clothes. It has been known to happen to the occasional lippy tourist—especially those British ones. But surely, he was nothing like them. Or maybe that is exactly what he was.
    ‘Well, I'll have the same as you. You are the expert.’ We ordered our soup, and I noticed that the café was starting to fill up. There was a pleasant hum of voices, many spicy fragrances danced in the air, accompanied by the gentle clinking of cutlery.
    ‘Thanks for everything you gave to the course.’ he said, surprising me somewhat.
    ‘Oh. Yeah?’
    ‘I could see that you were enjoying yourself. It was great to see—always is. Never get tired of it. The whole course was quite successful. Don’t you think?’
    ‘Yes, it was great stuff. Although, it’s all still sinking in, soaking in, I guess.’
    ‘Hmm. What about Suri? My word what a force of nature that woman was. Did you get the chance to speak to her outside the course at all?’
    ‘I didn't really, no. Briefly—when we had the farewell party on Thursday, but not much.’
    I was quite proud of myself and how I'd acted reasonably well that night at the party, that was, until I left and caught up with Ganbold and our insane acquaintances. Then we really hit the town. Needless to say, I was a little less proud of the shenanigans that unfolded much later that night—not that I remember too much to be honest, and I was thankful that we’d taken it much easier last night.
    ‘Did you?’ I asked.
    ‘I did, yes! Such a shame you didn't. She was phenomenal!’ His face scrunched up wonderfully as he said phenomenal. I remembered her contributions on the course; they were profound and insightful too, but her baritone voice was a little too deep for my tastes. I realised how shitty and shallow that was of me, and I wondered if those tiger eyes could see the discomfort on my face, or in the way I shifted about so.
    ‘Your face...’ He said and I blinked repeatedly as if a tiny midge had flown in my eye.
    ‘Uhm…my…?’
    ‘Your face—it’s fascinating.’
    Had he seen it? Had he noticed my micro movements and expressions? Had they given me away? I wouldn't be all that surprised if he were highly trained in such things as well. Was I finally busted? Could he really see me there? Like, really see me?
    ‘Is it...?’ I asked trying to hold his gaze for a second.
    ‘Christ above! This is making you feel uncomfortable, isn't it?’
    ‘No, well, I… erm,’ Was he able to read my mind? Was he really so gifted? Was I so weak and transparent before such a man?
    ‘You'll have to forgive me,’ he said. ‘My wife always tells me I have this horrid habit, and that I'm forever doing this to people I meet.’
    ‘What do you mean? What do you do to people?’ What on Earth was I missing here?
    ‘No, honestly…there it is again! Your eyes, the way they move...’
    ‘My eyes?’ I was on the verge of a panic-attack.
    ‘Yes. They whizz about just like someone I know quite well back home—a certain Father Clarke from my local parish.’
    ‘Father Clarke? I'm not with you.’ Wait, what was going on here?
    ‘Of course, that name will mean absolutely nothing to you, will it? It'll conjure up no images of familiarity, or of the uncanny similarities between you and him, of course it won't—and this is exactly my problem, you see?’
    I didn't. I leant my head to the side keeping my eyes on his face and raised my eyebrows. I lifted  my shoulders slightly and almost imperceptibly shook my head. Perhaps we were both thinking about quite different things. What was all this cross wiring going on? Were our minds really so very out of sync, so incompatible? Was I just a paranoid freak?
    ‘You've lost me. Sorry…’ I said.
    ‘No! I really really must apologise to you! You see, this is exactly the issue. My wife hates it and is constantly telling me to not do it. And I am really trying to stop it, honest I am. But it does tend to take over and dominate, hence this annoying awkwardness it causes. No, no, it is me that must apologise. I've got to stop it.’
    ‘Um, OK?’
    ‘But as I say, it's not so easy to inhibit and as soon as it comes over me, I blurt it out to the incredulous stares of the poor victims! Argh! Or victim—as with you today. It has the same pointlessness as when someone passionately tells you about their recent dream. Utterly pointless.’
   ‘But what is it, exactly, about this Mr Clarke?’
    I realised that it was me that was totally out of sync and yes, a tad paranoid, and clearly a tad intimidated by him as well—all just simply adding to my general default state of confusion, I guess. I remember thinking that, even though we’d had an easy one, I may have still been slightly tipsy from the night before. I wondered if he could smell the booze mixed with insecurities seeping out of my pores that morning.
    ‘Ah, yes—it's Father Clarke, though.’
    ‘Oh, sorry. My bad. So, what about this Father Clarke then?’
    ‘Yes, revolting man, totally horrid person, nasty individual.’
    Wait, what? He must have seen my baffled look.
    ‘No—no—no—no! Please don't get me wrong. Nothing like you at all in that respect! You seem like a curious, energetic, and yet calm and warm person, if I may.’
    ‘Ah, thanks.’ I won’t lie, it was so nice to hear those words from him as they kept the relentless whispers of my inferiority complex at bay. At least one thing was clear: he couldn't read minds. I was safe—at least on that front. It was somewhat embarrassingly shocking how good it felt to hear him say those nice words though. Perhaps, somewhere, the person he thought he was looking at did actually exist. And me, calm? He had quite clearly (and thankfully) never seen me out on the tiles in the wild nightlife around these parts—no question about that.
    ‘Of course, he is nothing like you in respect to your personality, that would be downright weird to say the least—and certainly very uncommon. No, it's the mannerisms; it is absolutely fascinating really. You move your eyes in the same way; exactly the same way. Or rather, in such a similar way as to appear identical, I guess would be the more correct observation. But, of course, in reality that is not the case at all. And herein lies the problem, you see? It is simply me projecting; projecting his familiar quirks onto your face and expressions due to the smallest similarity. Perhaps it's just the shape of your eyes that trigger it, or the way they bounce around as they do. I'm not entirely sure, most probably both. My wife hates me for it—and she's right to, of course. It's quite detestable! I simply must stop it. There are a couple of colleagues back home who can't stand talking to me because of this—at least that's what they say, might be more likely because I'm such a bumbling buffoon! Or perhaps they simply hate me as much as I hate them, of course—there’s always that. You will tell me to stop when you think I'm doing it, won't you? Please? In fact, you must do it the moment you see it coming on, I implore you to.’
    He'd mentioned before that my face was fascinating, but for me, there was no doubt that he was fascinating in every way. And so refreshingly honest. I was beginning to think that he really must have been a little bit broken just like the rest of us. I mean, who isn’t? I was genuinely curious about this projection he mentioned. I wasn't perfectly clear what he meant by it, so I thought I'd probe a little further—anything to stop my tiresome self-doubt taking hold and inhibiting my everything.
    ‘OK, I'll do my best...’
    ‘Good man yourself!’
    ‘But when you say projecting, you mean, like, imagining me as Mr Clarke? Ah, sorry—Father Clarke?’
    ‘Well, I suppose so,’ He frowned intently looking down at the table while scratching his quite magnificent beard. ‘But I think there's a little more to it than that.’
    ‘It doesn't seem to be such a bad thing to me, if I'm honest...’ I tried. He's eyes fell upon me once more.
    ‘Nonsense!’ He shouted, and a few heads turned in the almost full café. I revelled in that for some reason.
    ‘Oh...right. It is?’
    ‘It's a terrible thing to do to another person; quite unacceptable—and especially from someone in my profession, and with my supposed experience, you understand.’
    ‘I guess…’
    ‘The whole point of being a humanistic language teacher would be undermined by such forcefully assertive projecting.’
    ‘Would it though? I mean, you don’t do it all the time. I don’t remember you ever doing that on the course.’
    ‘True, true. Fair enough. It might not have happened so much on this course, I suppose, hmm. Right you are. But just ask yourself, how affective would a teacher be to the trainees in front of him or her if that teacher could not control such a defective and restrictive mental mapping of them? It's really quite criminal when you come to think about it.’
    ‘Noooo, I wouldn’t go that far.’
    ‘It is! I am not allowing the other person, or people in front of me, to shine. I am cloaking them with this projection, not allowing them to be who they are—but who I think they are. Or perhaps it's better to say who my mind and memory decides to associate them with. Am I making any sense to you? Do you see what I mean?’
    Finally, I think I did. I tried to think of something erudite and profound to say about the whole thing, but nothing came out. There was just a weak nodding and a vague grunt from the back of my throat. It made me wonder about all the powerful meanings that consciously being silent can signify.
    Our soups arrived, and he looked so happy—like a child almost. He tucked into it with some soft hot bread, all the while making far too much noise. It was glorious to behold, and it just made me admire him even more.
    ‘So, is it like some sort of stereotype? A generalisation?’ I eventually offered.
    ‘My nasty projection habit, you mean?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, yes. Perhaps, in a way—but not really. It's more like a categorization, I'd say. The fact remains that it is really quite abusive, an aggressive smothering of the other. And, as I said, I really have to stop doing it. In fact, I am determinedly going to try to not do it to you anymore today!’
    Some soup was dribbling down his chin after his passionate outburst and I wanted to say something about it. But I didn't. I quite liked the idea of seeing where it would go; would it drip off or simply be absorbed—lost within that wonderfully untended forest of a beard?
    ‘No, honestly, I really don't mind. I mean, we all instinctively classify and put people in boxes—we can’t help but do it.’ I said.
    ‘Ah! That doesn’t help me at all! You’re not helping me like that, you see? You have to stop me; be horrible, be nasty about it—for goodness’ sake!’ He laughed but his furrowed brow showed me he was quite serious about it too.
    ‘Nasty?’
    ‘Yes! Absolutely. Verging on offensive…’
    ‘Well, OK then. I'll give it a go, I guess.’
    ‘And there it is again! The way your eyes shift about—so much like his,’ He caught himself and froze for a second. ‘Ah! I'm doing it again, see?’
    ‘It's totally cool.’ I smiled to reassure him that it was. And it really was for me, but it clearly wasn't for him. So, in a way, was I as guilty as he was? Was I projecting my own calm indifference onto him regarding his issue? Is this what he meant? Wait—was he actually teaching me, right now? Was a teacher like this ever really able to stop themselves teaching? I guess this was just one of the staple things that truly defined him.
    ‘No. It's not cool at all. You are not him! You see what it does? It contaminates. It distorts and taints. It reminds me of a time I did a workshop in India some thirty years ago, maybe thirty-five, and I was doing a course on NLP with some teachers out there. Well, we all witnessed firsthand this type of negative projection and its consequences.’
    ‘Really? What happened?’
    I'd had the pleasure of doing a Neural Linguistic Programming course some years before in southern Italy—Bari, I think it had been—and I had enjoyed it immensely. But I couldn't help thinking how much better it would've been if he had been my trainer on that course. Who knows if I'd've been able to genuinely appreciate him and his quirky experimental teachings back then, seeing as I was definitely more of a complete knob back in those days? Even more than the past me of that café—and, one would hope, even more than the shadowy wreck of a human that I am nowadays.
    ‘I'd been doing courses on NLP for about 10 years—maybe more—but I was still in love with it all and hadn't become tired of it or bored with it. Stagnancy hadn’t dared creep in, it would seem. You know what I mean?’
    ‘Yep.’ I definitely didn't though. I mean, how could I? Anyhow, I felt much safer now knowing that he couldn’t actually read my mind, I felt like I could finally lie quite comfortably. ‘So, you were still stimulated by it all then?’ I asked.
    ‘I was, yes. And so, I was doing this workshop in India, and an observation came up. Honestly, I can't remember exactly why—the exact specifics of it allude me—but it went something like this: there are two chairs before you. Can you now describe the two chairs? You know, a classic activity on any decent NLP course, as I’m sure you’re well aware?’
    ‘Ah, yes.’ We hadn't done that on my course, but the lying felt nice. Talking to him felt nice.
    ‘Aaaand, just what do you imagine happened next?’
    Shit. Busted. ‘Erm, I dunno! They, er—described them, or something?’ I threw it out there, it was the most obvious of things to say.
    ‘Of course they did! And just how exactly would anyone from our part of the world do that? You know? How would they describe these two chairs? Hmm?’
    ‘I... erm...’ Why was he doing this to me? Could he really see what I was thinking after all? Was he just toying with this fraud in front of him? Was this how he got his intellectual and social kicks? Was he some sort of sadist—like so many teachers often are? Thankfully, he carried on, pulling my silly thoughts back to the moment, back to him, back to a certain common sense.
    ‘You got it! They simply described them in relation to each other. They could only compare them: This one is smaller, …this one has thicker legs, …there’s more of a curve to it here, …it hasn’t got any soft parts like this one, …the metal one is black and blue while…, or whatever. Which, in some contexts, is all well and good.’
    ‘To only compare them?’
    ‘Yes. But they didn't see, didn’t appreciate, each chair for itself, or for its own characteristics and its own foibles. It’s as if the chair’s own proper idiosyncrasies become inexistent. It was as if their individuality had been merged and reduced to a secondary level instead of being recognised for their own true beauty—whatever that might actually signify in the case of these chairs. I don’t know. Something like: one chair was wooden and handmade, so it should have been weathered, full of stories, awkward to manage, creaky, deeply resonating with character and history—a unique intimacy to its inception, and so on. The other was a shiny new metal and plastic one; practical, efficient, lightweight, but a little lifeless, anaesthetised or some such—devoid of any love in its creation, we could argue. That which distinguishes them, defines them—renders them distinctive and special, all of that becomes lost within the banal descriptive superficial comparison and a somewhat misguided inclusivity. A technique that is socioculturally bound and subjective for sure—but a rather limiting approach that only describes what it sees in relation to another object. You see what I mean? It doesn’t accept or acknowledge what the objects have intrinsic value or that they can exist quite independently from one another—although clearly connected conceptually, of course. It’s frustratingly western, I have to say.’
    ‘Ah, right. And you mean this is similar, somehow, to what happens with your projection issue that—’
    ‘You see? You've got it!’
    I think I had it. Well, some of it, I won't lie. Perhaps I was getting away with it after all.
    ‘And that is the danger of this projection nonsense that I keep doing, you see? I am effectively comparing a unique and wonderful person, superimposing and effectively creating a completely unnecessary double exposure, as it were. I'm comparing this unique and wonderful human being to another unique and presumably wonderful—or not—human being. It is a mistake. It is wrong on so many levels; it misses the whole point.’
    ‘The point being that we are what—all unique?’
    ‘Ah! I love the sharpness of your mind. Now, you’ve reminded me of a woman I met in... There, damnation! Argh!!’
    ‘You're doing it again?’ I smiled.
    ‘I'm doing it again…’ He put his head in his stubby hairy hands. They were leathery and I was positive that I had a keen gardener sitting in front of me or, at the very least, a handyman or some kind. Not just an intellectual then, it would seem. He slumped slightly in his chair and looked out of the window. ‘Forgive me. I’m unbelievable sometimes, I really am.’
    I wasn't so sure that remembering someone, or being reminded of someone, was totally the same thing as this projection issue that he was having. I thought it would be about time I actually said something instead of pretending to know something.
    ‘It's not the same thing though, is it?’ I asked.
    He sat up and locked his eyes back onto me and wouldn't let go. I looked down at his chin and noticed that the soup drip had got lost in his magnificent beard like a bright-eyed child lost in the fascinating gnarly woods. He was still studying me when I looked back up.
    ‘You don't think?’ He said.
    ‘Well, not really. It's perfectly fine to say that a person reminds you of another person, isn't it? Is that the same thing as projecting? Surely not. Can't be.’
    ‘Perhaps you're right. Perhaps it's as my wife always says: I end up commenting on the similarity and then a barrage of details and facts about the other person just flows out of my mouth making everyone feel uncomfortable—exactly as I did, and most probably am doing with you right now.’
    ‘No, no. Honestly, it's fine.’
    I was finally beginning to feel more comfortable or at least a little less intimidated.
    He finished off his soup and I couldn't help smiling broadly at all the noise he made. I didn't give a toss about what all the other people thought. My attention, as I felt his was as well, was completely on our conversation now.
    ‘You know when you lent us those books on the first week of the course…’
    ‘Yes, yes. I remember.’
    ‘I really meant it when I said that I loved all the notes in it.’
    ‘Notes, you say?’
    ‘Yes. I hope you don't think that it is too weird,’ I realised that by saying that I'd automatically made it weird. ‘You kinda dismissed my curiosity about the notes when I asked you about them—there were obviously many other more important things for you to be thinking about at the time, for sure.’
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    ‘But I just wanted to know, it was you that wrote all those notes, wasn't it?’
    He seemed to squirm slightly, and I wondered if I'd hit a nerve for whatever strange reason. Was he embarrassed by my discovery? Had I misunderstood, and he wasn't the actual creator of those notes and squiggles? Had they been made by someone he now hates, or has lost? Maybe he had stolen the damned book for all I knew. Perhaps he really did think they were “blissfully pointless past memories” or whatever he’d called them before.
    ‘Hmm. Do you mean that little green book?’
    ‘Yeah, that's it!’ I said perhaps a little too enthusiastically.
    ‘Ah, right.’ His eyes lowered and he took a slow deep breath. There was a slight smile on his lips as he looked out of the window again. I didn’t know what to say. So I stayed quiet. I watched his eyes dart from person to person as they walked past. I wondered if he was the one that now felt a little awkward and I wondered why that book would do that to him. Perhaps he was human after all. Disappointingly normal. Just like everyone else.
    ‘That was a long time ago,’ He said pulling at one of his eyebrows. Was that why they were so wonderfully wild and dishevelled? As he continued, I wondered if he could tell how happy I was at finally confirming that those notes were indeed his. ‘That was ages ago, when I was even more of a raging idiot than I am today. Doesn't that happen to you? You know, when you come across an old photo, postcard, or a story you wrote years ago, and you feel that pleasant mixture of nostalgia or excitement that somehow seems to be shrouded by a heavy sadness too. An embarrassing reminder of what you no longer are. It’s a shocking testament to how much you thought you knew—and how little we ever know—and just how different we are from one week to the next, from one year to the next—decades in this case. Does that happen to you? Do you see what I mean?’
    ‘Yeah, I do.’ But once again, I lied. I always loved to look back at old pictures and really enjoyed reinventing the scene anew every time I looked at it. But I did know what he meant about the story thing. Thankfully, there aren't many stories or essays that I've written that still exist. But, yes, there was an embarrassment there, a slightly sickly feeling of shame at how immature and naive I was and at how little I knew—even if I was convinced that I knew everything at the time of writing them. Strangely though, I didn’t feel the same about my sketches, they seemed to still be relevant—although, a very long way away from being sophisticated in any shape or form. I considered sharing my thoughts about the sketches, but that little green book was far more important.
    ‘But I found the notes fascinating,’ I said managing to hold his stare. ‘I mean, I didn't even read the book, just spent my time looking at the notes and the doodles everywhere.’
    ‘Oh, dear. Were you able to understand anything? My handwriting is not the most pleasing calligraphy out there, a shambolic representation of my incomprehensible dribble. My scatterbrain! Even if it was surely slightly better then—certainly better than it is today, that’s for sure. It has got progressively worse as I’m getting older.’
    ‘No, I found it fascinating.’
    ‘You did? How so?’
    ‘Yes. I mean, I couldn’t follow the Greek or German notes, but your English ones made a lot of sense. So many wonderful insights and snippets of thought processes as well as interesting glimpses into what was going on in your life at the time.’
    I wondered again, if he would find it strange that someone might be able to peep into his         past in such a way. Had he known that someone in the future would read those personal notes, would he have been so spontaneous, messy, and genuine? As I said before, he had clearly not been as self-obsessed as I evidently was. Then why had he included the book that day on the course? Had he forgotten all about his notes inside it, perhaps? Or, just maybe, he really was as self-obsessed as the next person. Maybe he needed this feedback right now—much like we all do.
    ‘Hmm. If I'm not mistaken, that book comes from one of my first drama classes I was doing back in the day. I was also trying to improve and practise my Greek at the time hence the notes in Greek. I’ve been flirting with German for years—my mother was half German, you see. I’ve been meaning to start a kind of German conversation club…I really must get around to that someday soon. Really must make the time for that.’
    ‘Where there’s a will…’
    ‘Ah, yes. Indeed. Anyway, it was a long time ago. Back when I was still young enough to believe that I was a brilliant teacher even if that wasn't the case at all. We were all so young and endearingly optimistic about what we were doing. You know? Walking around in some sort of blissful trance—believing we were at the cutting edge of teaching. Our heads filled with a hundred thousand projects and million bizarre ideas. Those days before the testing tail wagged the dog of teaching—it was an inspiring and exciting time to be a teacher then, that’s for sure. I have been lucky enough to work with some truly amazing people along the way—and many of them really were true pioneers in the field.’
    ‘And you were—what, not one of those? I find that hard to believe.’
    ‘Well, I was there, thereabouts. No doubt through osmosis, I justified my presence. Though, quite literally, I was standing on the shoulders of giants. Standing? More like balancing, I would say. I’m lucky they put up with me, really.’
    ‘I think you’re being too harsh on yourself.’
    I watched his features, looking for things I wanted to see. Signs of insecurity, twitches of doubt, anything at all to help me not feel so alone, so broken. Who was doing all the projecting now?     
    He shifted in his seat for a moment. I couldn’t work out if he was just moving his legs into a comfier position or if he was annoyed at being taken back to a past he seemed uneasy with. His eyes, perhaps a little more subdued as he spoke, still held my own steadily.
    ‘And yet, this is that awkward recollection of the past I mentioned before that can, and does, come from looking at old photos—and most certainly from my earlier writings. I don't like doing that. A waste of time, a waste of thought. There’s so many other things that one could be doing. Wallowing around in a quagmire of self-induced regret is not a place I tend to want to visit very often. Although, truth be told, I do find myself trapped there from time to time.’
    ‘Ah, I see. So you’re not a huge fan of photo albums then?’
    ‘No. Not really. Look, photos can be nice from time to time, I’ll grant you that. They can be evocative—powerful triggers, fragments of a forgotten present moment. Nice for the kids to look back at, I suppose. They can be useful too—I’m thinking more in the classroom, mind you. But these types of writings—if we can even call them that—are reflections of a past “me” that, quite frankly, I no longer care for. I much prefer to stay firmly rooted in where we are now. It’s better to let those things remain where they are—and where they should be: in the past. You know, when they were relevant, when they were necessary, when they had their raison d'être. You don't agree?’
    ‘I get that…’ And I did. But I also thought there was more to it than that. ‘Fine. But what if those past writings, pictures, or whatever, were an excellent source of inspiration for people today? Just because something comes from the past—our developmental past—it doesn't necessarily mean it is out of date or irrelevant for people today, or for the minds today, does it? On the contrary, I’d say. What if people could get so much from such things—just as we do from old literature or wisdoms? Wouldn’t that be a good reason to share?’ I was pleased that I was starting to relax and express myself without worrying too much about what he was really seeing anymore. Was I actually becoming less self-conscious? Less of a dick? This future me hates the ignorance of that past me, it really does. Although, that said, perhaps I’m just a tad jealous.
    ‘Oh, Indeed, that goes without saying,’ He continued keenly. ‘But I was thinking more of the scruffy notes and ridiculous things that I had written back then. Nobody in their right mind would want to read that jumbled up mess of overlapping thoughts and outrageous schemes, ideas, delusions even. I can assure you of that. Hardly any profound revolutionary ideas or anything—just rambling nonsense. Nothing to share at all. They served their purpose long ago.’
    ‘Well, I think you're wrong. Clearly, I am one of those people. And guess what? I am definitely not in my right mind! Perhaps that’s why I am drawn to them?’ It still felt nice to talk to him. And it felt even better not lying. I saw his eyes wander over my features and I tried not to falter, tried to keep my relatively calm composure under the fierce feline scrutiny of those eyes of his. I saw his bushy eyebrows twitch and flutter as they, too, watched me.
    ‘Hmm, perhaps you are…perhaps we all are.’ He looked out of the window again and smiled. Was he looking for his own savage redhead out there? Maybe he was looking right at her in this very moment. Maybe she was even staring at him—through him—making him believe she was really there. Ultimately, it seems that all men see the same things.
    ‘You know, you've just reminded me of a woman—don't worry! I'm not doing the projection thingy right now—at least, I sincerely hope that I am not! A striking woman I once knew, years back when I was travelling through Europe on trains—I’ve always preferred to contemplate the view as opposed to the stress of travelling by car. I don’t do planes. This was years before I met my wife, Sophie. She was a stunning Baltic warrior—this woman, not my wife. My wife is a different type of stunning, a completely different type of warrior. A gentle, angel warrior more like.’
    I nodded slowly.
    ‘This Baltic terror loved to collect other people's stories. I think you both would have got on splendidly well together—I really do.’
    I savoured the warm feeling that sentence gave my ego. It was the second time that day that he’d gifted me that feeling.
    ‘I was in Budapest meeting distant forgotten friends in what seems like another life—as if it were someone else’s dream. I think I was attempting to write some stupid book at the time, and I would always be jotting things down into my many notebooks. Thing is, I also had the annoying habit of writing down my thoughts on absolutely anything I could find. You name it: beer mats, the back of a photo, postcards, pages of newspapers, and inevitably the books and notebooks that I always seemed to be surrounded by. I’m not a Luddite in the true sense of the term, but I don’t really do tech.’
    ‘Just another thing that wants to enslave us, I guess.’
    ‘Yes, indeed. That’s why I still write in my notebooks, on anything close to hand really.’
    ‘I hear you.’
    ‘You can't imagine how spectacularly she would fly off in a rage when she saw me doing all this notetaking in whichever book I happened to have with me at the time. It drove her completely bonkers, it did!’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Oh my. She was quite something to behold, I can tell you. She'd accuse me of sacrilege—of having no respect for books. She'd punch my arm, wrestle me to the ground, and bite my cheeks—she was feral, she was brutal! She was a quite marvellous creature, I have to say.’
    I could see there were definitely more chapters in this story. Not just from the intense twinkle in his eyes as he remembered and spoke about her—or from the fact that his crow’s feet deepened so warmly; there were other things to see as well. I swear, I could almost feel the heavy sadness he'd mentioned before. Or was that just me wanting to see it? Or was I more likely just guilty of projecting again? Thankfully, he opened up and told me some more stories about his past.
    As he narrated, he would pick repetitively at the skin around his thumbnail. I hadn’t noticed him doing it before. It made a dull sound like someone bending and releasing a small fresh twig, almost like it was his way of keeping rhythm as he told me the story that day in that café. I didn't press him for too many details, but I peppered his story with a few questions, and the odd sound—the odd backchannel as we like to call it. I just enjoyed its telling, the animated way he told it to me, and the sheer vividness of the images he gave me. Although—now I come to think about it—perhaps I should have asked more. But surely that would have just interrupted and interfered with the actual storytelling flow. I guess we’ll never know now.
    ‘She would hold my head in her hands and breathe fire all over me, such was her glorious rage. She would always call me names too—some I won't repeat to you now. Well, some I simply cannot repeat!’
    ‘No way. In Hungarian?’
    ‘Ooooh, yes. Even if she was fluent in English. And, no word of a lie, she knew every foul word in the English language, believe me. I'd heard them all come roaring out of that spectacularly dangerous mouth of hers.’
    ‘And all because you would make notes?’
    His smile faded slightly. He ran his hands over his head and his chunky fingers through his beard. I wondered if he could feel the drip in there, or if it had simply got lost within it—absorbed forever. He looked out the window again, and I knew that his unmoving eyes weren’t taking in anything from outside. I was pretty sure he was seeing her again. This time, I was positive that the striking woman was now hitching up her own red stockings; straightening her dress and expertly tucking a lock of golden red hair behind her ear. Just like my own vision had done.
    ‘No,’ He said, not looking back at me. ‘There were many other things she couldn't stand about me as well. So many other things...’
    I waited for him to continue, but he didn't.
    ‘Those notes in the green book,’ I offered quickly, nervously. ‘Was she around when you were writing in that too?’
    He was now squinting as he stared through the window at her, at his own ghosts. He looked back at me, his eyebrows shot up magnificently.
    ‘Hmmm? In the green book? Yes, I believe she was...’
    ‘Ah, right.’
    ‘In fact, now that you mention it, I do remember her going absolutely berserk at me for writing in it so much. Yes, yes.’
    ‘Oh, really? She sounds terrifying. But fun too, I guess.’
    ‘She swore that I would pay for it one day, some day in the future. I remember laughing at her— which only made her worse. She probably cursed me. I wouldn’t have put it passed her given the awful sorceress that she was.’
    ‘I bet.’
    ‘She would always say how incorrigible I was, almost every day she would say it to me. And you know what I would always say when she told me that?’
    ‘No, what?’
    ‘I would look her in her brooding scary eyes for as long as was humanly possible and say, I promise that I will never change, my dear. She would go absolutely ballistic at that. It was quite the spectacle. Hahaha.’
    ‘What—and then wrestle you to the floor?’
     ‘Ha, yes! Something like that, let's say. Something like that…’
    The glint in his eyes flared up for a second or two. I couldn't help but wonder what type of woman, person—or Goddess—you would need to be to have such frightening eyes that could intimidate his own fiercely intense gaze. They must have really been something to see together. And just as I was conjuring up that image in my head, he brought me back sharply to the café.
    ‘Well, listen, seeing as you seem to like that tatty old book so much, why don't you take it off me?’
    ‘Wh-what? I couldn't.’ Was he joking? ‘I couldn't possibly accept. It's part of your past, your history; a future story to tell to your grandchildren, or something—’
    ‘Ah, poppycock! I no longer have any need for it. Besides, I’ve already told my grandchildren more than enough stories. And certainly better ones than could ever be dug out of that forgotten old book.’
    ‘You sure?’
    ‘Come on, we can walk back to my hotel, and I will get it for you. It’s only five minutes away. I take it you are free now, yes?’
    ‘Well, yeah, but—’
    ‘Good. Then that is settled.’ He gestured to the waiter, and he started to gather his things. I felt the excitement of being able to peruse through the book again and to be legitimately allowed, this time around, to marvel at his notes and their craftmanship—to fanboy even, I guess we could say. And yet, at the same time, I couldn't help having that nagging feeling again that it was wrong. So terribly wrong. It didn't belong to me; it wasn't meant to be mine. But how could I refuse such a lovely gesture? How could I possibly say no to such an awesome gift from him? How rude would it be to actually deny the great man this genuine act of kindness?
    We walked back to his hotel, and we spoke a little on the way. As we walked the mild terror of feeling like an imposter crept up on me again. But I fought it down, kept it subdued. I wasn't going to let it ruin that wonderful midday meet-up, that wonderful exchange—the chance of such a meaningful and heartfelt gift. It wasn't long before he was handing me the green book and we hugged our goodbyes. I almost forgot to remind him about the launderette. I wasn’t always a dick back then. Honestly.
    I rejoiced at feeling it in my hands again—it was like it was magical and therapeutic in some way. After our pleasant and revealing lunch and as I watched him shuffle away, I wondered if it would reveal any other stories that had previously been hidden from me. I wondered if I would see her in it now—now that I knew she existed. Would I be able to find her in there? Would I be allowed to see her now?
    It was at that very moment that something slipped out of the book. It tumbled down onto the floor at my feet. It was an old black and white picture of a woman. I bent down and picked it up. A fierce, and quite stunning Amazonian style face stared back at me—stared right into me; stared right through me. I ran my thumb over the deep cracks on its thick yellowing surface. It smelt like cheap malt vinegar. I was sure it was his stunning Baltic warrior friend. There was no denying it. It was her—had to be. Now I could see exactly what he had been talking about in that café. And he’d been right—totally spot on: she really was a quite marvellous creature.
    It was then, bizarrely, that I noticed that the face staring back at me was incredibly similar to the striking woman with the red stockings from earlier. You know—the redhead that was either real or some sort of hallucination? There she was. Was I so obsessed and infatuated with her that I had begun to see her everywhere all of a sudden? What sort of perverse day of projection was this actually turning out to be? Why couldn’t I just be normal like everyone else? What in God’s name was wrong with me?
    I’ll never know who she really was. As I said, I never saw him again. Or her. Except perhaps in the dreamscape, not that I can really recall any of that—remembering reality is challenging enough these days. Just wishful thinking, I guess. Still, in hindsight, the more likely hypothesis was that I really was still under the influence from the previous night. I found it all a little unsettling if the truth be told. I wondered if this is what the beginnings of madness feel like. But why had he put it in there? Or better still, why hadn’t he taken it out? Could I really have missed it back at the beginning of the course?
    Needless to say, a month or so after meeting him in that café, I lost that green book. I mislaid it while out with my lunatic friends as we went mental on one of our many stupid nights out—as is normal for the forever idiot that I have always been. Why I ever decided to take it with me, God only knows. I probably wanted to show off, or something—wanted to come across all pretentious and learned to the ladies. What a prick. I sometimes wonder if, perhaps, his Baltic warrior had indeed cursed him or even the book itself. I don't know. Was I now paying the price for his past misdemeanours? For two whole days after, I scoured the area where (apparently) we had all gone that night. But there was no trace of it. Nothing. It—and the wonderful secrets it contained—had simply vanished forever.
    That whole affair is undoubtedly still one of the most shameful regrets that I have from that part of my scatty life. Well, from any part of my life really (and trust me, there are plenty of candidates for that prize, I can tell you that for nothing). The complete moron that I am. If only I'd known that worse things were on their way; things that I knew I probably deserved. But this is not the day for those stories. No, no. This is not that day at all.
    It looks like I’d been absolutely right to have had reservations about taking that book from him. It seems that it simply wasn’t meant for the likes of me in the end. And I guess, after all is said and done, it was as obvious then as I know it is now.

     Sometimes, in the now welcomed stillness of my deluded mature years, I’m pretty sure, every now and again, that I can make out a densely bearded bushy-browed soup-stained demigod lurking within the murky remnants of my scattered dreaming. In amongst the angry flashings that often float behind my eyes, I see him there, dancing with laboured breath between those jagged pulsating lights—hand in hand with his own fiery redhead folly, no doubt. Oh, yes. I’m pretty sure of that.
     If I really concentrate, I’m almost positive I can also hear him passionately insisting that I might be ignoring the true value of that little green book—with its yellowed faraway pages, and its delicate yet playful gift of diamond dust. I wonder if its essence, its very spirit, even in my total ignorance of its printed contents, might still rise far above its mere physical presence. Is that what he always wanted, I wonder?
    One would hope that my memory, such that it is today, is much like Mr Revolutionary himself; never really forgotten, not that lost at all. Perhaps, we might say (or we might be allowed to dream even) that we never ever really lose anyone. Their stories—our stories—never truly die. All we need is to insist, persevere, and to simply keep on telling them. Right?