The Ruined Man Who Became Rich Again Through a Dream Mosques
Practical knowledge.
I've told this story so many times that I wouldn't dream of testifying for its accuracy. The facts, even from the beginning, were tenuous at all-time--which makes my retentiveness of the red bridge a perfect starting point for this projection.
I am six, and traveling to the city for the first fourth dimension. I am contrasting glass and steel with barkdust piles and pine needles equally the bridges, waters, and miles of gray concrete unfold before me and all about my periphery. I feel small-scale. These stark urban elements slowly give mode to shady avenues as I careen upward through a canopy rising from the perimeter of the city, and soon enough the landscape is natural, though measured.
My mother and I chat, and take it all in. We get out of the machine and begin walking.
The gravel paths are different here--so manicured and lifeless. Quiet. I footstep gingerly across hexagonal stones, and am impressed by the tigress and her cubs posted amidst the rockery. I recall about paths, and decide that they are sometimes wide and well-traveled, but then sometimes they are narrow, sinewy, and hidden. I am on the latter kind, trying to keep my toes out of the puddles which gather around root and stone, and collect in the mosses.
Again, the scenery changes. I've come out of the garden and into a wide field of cropped grass. Crackling rivulets gush amongst globe-trotting woods and wildflowers, etching out a map on the emerald turf. It is more water than land hither, and the but prototype that doesn't list into the hazy borders of my retention is the magnificent blood-red bridge, which arches similar a chivalrous monarch over several of the more than substantial streams. I want to climb it, just I don't. I have no substance.
In my dreams, and memory, I have no substance.
Years after, my mother volition take remembered our commencement trip to the Japanese Gardens in Portland. She'll remember the city painted on my confront, the roads to the forest, the pathways and the tigress. She will be able to recall it much ameliorate than I, only the red bridge is conspicuously absent from her recollections. I volition emphatically defend the existence of the bridge, and she, in her gentle, trustful way, volition rebuke it. I volition visit the gardens many times, and will search for it before finally, practically, I will uncertainty that it was ever there.
Mystical Knowledge.
Today, as I was staring up at the clouds waiting for the light to alter (and eating an apple), a smashing, tall human being with a grey beard approached, and I had the fleeting awareness that I knew him. I did. Information technology was a beloved university professor of mine from years past, whom I had taken many classes from. We talked near our families and plans, and I told him that I had been thinking of him lately, because of a sheet of paper discovered in the pages of a book which belonged to me. On the canvas was printed i of the stories from the I K and One Nights, which I fervently believe came from this university professor of mine. It's just the sort of thing he would have given me. Anyhow, the story is pregnant non because information technology is unaccompanied by any of the other entertainments, merely considering of the complexity hidden behind the relatively simple narrative:
A wealthy man--a Baghdadi--has lost everything, and is forced into a life of hard labor. Speaker comes to him in a dream and urges him to Cairo, for a peachy fortune awaits him there. With zippo to lose, the man sets out to claim his fortune. He arrives in Cairo just equally evening overtakes the desert, and decides to residual for the nighttime in a mosque. Meanwhile, Allah decrees that a band of thieves enter the mosque and brainstorm making arrangements to rob the adjoining estate. The Chief of Law, privy to the plans, shows up, merely too belatedly--the bandits make off with their boodle, and escape persecution. Naturally, the police force finds the Baghdadi asleep in the mosque and erroneously assumes the worst. The Baghdadi is cane-whipped inside an inch of his life. Browbeaten and confused, the Baghdadi is sent to jail for three days, subsequently which the Primary questions him and ascertains the truth. Laughing difficult enough to "show his wisdom teeth," the Principal admits that he, himself, had been visited by Speaker three times, and had been promised that a bang-up treasure lay subconscious under such-and-such jetting fountain in such-and-such garden in Baghdad, only he wasn't fool enough to make the journey on the confidence of a dream. Whereupon, the Master gives the Baghdadi some coins and sends him dorsum to Baghdad.
We are always navigating controlled environments which nosotros have no hand in. It is preposterous to think that we take control, nevertheless we spend our whole lives asserting this fallacy and claiming ownership, creating symbols, and determining significant. Our stories are perhaps the most bogus, misleading documents of our existence, but possibly not? Perhaps they contain the simply fragments of truth we know. My effervescent bridge is stock-still solidly in my memory where it spans arterial canals eternally. If I were to stand upon its gleaming, brocaded surface, squinting my eyes confronting the immense convergence of calorie-free that swallows me at that place, I will have discovered the headwaters of my many fictions.
Even though Shahrazad concludes her story for the evening with the Baghdadi's deviation from Cairo (in society to retain her caput for ane more twenty-four hour period), Rex Shahryar must take divined the ending: In the Police Chief's dream the Baghdadi recognizes his own garden, his ain jetting fountain, and returns home to dig up riches beyond his imagination. Later on all, this is story. And in Northern Ireland, thousands of miles from Portland, I discovered the ruby-red bridge many years later, in a wide field of cropped grass.
Source: https://storypluslife.blogspot.com/2009/04/ruined-man-who-became-rich-again.html
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