Closing My Eyes Changes Nothing

Little Bat approaches the 66. In preparation, he ties a length of rope from one of our supply boxes to the roof rack at the back of the Machine. Methodically he trusses himself up like something about to be slaughtered. Now I understand Uncle’s concern. The way Little Bat is tied I am worried his body could be squeezed to pieces, his insides compressed and bloody. The possibility is not that he is instantly killed. Instead what could come to pass are the kinds of injuries that occur in the dark. The body filling with its own fluids in all the wrong places, the death a slow and painful one, perhaps not even coming on for several weeks, the form internally leaking, a flood that cannot be stopped. I can tell my brother is thinking the same thing, but Uncle makes no move to stop his heart’s disciple.

The distance between heaven and earth is no greater than one’s intention. Little Bat lifts his face to the sky. I want to look away, but this is the world as it is. Closing my eyes changes nothing.

Impressive are horses and elephants which are well trained, but more impressive are individuals who tame themselves. It is not a miracle. Tomorrow as we bathe in an icy spring with the first candidate, the cost of this superhuman act of strength is evident. Little Bat’s single-handedly pulling the Machine up out of the earth the way the yak pulls a plow, the rope merciless and digging into his flesh, the Machine slowly rising back up onto solid ground, a creature being raised from the underworld. As surely as our shadow never leaves us, so well-being follows when we act with a pure state of mind. Little Bat’s entire body crisscrossed with welts and bruises, markings that are with him unto the end.