Layers of Me
Notes:
I mentioned Stanley Kunitz's poem "The Layers" in an earlier piece, this time I thought I'd work with it a little (more).
Usual disclaimers apply. Not for profit, for fun.
"I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,"
Here in the room that he shares with Bookman, he lies on his bed and puts his hand over the eye that the world can see. Within this induced darkness he meditates.
A solemn voice questions, "Who are you?" In the quiet of his mind he replies with equal solemnity, The One who will succeed the Bookman. "Who is the Bookman?" The Bookman is a spectator to history and it's chronicler. He records the secret history of the world and passes it on to future generations.
For such is the role of Bookmen, they endeavour to travel to every quarter, never to linger in one place, to imprint history in their minds and record what they witness.
"What must a Bookman be like?" He must not become attached or be controlled by emotion. He speaks with everyone, then leaves as if nothing has happened. Feelings are unnecessary to those who record the secret histories. They chronicle events as they are. Bookmen have no need of a heart.
"I will ask - Who are you?" I am the Bookman's successor. I take on a new name I go somewhere new and discard it each time I leave. These lines of query and reply are a part of his everyday routine and have been since that first night with Bookman. Only now, so ingrained, it is become part of him, inherent within him that he does not need Bookman to be physically present anymore. Like cleaning his teeth, something he does everyday without thinking, like breathing.
For a decade, he has never questioned their maxim. He understands it even. The secret histories cannot be compared to conventional historical text, that might be biased towards where you lived, the colonies or an independent entity, or something like Herodotus 'Histories'. A more Bookman-like historian could possibly be Thucydides - and his Peloponnesian Wars although pedagogy on how to transcribe those histories have long since changed and especially within the Bookmen. Their traditions follow strict codes and an almost monasterial way of life albeit with more wandering. The secret histories span in time from Rome's Emperor Justinian - Historica Arcana in AD 542 which appear alongside the 'official' texts, to those of the Mongols which appear hidden from 'official' Chinese versions in 1227.
Parsing 'dead' languages is a challenge Junior revels in, connecting one event to other seemingly unconnected ones; years, decades and even centuries down the line, halfway across the world from each other, the exegetical analysis of it all even more fascinating. That knowledge - and he understands the reason Bookmen are a veiled society - can be power and could be manipulated and misappropriated to bring about destruction and doom. Even the name changes are important and in a way like all the lives before him, ink on paper, and all his lives before him faded from (anyone's)memory (but his), the only legacy is the printed word on paper.
"and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray."
He understands all this and yet, and yet … Here outside of Bookman and himself at the Black Order, he is Lavi, he is an exorcist, at the ready with a quip or light banter and never overly serious. He fights alongside with the best of them, yet he daren't be the best that he can, because that would mean letting his innocence, deepen its claim on him. Exerting more of 'God's authority' over him, sealing more than ever his choosing of a side. These are temporary comrades. This is a temporary home, inasmuch, as his never having one in the first place. The uniform he wears, a temporary contract. Mercenary! Is a voice from inside him somewhere that is loud in his mind, and it is not Bookman's, nor Lavi's.
"When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon"
Casting his mind far away, to those early days. As a child growing up with only one true adult influence, and the effect of witnessing destruction and death in conflicts across a world's stage, he felt he'd developed enough strength of character. Unfortunately, since coming to the Order, one of the things he's discovered in himself - and the truth hurts - is that he was ever naive enough to be disdainful of the human race. As blind as he'd made himself out to be in one eye.
"and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings."
Tendrils of smoke hang in the air, frozen momentarily, then wisped and dissipated. From wayside camps made alongside wagons of supply trains and military from one army to another, to those they've made as exorcists and the hellish smoke and ash left by Akuma smashed, crashed or burnt into. Embodiment of tragedy, memories past and mournful longing. Smashing and burning because more and more, THIS is what he does now. However he keeps up with his logs and records because in spite of the face the world sees he actually possesses a self-discipline that is second to none. He has to be because he will eventually be the Bookman.
"Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!"
No attachments, no getting close, no falling in love - just shallow smiles and acquaintances that will not feel the pain nor the loss when it's time to part ways. Just like the wind, scattering - Johnny, Lenalee, Komui, Yuu, Miranda and the others - leaves every which way. Will it not hurt him too, if they really didn't think of him? He feels no! He can not, But yes! He does - that they will hurt as much as he.
"How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?"
Of course if he were Bookman tried and true he would not have to at all - reconcile his heart, because of not having one in the first place - let alone be thinking twice about such things because… of course if he were a Bookman tried and true and he would not have a heart with a feast of losses to choke upon. Thus, no need for reconciliation. However the day of reckoning beckons and Junior-is-becoming-more-Lavi or is it the other way round? And the real him is uncertain, and the uncertainty is a surety as clear as any of his memories.
"In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face."
… and yet, and yet the memories of those who fell since he'd been with the Order. Doug, Daisya (though he is more to Yuu, the pain exists for him and it is real); Suman Dark - because what happened to him was all levels of wrongness and especially when they first lose Allen.
That whole ship full o' crew - giving their lives for a cause and he caustically feels shallow because he isn't sure that he can. As well as Chomesuke - that she was Akuma is irrelevant. That loss when more comrades fell to Lulubell and her invading force. And even with not tru understanding of the whole of it - the one that hurts the most - even though it is second-hand but perhaps especially because it is not-his-not-real it is more true a saudade he can never truly touch. Is Yuu's deep yearning, it is like the swordsman fell and only exists because the yearning does. It stings and hurts and shouldn't and Lavi doesn't know what to do about it and that, that stings the most, because he feels keenly when he is not allowed to.
"Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,"
These days, when he meditates and repeats the Bookman code … there seems to be a voice that is not Bookman's though the solemnity is the same, maybe an evolution of the Bookman-in-bloom, a new facet of Bookman-hood being cut, emerging.
"What are Akuma?" Akuma are malevolent weapons created by the Earl of Millennium.
"What are Exorcists?" Those who wield Innocence to defeat Akuma and thwart the Earl's planned Destruction of the World.
"I will ask - Who are you?" I am the Bookman's successor. I take on a new name I go somewhere new and discard it each time I leave. … and I am also an Exorcist and defeating Akuma is also what I do. The self-discipline is still there, though it is renewed with an additional fervour perhaps.
"and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,"
Some days are there when it feels like he is walking barefoot on broken glass, making his way through a mire of coffins much like those he waded through in Road's dreamscape. The dark obfuscating truth from his eye and his heart, and the self assailed by unsteady resolve. Each shard is a reminder, a lesson and a new piece of him.
"a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
… and it isn't like all those that came before Lavi were different, none of them were desirous of wanting to be Bookman more than he … and it isn't like all those that came before Lavi questioned the Bookman code less than he … because they were all him, just the different layers of Bookman Junior, because at the end of it all, even Road ceded defeat, and acknowledged him Bookman Junior. Layers of him.
"Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written."
His time at the Order is unfinished, his training is unfinished, the war remains unfinished, who he is yet to be remains to be seen. The roads may be mapped out but he still has to chart his course, and this he will do himself.
"I am not done with my changes."
He might have been chosen to be the next Bookman, he might have even at some point chose to really be the next Bookman, but the questions will never stop and the answers might change and he is willing to bet that he's not done with finding all the layers within him … not just yet.
Fin
Notes:
I hope I've done the original work justice, I hope I've done Lavi-Bookman Junior justice, and I sincerely hope that someone somewhere likes/loves this (because I really did love writing this and wish so much that I was a better writer.)
... and I won't forget ... if it was your birthday on the 5th Aug, I'm sorry I'm a day late, but you're wished a very Happy Birthday.
last but not least - thank you everyone who reads, because you are loved - Zan
"The Layers"
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
Stanley Kunitz, 1905 - 2006
Part 6 of the 49 Days series