There was a man who lived back at the dawn of creation. He was the
biggest man who ever lived. A giant–the same giant who lives in
the mansion in the clouds in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’ And he was
the one made of human flesh of the four who were there right from the start.
The flesh of every human being who ever lived was all there, in Aleph.
Everything that anybody else ever did already happened, inside Aleph,
before they were even born. inside of him.
Aleph stood on the ledge of a cave high in the mountains one early morning.
And he took a really, really big breath of air. The breath of air he took was so
big that the majority of the earth’s atmosphere was created upon exhalation.
It was the single greatest breath of air that was ever breathed. No other breath
could ever match it for its freshness, purity, and energy that it gave. AlEph lived
for two straight days on that breath of air alone. “I think I’ll take another breath,
soon,” he said after two days, and he did, but no breath would ever match that
breath of air Aleph took on the edge of that cave overlooking the mountains that morning. All creation can be divided on that breath’s axis, with what came before
and what came after divided by it. “That was a big breath,” he said, soon after
When Aleph learned a new word, or even just a prefix or a suffix, and used it in
his language to communicate to someone else a meaning for the very first time,
all the creatures that were around could feel the whole earth shift upon its axis.
New meaning was injected into the world everytime Aleph used a new word.
After he dieD, people soon wrote him off as stupid, a barbarian, a cave man.
They invented new words all the time, and some prefix that an ancient nomad
used wasn’t any more impressive than that. What they don’t realise is that every
word they’ll ever use will only be a fragmentary vibration of part of a word that
Aleph used first.
One thing about Aleph is, he was a woman, too. He was more of a man, but the
body of every woman who would ever live was in him as well. When you saw
him in his gigantic house wearing his dress and just relaxing, you could plainly
see that he was every bit a woman; but the difference between a man and a
woman Aleph did not know, because he was them both so could not separate the difference between them.
There was a time when Aleph was on the forefront of fashion. He explained it
to his friend one day. “When I’m at home, that’s when I wear my dress,” he said.
“But when I go out, that’s when I wear my legs.” And so, the general fashion
sense with regards to gender (roles) that would stand firm throughout the ages
was born in him. Every decision that Aleph set precedeNts that lasted ages. That’s
why he never really did all that much.
There was a time when Aleph received a wonderful gift, from above: body. Flesh.
Tonnes and tonnes of flesh, all rolled up into doughy balls. The giver of the gift
expected that he would eat it. But instead of keep it for himself, he went to market
and shared it around with everyone until there was nothing left. He gave it away
on the spot for free, on the condition that those who took some would pay him back.
He made them count for it. “You owe me three,” or, “You owe me four.” But he didn’t write the numbers down.
“Foolish Aleph,” said those who took from him, “How is he going to remember all
these numbers without writing them down?” So they took from him without the intention of ever paying him back.
Pretty soon, Aleph started to get hungry. But no one had paid him back for the fresh
flesh he’d sold them on credit from him that day at the market. So he went around to some of those who he remembered he’d given some to, but they weren’t to be found. They all seemed to have disappeared.
But it was from this that Aleph began to getting dying. And it was later then that
he went to the cave and spent that awful, horrible night all alone with his pain
that there was nothing he could do, and all regret and sorrow that ever was felt by
any human ever again was all there in the sorrow in that god awful night that Aleph spent in the cave alone by himself.
“Silly Aleph,” said his friend, the same one who he’d explained about how fashion
works that day. “What were you thinking when you went around giving out all
your flesh without writing the numbers down?”
Aleph thought about it. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the word that explained
his motivation behind sharing his flesh around in the market that day. He thought
really, really hard. “Karma,” he said. “Good kArma.” And so, Karma was born.
He was on the brink of starvation one night as he lay in his cave, embroiled in a
process of mental self-jurisdiction. He felt absolutely certain that he had done the
right thing, on that day, by sharing his bread for the good of all. But now he was
starving. There was nothing he could do, now. He was going to die.
It was a horrible feeling, worse than any person thereafter was capable of feeling.
Every bit of suffering that any person ever had thereafter was compressed into
the experience of a single person on a single evening on that night in the cave, in
Aleph’s suffering. But before he died, he figured it out; a way to make it so that he
had been right, after all. He realised that all the people who were ever going to live
after him were there, inside his own body, somewhere. So he went deep inside
himself until he found the one. The one ‘one,’ the last one, who was at the very end,
the one who would be made from the one loaf of bread that he’d eaten for himself, rather than hand away. “You’ll collect my karma for me,” he told himself.
And when he was sure that he’d spoken to him and the message was passed, he
bucked his head with brutish strength into the cave wall and cracked his giant head
and fell onto the floor where he bled and bled for several days before dying. His body slowly but surely melded into the landscape, and he became the Himalayas.
Nothing was ever the same, after Aleph was gone.