011 nowhere / now here CHAPTER 2. THE ABOMINABLE MIST ASIAN SAGES LONG BEFORE THE TIME OF CHRIST HAD INTUITED CORRECTLY THAT THE GALAXIES NUMBERED IN THE BILLIONS, AND THAT UNIVERSAL TIME WAS BEYOND ALL APPREHENSION: MORE THAN FOUR BILLION YEARS WAS BUT ONE DAY IN THE EXISTENCE OF THEIR CREATOR, NO MORE THAN “A TWINKLING OF THE EYE OF THE IMMUTABLE, IMMORTAL, BEGINNINGLESS LORD, THE GOD OF THE UNIVERSE. PETER MATTHIESSEN, THE SNOW LEOPARD. HÉCTOR CASTELLS Now Here, Kathmandu, May 2025. Last Tuesday life, as I knew it, became the Gloomiest Monday. The Narcissist and I were outside a lovely hotel in Kathmandu. Our Nepalese fixer, Rishi, was about to relocate us to a safe place in his jeep, when two alleged Interpol agents ambushed us. The larger one, an enormous furry bastard, inflicted a blow to the Narcissist’s head with a steel club. Rishi managed to drive him away, but I was left behind. My left strap got ripped off, my underwear exposed, his belongings rolling under the absent moon like a mad, tiny snowball. It’s been five days without news and I fear the worst, so I have decided to step in and finish the story on his behalf. Since I’m the only witness and I have his orphan belongings inside me, I’m a legit literary executioner. It is my unsolicited duty to transcribe and edit the Narcissist’ calamitous handwritten pages and endless notes, and finish this story. THE OBNOXIOUS OLIVE My name is Olive, by the way. I’m a Parisian backpack unfortunately made in China, hence my underwear. I have been the Narcissist’ only luggage and company for the last decade. I feel for him, even though I have no feelings. This story was inspired by a dream —if not a nightmare. The Narcissist suffered it while reading Wade Davis’ Into the Silence, which along Peter Matthiessen’s’ The Snow Leopard are the main two volumes he was sourcing while writing this: The Scorching Mist — Nowhere—Elsewhere, April 2025. There is an evil, scorching mist: it dazzles you before it burns you. The snowflakes swirl under the blizzard like albino geckos spitting fire, and once the sunshine hits the crusted ice, the radiation is instant: it melts your skin and laser-blinds your corneas. This is how your Himalayan dream becomes your nightmare. You narrow your eyes. You can barely make out the silhouette advancing under the snowstorm towards you. You squint; he, whatever he is, smirks. He is wearing the groin cloth, the 8TH century phurba, a fine, deadly scythe; and the exact same sheepskin coat used by Tibetan soldiers 1400 years ago. Oh My Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones! Mother of the Dragons! FANGS CHEWING HILLS He is immune to the frost radiation, loftier than a sequoia tree and bushier than a Spaniard moustache from the Dark Ages. You can make his flushed smile crack up the lashing white. Next thing he opens his mouth. His dentition is the ultimate radiography of the Himalayas: thirty-two peaks turned into immaculate fangs ready to devour you. He roars like a thousand predators abusing Beethoven. And the rest is (your) silence. Now Here: Ting Ri, Tibet — circa 8th century. “If you can not sustain my teaching misadventure certainly befall you.” —PadmaSambhava AKA Guru Rinpoche (8TH century).
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