A Tale Around the Deepest, Mighty Propulsor of Human Choices

A Rainbow For Your Eyes

Brainwashing

I was an extremist militant. Despite I had never been quite accepted by our organization, I used to enjoy a lot that comradeship and to feed up that dream shared by all members of becoming someday mighty enough to slaughter all those supposed enemies. Every time we all were together in that underground group, our peculiar way of life seemed that of people ready to an imminent assault on the nation's central federal power, and of course, our final success was warranteed. Only among us the true sociopolitical theory was to be found, exactly that one from which we could get the certainty of victory.
Our political insignificance as measured by opinion polls, which pointed out the masses complete ignorance regarding our way of thinking society mattered little or nothing to us. As for practical political actions ours were limited to the search for new comrades, and after these were within our net, to subdue their minds according to our worldview. Enemies used to qualified our approach to newbies as 'brainwashing', but I am quite sure this word is improper to describe that. Some noobs were easier to tame than others, and that’s all.
Summary rejections happened at a first look or at a second word. My own initiation had taken place amid plenty of ambiguities. Maybe all those ideas were indeed hard for every one of us to assimilate, notwithstanding the harsh punishment applied to suspicions of dissimulation, which routinely led to a violent expelling, many times to death.
Sometimes I think even the most radical of killers there was also an extraordinary dissembler of his own heavy doubts between a complete surrender to our Blue ideals and an absolute disbelief concerning all that wordy nonsense.
However, what usually best made us feel alive, were those clandestine meetings in which plans were described, decisions were sketched, amid comments about those stupid fake news released by the internet and other media. There was also a lot of gossip.
All that social cheer indeed used to be followed by abrupt purges, eliminations, murder of traitors. A group member had to be killed whenever he or she had very probably put our goals in danger no matter such a person were a newbie or an old buddy. Yes, a fairly likely betrayal was enough for such a punishment, according to our Blue Code, and the only rule to that decision was it had to be uttered by a group meeting counting at least 7 people.
I have fed and propagated all that imbroglio of lies within which we lived, by means of that big, refined lie that was my dissimulation, my grand staging. On the other hand, it was quite patent---at least for me---that such a staging was shared by all. Others, not being capable of such a wordy lying as well as I did, dared only a little in rhetorical tools.
I have never come punctually to the group meetings, nor at any appointment throughout my whole life. Yet, all comrades were sympathic to me on this point, at least to a certain extent. Well, to be accurate I must say most of us never made any effort to arrive in time there. If a meeting was set to begin at 7:00 P.M. at a given pub, everybody could understand it to begin never before 9:00 P.M.. During those hundred-twenty minutes, members could wander alone through the downtown streets, in search of his or her authentic personal selves. But the latter was almost never found except perhaps by just a very few people, because as matter of fact all group members used to arrive, never minding if late.
I, myself, however used to arrive even more later than most others. Obviously it was to be concluded my egocentric search was the most lingering among our Blue peers. My arguments in my own defense sounded like this:
"Dear comrades, while I wandered for a such a long time through the sad streets of our dantesque megalopolis my thoughts struggled hard against limtations set by my strong narcissistic ego hinderings. Despite such too petty, coward impulses, my deep grounded roots within our group were enough to defeat my mediocre petitbourgeois weaknesses. Yes, we all are prone to the latter, which unfortunately touches every person from this slavish society, ideologically binding not only the bottom layer Lumpenproletarier workers but also those filthy rich bourgeois monsters”.
A powerful, perhaps even carismatic orator, I used to speak enthusiastically about our points of view and our way of life, so much as about the coming times in which our own eyes would watch the long awaited 'Revolution' we were then plotting.
My speeches often narrated many details on all those visionary dreams which I, later at home alone, would bring again to my mind just to violently throw up all of them.
Shrewd, but also faithful to the group, I kept staging that so vivid mask for several years, this way helping to propagate that lies' imbroglio which did give a meaning to our lives. My best defense weapon was sure a grave sin for a Blue: the ability to dissimulate perfectly, due to an inborn gift for staging as if a profissional actor.
Yet, it seemed quite patent---at least from my point of view---that some degree of staging had to be common to all other comrades. Those, who could not represent so well as actors, were destined not to play relevant roles in our underground plot, constrained not to dare much in rhetorical tools. My high-ranked position inside the Blue Brigades sure came from my being their best actor.
I used to drink a lot of coffee before Blue meetings, to get me more alert, but not only that. In my pockets I always carried, besides my old and faulty watch, lots of potent anti-emetics pills. Well, coffee consumption had no restrictions among the Blue, quite the contrary what happened with any drugs able to inhibit vomits, against which use an absolute ban had been decreed much before my arrival. A comrade caught taking such pills ought to be summarily expelled whether a newbie, or even assassinated whether any other kind of member. The necessity of this ban came as a complement to another one which strictly had forbidden members to throw up all those stupid ideals, as well as the wordy nonsenses from them derived.
A still graver sin would be surely to take anti-vomiting drugs. I ask now myself who could have remained alive during those years if the secret abuse of anti-emetics was not very widespread amog us? Ingesting them must have been a part of the very recognition ritual as group's members. We would never reveal to anybody that personal secret, but certainly every one of us took our own daily, massive dose of metoclopramide just to stay alive.
Its pharmacologic name has to stay always much clear on my memory, and so its trade lab brands. It is a very efficient medication to inhibit the gag reflex, acting on the Central Nervous System. Emergency room doctors have warned me that winter morning, never ever to forget its name. I have suffered a very dangerous allergic reaction to the usual seven metoclopramide capsules I took, still on my bed as I did every morning.
By heart its chemical name is on my mind, I don't want to die so stupidly, I must love a lot and change this so unfair world. Its effect results from a direct action on the brain vomit center. I was oriented to never ingesting a single drop forget its brands or the pharmacologic name. I should never more take even a single drop of such a drug, because another "serious anaphylactic reaction" would be triggered again, and be enough to kill me in no more than a few minutes. Despite their scaring warnings, I didn't panick but my Blue chumminess was evidently over once and for all.
I should never take even a single drop of such a drug anymore, because another "serious anaphylactic reaction" would be triggered again, and surely being enough to kill me in no more than a few minutes. Despite their scaring warnings, I didn't panic but my Blue chumminess was evidently over once and for all.
Instantly, Blue ideals were deleted from my mind along with ideological groundings, both at one stroke. If I ever to tried to come back to meet those old friends, I'd be killed as a dangerous traitor.
At sunset, freed from Hospital that same day, I took this train as a stowaway. The departure from São Paulo has been at Light Station, but its destination was totally unknown by me.
In the next Blue meeting, which took place as usual at Riviera Italiana Pub, members have decided to scatter forever. As weird as it might sound, my anaphilatic crisis triggered a sudden discard of those rigid, sacred beliefs which had given meaning to our lives for years. Does it make sense to symbolically state the Blue Brigades were indeed vomited?
News about our dispersion came on a daily paper bought at an old railway station in a faraway hamlet.
"THE SCATTERING OF THE BLUE BRIGADE" was on the headline. Some confessions by Blue members were transcribed. An unidentified ex-Blue had declared that without me (yes, myself, this narrator), without my charismatic eloquence, nobody among them wouldn't any longer be able to carry out Bluish actions, or to take those huge doses of vomit inhibitors. The article ended doubting whether such a dangerous and violent group could so abruptly be taken for extinct . But I right away believed their end was true. None of the Blues would ever admit, not even to himself the addiction to anti-emetic drugs if the Blue Brigade was not definitely finished off.

Departure From Light Station
Even before departure from Light Station (Estação da Luz) I approached the locomotive. Between Luz and Barra Funda I persuaded the engine driver to let me guide the train, expelled him from his power nearing Lapa, and I was the only headman on this engine even before crossing the Tietê River. No stop at Pirituba was made, since the former driver warned me some routine inspection by railroad guards usually happened there. By then we were already like old friends. São Paulo's inhabitants pay little attention to that huge mountain, but I always admired Jaraguá Peak's majesty and wild beauty.
Sometimes daydreaming I imagine my prefered mountain as having a soul, perhaps able to talk as a human being, or maybe as a Greek god. An extinct volcano, as it easy to deduce from his contour lines, someday Jaraguá will bury the whole São Paulo megalopolis, exploding as a tropical Vesuvius.
Moved by my own childhood memories of the Jaraguá Peak, I changed to a slower gear in that section where the railway passes close to its foot. Calling then all my travel companions' attention to the dreadful menace so near to São Paulo, I got aware its distant volcanic past was quite unknown by all people there. My speech was interrupted by histrionic fear cries, female weeping, and male outloud laughs, the latter plainly to dissimulate an evident fear, by no means smaller than their wives'.
I took that messy moment, to invite everybody for a visit to my alone place, a driver cubicle, which looked like a disguised jail cell.
There were six wagons. Emigrants, people in the first group comprised fifty couples with no children, leaving São Paulo forever. On some women's faces, I could see a sad look -- perhaps they were constrained to suddenly leaving their hometown, their families, their beloved ones -- something which contrast clearly to that odd joy on their husbands face expression.
With so much surprise I knew in each of the other wagons, there were also five dozen couples. Entirely by chance, unaware about what was expecting me I had taken command of a very peculiar convoy.
Couples were making bows to me, supposedly no more than a simple train driver, in a very strange attitude among our upper classes. They belonged to the richest São Paulo wealthy layers, who for decades had been underrating our railroads. The same trains on seemingly infinite railroads, whose images and sounds were so abundant in my distant and happy childhood.
Suddenly, the engine computer screen began to command me. with huge red letters, to seal hermetically all doors, windows and every kind of opening, as if we were on a plane at a high altitude.
As for the ex-driver, his true story is that getting to know couples were then respecting and admiring me a lot more than he expected, he jumped out from the train to death, throwing himself against his beloved rails. I have been the only one to watch his final moment. Despite an intense grief, as an ex-Blue I understood his despair.
Jovial, glad, polite and gentle my three hundred couples were, too, exquisitely beautiful, surely selected for the scope of perpetuating beauty at some last redoubt of life and pleasure on our endangered planet Earth.
Despite a huge curiosity, I could by no means ask them what was the purpose of all that, cause their glances suggestive I should be aware of everything concerning that strange voyage.
When all the chitchat about the Jaraguá Volcano was finished after my "provocative imagination" being well praised by those three hundred males, couples returned to their seats.
Taking a look at that screen again, I opened for the first time the driver instructions handbook whose first and major command was not yet being followed. All openings had to remain closed until THE BIG DANGER OF CLOUDS had ceased.
I didn't know what kind of clouds were those, but I put the speed to the maximum. It was not allowed us to stop anywhere, since the train were to go ahead uninterruptedly till reaching an unknown point on the map staying 4,9 hundred miles away from Light Station, the departure point.


Death Nearing Jaraguá Peak
Thinking back, I wonder whether since the beginnings all events have had some kind of a connection, perhaps an easily evidenced one, in spite of any recondite and esoteric meanings:
Light Station, six wagons and this iron horse, our Brigade that was allways radical fighter for the sake of purest beauty, were all these hidden conncted symbols?
As already mentioned, I have never fully incorporated Blue group's cause, and always felt myself a borderline, elusive and careless member there. This might explain why my delay was allways the greatest among them.
There were doctors as Green Brigades members, as well as several pharmacists. Maybe at some meeting at Riviera, to which I delayed more than usual (or have I been absent?), my massive use of anti-emetics became disclosed to everyone. People then had to decide to slaughter me. Green doctors got in contact with the drugstore where my pills were sold, then bribing clerks to sell me any lethal poison, under the false label of metoclopramide.
As on every morning, I took countless of those tablets just after waking up. Yes, still in bed I felt a physical need to do so.
My first conscious thoughts were quite enough to bring me quickly the group's Ideology. Violent nausea would hit me then right away. In past times, when I was just a Green newbie, I had severe vomits in public places. In those times I allowed them to get out of my mouth in spurts: all of such wordy and foolish nonsenses. Maybe the Green Brigade rules were then more dovish, less violent, hawkish, cantankerous.
Despite becoming thereafter so aggressive a member as other Green activists, I had never killed anyone.
A heavy burden on my conscience has begun here on this same so queer travel, when in order to get exclusively in my hands all power, I felt obliged to murder the former driver, simulating his suicide.




No witness could ever have seen his final moments, if not for another reason simply because nobody knew two men were within that driver's cubicle. Otherwise it was evident such a strong and stalwart man would never throw himself upon his beloved iron parallel rails.
I've had no choice but to thrust him out of the train, since the moment when it came to my mind a mistrust thinking he could call the police as soon as a major city neared the horizon's line.
During all armed revolutions plain words suggesting good faith are not enough to build a reliable friendship. Despite this, I managed to kill him in such a way even himself would believe it was an accidental fall. I've had to forget our being buddies, but as for him, unaware of my intentional collision to his muscular pretty, buttocks, he died loyal to me at least till his heartbeat ceased, perhaps even after it.
No I am not allowed to any regrets, since for keeping tightly on my mind our major Green Commandment:
''If your enemy who does not love the Green puts at risk your might position, just kill him soon! Remember to kill him with a sharp blade; for the sake of Orchids and Hummingbirds kill him in a Green way!
For the sake of all Earth's living beings, you have to kill our enemies, but only with a shining Green dagger''.
Undoubtedly, ''Green dagger'' here was no more than a symbolic way to get access to a deeper understanding of our sacred Manual of Green Prayers and Meditations. Nonetheless I am uncertain as whether that Esmerald rule has been strictly observed by myself while assassinating that guy.
Only for not being a member of our Brigade, would it be true he didn't love the Green, to the point of being considered our enemy? On the other hand, have I killed him with a "Green dagger"? When I think the right answer here is negative, his shattered skull amid those red jets coming out from his torn aorta comes to my mind. All sunset images around our train, which passed slowly so near the rainforest covering Jaraguá Volcano's hillside, come vividly shining before my eyes. I become then sure those wonderful trees have seen such a low and disgusting color, a bright, flashy red then gushing out of my friend's corpse.
If my thoughts go the other way, I see so clearly that killing him has been strictly loyal to the Sacred Green Scriptures. Accordingly, on these occasions, I am able to regard the same Jaraguá Peak's rainforest as symbolically equivalent to a "Green dagger". Being written many centuries ago, those sacred words actually need much more than a bold allegoric interpretation. Only random and quite free association searching for still not grasped meanings might be enough to disclosing their ancient times writers' deep intentions.
Speaking to passengers for that first time, I felt rather baffled. This train must have a previously stablished destination, but it was by then completely unknown to me. Besides this, I could not help but seeing me as ugly and awkward before those hundreds of gorgeous lustful couples.
Someone there paid attention to my awkward look, looking into my eyes as recognizing me. More than that, she stared me as if we were accomplices of something I could not guess what. In secret that pretty female has given me a little note, which turned me her glances clearer to understand. She was also a Green, and was ordering me to follow still more attentively all computer's Instructions. I was supposed to wait for another message from her, no matter how long it would take. Closed all its doors and windows, our locomotive was due to speed up maximally heading towards a point eight hundred seventeen miles away from Light neighborhood's departure station. At that distant place something quite new and unexpected was supposed to happen.
From then on I was supposed to follow not only panel's Instructions, but also the notes eventually coming from that fucking gorgeous, horny woman. Reading her message I became finally able to understand why our train had not yet been besieged by any clouds of hummingbirds. For me, it seemed then those convoy's riddles were on the right way to an elucidation.


Downstream The Paraná River
To kill the former driver was not necessary, absolutely! Rather it resulted enough all decisions were due only to me to induce that good man's suicide upon rails, certainly feeling there were no more reasons to keep on living then demoted to a mere menial position.Facts and reasons about his death were then logical and reliable enough in order to allow speeding up engine, saying a poignant farewell to that landscape as the sun set behind the huge extinct volcano Jaraguá, my beloved mountain.Very intrigued by that traveler's note, who, whether really a Yellow activist, I speculated how could she live among the wealthy, having agreed to such an old fashioned marriage? Moreover what could be the purpose of blindly obeying those computer instructions which required the closure of absolutely all possible entries of sunlight, thus leading to the immediate locking up of train's interior to all sun rays, thus plunging us in total darkness without any cue about for why or for how much time?
What might be the point behind preventing even the coming of the sacred Sun rays to our eyes? What could our Brigade's ideology have in common with such weird way of life of those sexist couples?
By the way, those so gorgeous patners were constantly looking into my eyes as if inviting me to an impossible orgy? Well, perhaps there was no random coincidence, everything being just a wild tactical game before the arrival at that far faraway place on the South American map thirteen hundred miles from São Paulo. Would it be within Brazil, or over there beyond the border at Corumbá? International limits were absent in that chart on screen, I could not understand why.
Those mandatory computer's commands had my prompt obeyance, but not without before being judged by me, regarding coherence with our Yellow ideals. Fortunately, there were countless boxes of metoclopramide amid first-aid equipment, so I would be able to take those pills during all this wonder travel.
How silly was I to believe in those physicians from the emergency room! Surely, seeing my heavy use of the drug, they chose to frighten up and said I could die from a smallest amount of metoclopramide entering my bloodstrem. Drinking a small droplet of it would be my suicide.
But I did take it and nothing has happened. A false labeled bottle of metoclopramide must have been sold to me, probably as part of a plan plotted by some envious Yellow comrade who rivaled my leadership.
I had a great relieve when I got aware he Yellows were still in action, at least here within this convoy. I could keep on vomiting in jets abundantly, notwithstanding I have never done it at all. My Yellow ideals are my life.
At daybreak the Paraná River was appearing on the horizon, while by phone I wished them a good morning, also adding some words about my supposition theirs had been a very 'hot', plenty of pleasures night, notwithstanding those uncomfortable beds. I finished that greeting with my sincere personal desire that all erotic impulses could have been fully satisfied.
No more than three men laughed at my joke, which was supposedly sexy. All speeches were coming ready on computer screen, except this latter, obviously written by myself.
Believing to have used appropriate intonation and nuances, enriched with horny lust brought upon for seeing all those gorgeous couples, I believed for a moment in a horny reply by some of those people, what promptly recalled me those times when I pretended to be the maximum boss among Yellows as if all final decisions were up to my hands.
Within all those wagons there were only artificial, weak lights because the train had indeed all its orifices hermetically closed. Nobody, except perhaps me, would then be able to see even the tiny first returning sunbeam.
I could not be sure as to that tiny light beam seeming to cross the blockage of those colossal clouds of birds (some looking like hummingbirds, others so huge, bulky and black as condors) along the whole horizon line. At a sudden, an unexpect call from a wife asking to visit me came from stateroom 6-A. At arrival her lustful, seductive blue eyes were inviting me to take a glance at her left pink, excited nipple she had freed from a thin bra. She had come to tell me, in revelation tone between accomplices, that all had taken place as expected adding it had been very easy to kill his husband. From that moment on she would be exclusively mine, assuring his corpse soon would have disappeared from sight without any cues.
Compelled to pretend being aware of all that plot details, I could'nt disguise feeling very perplexed after hearing from then on she would be only mine, plainly because I would never be able to leave even for a second this small cubicle, at least during this travel, whose duration it seemed quite impossible for me to divine.
If I asked her any kind of question on her husband murder, my words would inevitably disclose my condition as a mere hijacker, perhaps even as a killer.
That female of "mine" went back to her seat without saying anything more. Just before leaving she gave me an ardent kiss, and rubbed her nipples on my chest while mentioning the first phrases of our group's sacred prayer:
"Yellow as Sunset and the Golden Trumpet Trees."
To which I replied:
"Yellow as Gold and Sunrise"
At that moment, only clouds of tiny birds were preventing me from turning off artificial lights. Because I couldn't anymore see those huge black birds but only the smallest ones, some hopes grew that the sun would reappear after the crossing of the Paraná River. After that first one, three hundred wives took turns to visit me that same morning. Each of them secretly told to be a Yellow member. Mysteriously, they seemed never to have talked to one another.
To all of them I had no choice but pretending to be aware of the whole plot, never minding what could be at stake there. Every female let me see their pretty nipples rubbing them on my chest during deliciously prolonged kisses. All of them whispered to be only mine, before returning to their staterooms. In spite of a so intense desire for so hot a females, even to the point of feeling such well known scrotal pain, I couldn't help but being appalled when imagining what had just happened over that large bridge: three hundred corpses of young brawny males thrown onto the Paraná River, one by one, solely through the hands of each gorgeous killer wife.
Abruptly, an intense drowsiness got me, as it always happened after swallowing too many of those pills. Nothing could be more commendable, according to "The Great Bloody Book of Red Revelations", than the mighty position I have conquered in this weird transcontinental train.
Notwithstanding such an accomplishment being so praiseworthy according to our ideals, during my whole life as a Red, I had never conceived anything similar to this deed of mine helped by those three hundred female comrades.
So sleepy by those pills, but still with nauseated, I decided to utter a new enthusiastical discourse to congratulate them. But I couldn't read it, because it came then to my mind a role could perhaps have been ascribed by group commanders to me as unwitting protagonist within a very complex Red plot.


Crisscrossing the Andean Highlands
Metoclopramide,
Almost death by an allergic shock,
Escape,
My friend's suicide through my own hands,
Three hundred of the most gorgeous, sensual and exciting couples,
The Jaraguá Volcano and the search for the unreachable destination of this train,
Giant clouds of birds,
Absolute darkness, artificial lights,
Ardent kisses,
Pretty nipples rubbing my chest,
Myself then burning in lustful flames,
Yet alone and too busy as the only driver here,
The three hundred husbands' slaughter,
Their corpses carried downstream the large river,
Absolute power so close to my hands,
Those so pretty females now only mine,
Despite being impossible to fuck them.
A renewed warning against any not necessary realease of seat belts, since that was an extremely dangerous railway tract. Train motors would not be allowed a stop before arriving at a hamlet twenty-eight hundred miles away from Light Station, pointed out by a blue dot on the Andean Highlands in an arid, cold landscape.
As on every morning comrades took turns to visit me.
"Blue as the Titicaca waters.”
“Blue as the open sky of spring mornings"
Hearing then my reply:
"Blue as your eyes"
All riddles would be solved if at any time I were able to overcome my impostor condition. How should I explain that to them? Or how to forget it all forever? Train was crisscrossing now a sinuous path leading to highland's top, contouring many deep abysses.
Low speed was again mandatory, board computer kept sending many commands programmed by unknown agents, whose purposes were quite unattainable to me. We would, yes, someday reach that mysterious, elusive point on map towards which our convoy was heading, where all enigmas surrounding this so variegated travel would be unraveled. My wives would finally reveal the esoteric meaning of all this, and I would have courage to tell them my true story.
Suddenly, there weren't any more birds in this so clear sky above us. In the middle of such a bonanza maximum intake of anti-emetic pills was ordered on panel screen, up to a level never reached before.
The meteorological radar was foreseeing a huge storm for soon, emitting an urgent, private warning to every passenger to follow instruction AZZ-71271- UE-BL-EM. EM, supposedly is an abbreviation for emesis, vomits. By then, while crisscrossing this typical Andean plateau landscape, a very singular and never seen kind of clouds came over the entire horizon. Soon it would fall over us. Fortunately, I had time enough to open all doors, windows, and any kind of holes for the eyes of my gorgeous comrades of color and terror to see. It was a pouring rain, a Blue rain. That hateful screen hasn't any more data concerning any stops. We are no longer in need of an end of on this railway. It is enough this blue storm never ends, enabling us to keep watching this wonder spectacle forever.
It's pouring a Blue rain, infinite Blue gleaming drops.
"Blue as aquamarines"
"Blue as the open sky of spring mornings.'
"Blue as Nothingness".