Yes, now that I’ve broken my silence, I’m writing a slew of posts. I have thoughts. I write mental essays. Generally, they sit in my head. They are probably best left that way. On the other hand, it’s hard to jump into my book, especially right now as I’m approaching the end. On a completely unrelated note, do you know how hard it is sometimes to get your characters from point A to point B? They need to go to a specific viewing room of kaleidoscopes, but they are in a palace besieged by soldiers. How will they make it to the kaleidoscopic vision of earth? I do not know because they’ve stopped on the clockwise spiral staircase. On a more related note, I’ve tried to incorporate all manner of conspiracy theories in this book from aliens to immunizations.
At night, when I finally collapse (and while my characters are still stuck on the staircase), I’ve been reading a book called And There Was Light: autobiography of Jacques Lusseyran, blind hero of the French Resistance. This is one of those autobiographies that excites me and makes me want to import salient quotes into numerous blog posts, the problem being that most of the book is quotable. It’s really quite astonishing and inspiring. I haven’t liked an auto/biography this much since I read Andrew Carnegie’s several years ago. I’m sure you will find at least three old blog posts on Carnegie. He was an early inspiration for my character of Oso, though Oso took a darker turn because he’s a gen Xer and not of an earlier optimistic American generation — however, the Carnegie book being an autobiography, I’m sure he didn’t tell us anything he didn’t want us to know. The difference is Oso doesn’t care if the world knows about his bad morals and vicious drive to be in charge.
Back to Lusseyran — I want to give him a fair blog post and not this conspiratorial one. And so this is just an intro to the man. He was blind; he had an inner sight that guided him. That sight was in part due to his faith in Christ. When he became a French resistance fighter — when, in fact, he started a French resistance organization — he was inspired by his sense of justice and morality being assaulted by the Nazis. He was anti-communist and pro-democracy. I’ve had my negative thoughts on democracy, though they’re never as dark and hateful as the thoughts I have towards communism. And when it comes to the French resistance, I honor those who were not communists because so many of them were.
In passing, Lusseyran mentions that Albert Camus was also part of a French resistance organization. This made Lusseyran a little uncomfortable for the obvious reason that he knew many of the people working underground were in fact communists. Camus, however, was at best a reluctant communist. He was rather more libertarian and leaned in the direction of anarcho-syndicalism. He saw that the communists were working toward changes in society and conceded to work with them. Later, he was more adamantly opposed to the communist party.
On one of my many sleepless nights, I looked up Camus to get a better sense of who he was. That’s when things got interesting. I noticed Camus had died in a car accident at the age of 46. Wait…hadn’t Lusseyran also died in a car accident at the age of 46? Were they eventually friends, and had they been in the same car accident? No, Camus was eleven years older than Lusseyran. By the way, that’s an interesting fact: Lusseyran and his buddy resistance fighters were teenagers. They were so young they couldn’t be put to work in the German labor camps. That is really an aside, but it shows the drive these men had at a young age. Camus, on the other hand, was a full-fledged adult when he became a resistance fighter.
What a weird coincidence, I thought. Here were two men who had been French resistance fighters, both of whom had been vocally anti-communist who had died in car accidents at the age of 46. Some suspected Camus had been taken out by the KGB. Nobody seemed to suspect anything of Lusseyran’s death by car accident.
I did what most insomniacs do: I took it to the internet. Surely, somebody else had noted the strange coincidence of their deaths and lives. Nope. I couldn’t find anyone who had tried to develop a conspiracy off of this. But I did end up on a website giving a list of notable people who had died at the age of 46. I assume the site came up because Camus was on it. Lusseyran, not being as famous, was not on it. You know who was, though? That’s right; you guessed it. The biggest conspiracist’s dream, John F. Kennedy. In between the deaths of Camus and Lusseyran, was the assassination of our beloved president at the age of 46. Is there something significant to this age? Was all this part of the Cold War? What had really happened?
I got up and paced the house. What is an insomniac to do when she is completely mad from lack of sleep and too much alcohol that hasn’t really done the trick to put her to sleep? She is left to pace and run her fingers through her hair, to stare at the moon out the kitchen window, to shift into 3rd-person perspective and remember that she herself is 46. And what now? Has she finally cracked a code and now she must die because of her current age?
I (re-entering my blogpost) should have cracked the code several months from now when I turn 47. But it’s all right. I’m sure the Cold War is over now, and I was never a resistance fighter. Rather, my life is taken up by arguing with young communists on Facebook who think they’re democratic socialists like the French have become these days. Oh, boy. What a life this has become! The internet just doesn’t have the intrigue of underground newspapers circulated by teenage boys who are fighting for truth and justice and Christianity. I need to up my game if I’m going to survive in my soul past the age of 50. Let alone 46.