Enlightenment BY a kiss

by Alan Steinborn

It takes a dark night to see the stars. The darker the night, the brighter the stars.
The whole of March, 1994 was one long night.

It was against this dark cloud of despair that I struggled one Saturday morning as
I made my way to a Berlin coffee shop.

It was late morning after a particularly heart shattering evening.

To explain why I was so far down into a dark and funky hole is a bit tricky.

On one hand there are the usual explanations; a massively broken heart, complete
disillusionment with humanity, no life focus, living in a foreign country in which I know
almost no one, walking the streets of a city that hadn't seen the sun in about 4 months.

On the other hand, my heavy heaviness seemed to come from a source beyond logic and reason.

And the night before the time of this story, my despair had reached a point of extreme crisis.

The recurring tv program broadcast in my mind was: "all alone, all alone, nothing to do, nothing
means anything and you are going to die."

And so alone, my heart did groan!

The loneliness was so extreme as I walked the empty black streets--empty empty empty.

My pain so acute, I looked for relief.

I found it.

I passed a seedy house with a red light--international symbol for the world's oldest profession.

I went in.

There I sat in a chair, like a casting director, as the ladies paraded before me.

I chose the girl with the sweetest looking eyes.

Imagine her surprise when, in our private room, I informed her that she had no need to take her clothes off.

All I wanted for the usual price for sex was a long embrace.

This was a little tricky to explain as she was Russian and spoke no English and only a bit of German.

But I got my hug and made it through the night of horrors.

So it was the morning after that night that I made my way to the cafe with a vague determination that I would write myself out of my despair.

So I wrote and wrote and wrote...wrote--anything that came to me.

I stayed submerged in this verbal spew for untold hours.

And then something pulled me out.

My attention gravitated towards a table at the front of the cafe by the window.

Sitting there, between two exquisite world class model looking women was a strange man.

A chubby, sloppy, Mulatto looking fellow with an oversized T-shirt and light brown colored afro.

From appearances, he seemed more fit to be sitting in front of a video game than next to two
of the loveliest ladies I had ever seen.

But it was quite clear that he had those ladies spell bound.

They giggled and laughed and rocked back and forth as they stared at his hefty frumpiness with unmistakable appreciation (and perhaps desire too) as they clinked champagne glasses.

"What planet is that cat from," I asked myself as I buried my head, once again, in my journal.

About half an hour later I couldn't write any more so I made my way up to the bar to pay my bill.

I was slightly more up right for my writing efforts, but exhausted.

I stood there waiting to pay as I whistled with the stereo a Thelonius Monk tune.

Suddenly somebody next to me was whistling also.

I turned to the whistling presence to discover the lucky man from the front of the cafe.

We locked eyes.

I was about to say something about the music, but before I had a chance, he looked at me
directly and said: "You come with me."

Now this out of the blue command from a total stranger would ordinarily frighten me, but the
directness of his gaize, the sweet, clear, tenor of his voice, not to mention the fine babes he
was hanging with melted away any mistrust.

Without saying a word, I grabbed my journal, put it in a cloth bag, put on my heavy trench
coat, and made my way to the door.

As I emerged into the frigid afternoon air, the man and his sweet entourage were kissing their good byes.

The ladies both regarded me with sweet smiles.

The women walked one way, we walked the other.

"So let me guess, you are an American poet running away" he said in a british sounding accent.

I answered that he was mostly right. By then I had given up all titles, including the esteemed 'poet' title.

He introduced himself.

His name was Pierre Allouyi (pronounced ah-lou-wee).

Walking next to him, any residual fear quickly melted away and was replaced by a quiet
awe as I witnessed this strange man bouncing his way down Oranienburger Strasse like a little
boy who seemed to know everyone.

He greeted everybody with such open enthusiasm that even the most stoic german robot
of human granite started to melt into a reluctant smile as they came close to this man.

Actually, as I think about it, it was more than this.

As we walked, I noticed that it wasn't how he greeted the passersby that made them smile.
It was that he shared a strange intimacy with them. It was similar to the kind of intimacy
new lovers give each other, but he gave it freely to all these strangers without exception.

After about fifteen minutes we arrived at his flat.

It was a typical Berlin dive; just the basics.

He invited me to stay for dinner.

As he cooked up a pasta with a spicy blend of herbs he had brought from Nigeria, we talked--mainly he talked.

He told me that I would be OK--I never said I had a problem, but I guess it was obvious.

He told me I would awaken from this nightmare, because I had the main ingredient lacking
in so many--earnestness and dedication to truth.

Then, just like that, he jumped onto the floor and started rolling around and screaming;
"Sometimes you just have to be ridiculous. Like a little kid. Play a little!"

At another point, he cocked his head around in circles slowly and slower until it came to
a stop as he explained that I needed to learn how to tune into other people's frequencies
like I was dialing in a radio station.

After a tasty dinner, we sat quietly listening to jazz music when there was a knock on the door.

"That must be Sabina," He shouted as he jumped up to answer the door.

I looked on in curiosity as the door opened to reveal a women every bit as beautiful
as his two friends from the cafe.

It startled me to be in the same space with this curly haired bombshell of flesh and light.

But my shyness didn't matter one bit.

Pierre instantly took her in his arms and they started kissing with complete abandon.

After some minutes, they seemed to remember my presence, but only long enough for brief
introductions and then back at it, they were, in a wild smooch fest.

I sat there on the sofa watching them move with the slow bluesy piano and kiss and kiss and kiss.

I decided it was best to leave.

I stood up, gathered my things, scribbled my telephone number on a piece of paper,
and made my way for the door.

Even though I intended to quietly leave, Pierre was right behind me.

Before I could thank him for the amazing moment and try to give words to what
it had meant to me, something else happened.

He looked deep into my eyes with kindness and love and fearlessness
that it was like we had known each other forever.

He moved closely, grabbed my head from ear to ear, and planted a massive kiss right on my lips.

My life shattered. Any sense of aloneness and despair, any sense of 'Alan' exploded.

In that moment, I opened and shined like a bright star in a dark and friendly sky, closed
his door and bounced my way down Oranienburger Strasse giving a happy hello to all the
people I met on my way.

In this way, I was enlightened.

Please email me at alan@speaknow.biz and tell me about a time when your seemingly
essential story evaporated in the face of a here and now which captivated you and catapulted
you into realm of joy and surrender.

Yours in Presence,

Alan Steinborn

Alan Steinborn, All Rights Reserved, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007