His name was Patrick A. Crawford. Now well in his middle years, by many, surely considered as an odd duck. Without material possessions, without the humane ties that bind him in any way: he was primarily an artist, but it can be said (poetically) that he was a nomad in search of hidden truth and subtle beauty. A hard life, full of insecurity and too of a sharply-steered twists and bends, taught him to appreciate all those good sides of the essence of what was necessary to get by.
Even the entry on the stage of life for Pat (so-called by those who knew him, and there were not many of them) was much different and much more challenging than with most other people. Left at the door of a fire station, in a small town in the continental part of the state, at the mercy of forces that tend to break even much stronger people, let alone a small unprotected baby. He was very lucky that the circumstances of fate wanted him to come into the arms of good people and later it turned out, a damn good parents. Although they already had two children, the kindness and innocence in their beings did not allow them to leave a newborn at the mercy of this, as it sometimes turns out, truly cruel world.
From his earliest childhood, there was something indescribably strange about him. Something that set him apart from others. Inherently unique. Magically awesome. An eclectic mix of blessing and curse united in one peculiar state of being. He used to tell his guardians how he can hear the colors or how he sees the smells or how numbers have colors. Everyone thought there was something wrong with him. Until a family friend, a widely known medic, with the help of a wide range of diagnostic knowledge and a lot of patience and skill, found out that little Pat has one unusual ability. He was a synesthete. Synesthesia is a rare state, a phenomenon in which sensory stimulation is somewhat different than usual and it varies from person to person. Some may perceive letters or numbers as being colored. Others had the ability to form a cognition of precise locations in space out of some mix of letters and numbers, for example the schedule of some activity or something alike. But there was no rules, there was no guidelines: thus the human mind is the ultimate miracle of a Mother Nature and it cannot be so easily explained. Synesthetic associations can occur in any given combination and any number of sensory amalgams, but for Pat — the main was that he could smell the shapes. Unusual experience, isn’t it? In addition, and especially in that day and age, little was known about how synesthesia develops or how even should be treated and everything that Pat’s guardian could do was to be around him and to just let him be, to give him a space in order to develop on his own and unique way.
Thanks to this breadth of vision which consisted in not limiting his development as an individual even in spite of this unusual condition, he was immensely grateful to his dear guardians and always gladly reminded them of it. They were, practically, the only support in his life, especially since the siblings were never able to connect with him. But as long as Gordon and Anna, the people who raised him, who gave him a chance at life, who gave him everything as if he were their own child; as long as they were there around, he had no fears in life. Unfortunately, the good things are the ones that are most susceptible to change and are short-lived in the desired form.
Immediately after his departure for college, which was not far from the small town of Grimond where they lived, he received a telegram. The association to the telegram itself was never in a pleasant tone, and this time too he had some distinctly bad feeling. In a frantic spasm of fear and excitement, he tore open the envelope and found only a few words in it, words as sharp as a razor that cuts the skin to the bone and leaves a long bloody trail:
“Gordon and Anna. Car accident.
Fatal injuries. Both have gone.
Funeral tomorrow.
We expect you.
Peter and Joanna”
He often used to say that later in life: if someone had asked him at that moment what had happened, he could have sworn that there was a strong earthquake at that moment. At the mere reception of such news, the brain reacted defensively in the first line and sent a strong shock through the further neuromusculature, so strong that it seemed to him that the ground beneath was shaking. Be that as it may, that shocking news was a turning point in his life. He felt abandoned again, life brought him back to the same point where he was introduced to the face of this World: alone, abandoned, betrayed, angry and with no idea what to do next.
Needless to say, his college was not on his priority list. Never specifically. Particularly now. He packed his things and went to the big wide world. Once again. Only this time, there was no safeguards. It was a time when there were various open communes in America, where people of all profiles and backgrounds met, lived together and supported each other. He was very lucky to come across a place that was not so, shall we say, promiscuous and indifferent to large amounts of opiates and various non-lucid states. He came across a group of people who were a new wave of youth, a new wave of anti-establishment, non-conformists who had a great fondness for art. It was an interesting mix of college dropouts, well-of rebels who escaped from their materially poisoned lives and people who were natural aesthetes, gifted with beauty with the ability to carry it further into the world.
With them, he developed a talent he had in him since he can remember for himself. He started painting. Incredibly unusual visions, abstract ideas about life and things that he noticed in a way unique to him. Everyone admired his works, although many did not quite understand them. Nonetheless, he was eager to continue dealing with this call as long as he had the strength in his fingers to hold the brush. This has now become his life. Although he had no faintest idea of his own origins, where he came from, who his biological parents were … how, why, where … although he currently had no one in the world, at least not someone who would truly care for him, art was a supreme substitute for all those castaway–like emotional sensations.
Over time, things evolved, news of his unusual works spread to communities, and reached large cities. People came from afar to see his works, to buy something quite remarkable, which so far they have not had the opportunity to see and feel in such a unique way. Gradually, he started earning money, just enough to be able to become independent. To isolate from others, to diminish distractions and to dedicate oneself only to one’s own art — that was the plan. The years went by, and he painted progressively more and better even. Sales went great, the demand for his works almost exceeded production. But there was also something interesting about it all. Every few months, he would enter a trance-like state, where his synesthesia would be amplified and where he would, over and over again, paint one work that was almost identical in shape and color. Distinctively unrecognizable, but when viewed outside the focus of a sharp observational gaze — one could sense the outlines of some part of the coast, some landscape, some scenery of an unknown origin. It was something that bothered him, that didn’t give him a peace of the mind, which made him constantly question himself: “Why do I always paint this same form? What does all this mean? “.
Now, as a middle-aged man, as a single individual, as a man who had years and years of productive work behind him, he felt he would benefit from a vacation. But, where to? Without a map, without some overly clear plan, with some simple bundle of pure necessities, he set out on a nomadic journey. In search for some new sensations, for some new visions, even for some answers, if possible.
After a few months of wandering through the mountains, he decided to go down to the shore. He had not been near the ocean for a long time. He had not felt its scent and the purity of that breeze that carried small particles of sea water on its wings of air, for a long, long time.
At the dawn of one beautiful spring morning, he reached the shore. He decided to station himself on the beach, at least until he saw the sunrise and until he felt all the magic of giving birth to a new day in such a magical place. That unfathomable artistic sensibility, you know. The scenery was so playfully intense, the pure magic exuding from every pore. The light, the colors, the breeze, the smells. Oh, my, the smells. That scent of the ocean mixed with the freshness of the mountain breeze, that polyphony of mountain plants and sea foam and the early-rising rays of the sun caressing the sand. But, wait? Doesn’t all this seem somehow familiar? At that moment, the same earthquake that shook him once in his life, is just happening at this moment, only this time with less amplitude and a more pleasant sensation that created it. He closed his eyes, let his senses carry him, and his special sensory ability did the rest of the trick. The vision, the same shape as in his paintings was now outlined in the blackness of his closed eyes. His intuition began to catch the pace, the cognitive moment was about to burst in all its glory.
“That is it!!!” — He shouted from the depths of his lungs.
“I know what this is. Finally, after all these years, I believe I have come up with an answer. This, by no doubt, must be the place of my birth. This is the magical place I came from. I am a child of the ocean, a child of sand, a child of sea currents and mountain breeze.”
At that moment, grinning contentedly, he felt as if he had just found the key … Key that was the only thing standing between him and the closed door behind which lays a much better future. It felt like a sturdy sheet of tabula rasa. Unmarked, undamaged, untouched.
You know how they say that scents can stimulate memory. That fragrance can tie the loose ends between our presence here and now and the severed connections with us from the past. To bring us back to some place we once were. Once upon a time when we felt like we belonged to this world. A little wonder that had squatted in him ever since he was sent into this world. The way in which he could smell the shapes, dream colors and realize all those dreams upon canvas.
Could it be that it’s not just his miracle? Could it be that we are all able to do that only if fate gives us a chance? Could it be that the world is just one big bowl of scents and colors and given shapes from which we need to make mark on our own canvas of life.
Could it be that we are all synesthetes, I wonder?
Author: Dusan Pejakovic
