*Hikmat the goat
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​The first encounter was a goat. A giant goat. Without eyes. Just empty orbits. Staring at me. Not meant to see. She has a mountain on her back. Meant to be seen.
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- “Who are you?”
The goat does not answer.
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(Where does excitement meet fright? When does one end? When does one start? How do they meet? How do they greet? Do they walk towards each other? Or do they run and crash into one another. Do they bounce or interlace? Do they get muddled or switch place?)
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- “What are you doing in my *dream?”
The goat remains quiet.
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(Where does excitement meet fright? Somewhere inside a running cloud. Standing still face to face with a silent giant goat, out of sight.)
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- “I am just a dreamer dreaming around. I got caught into a running *cloud...”
The goat stays silent.
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(Standing still or staying silent. Is the message so much different? Empty orbits taking new shapes. The motionless has many faces. Its presence is self-sufficient. Is mine as well? No need to dwell? Asking questions. Talking nonsense. Could all this be an interference?)
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I stop talking. She keeps staring.
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(My being is humbled by her existence. The motionless is eloquence. And if my silence is but a tongue on hold, its blindness is no eyes at all.)
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I stop moving. Its head is bowing.
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(The goat is bowing. A sign of my respect. Like a p-result of my feeling honoured as the goat has granted me movement.)
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I stay quiet.
- “I am *Hikmat the goat.”
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(Her goatee chin is tucking in while her crowned head is approaching. Is this an invitation?)
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- “I am the gate of the garden that bears my name as I bear its weight on my back. And as my head bears these two horns, the "i" of my name bears its *dot.”
I do not answer.
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(The dot bears no hook…)
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- “At last, we meet. I have been waiting for you. I know you have been waiting too.
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(My head is nodding. The goat gently leans its own towards me.)
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- “The garden you are looking for is behind my gate, just above my ‘i’.”
- “I wasn’t looking for anything. I am now.”
- “You are, indeed."
- “But I wasn't before you mentioned it.”
- Have you not come here before me?”
- “Have you not happened here, inside my dream?”
- “This dream you are dreaming?”
- “I am… dreaming”
- “You are looking for something.”
- “What am I looking for?"
- “Now looking for what you are looking for. You are looking for(2). And I have answer for both. So look no longer. It is a garden.
- “I am looking for a garden. Where is it?"
- “The garden you are looking for is behind my gate, just above my ‘i’.”
- “Let there be a garden then!”
*Dreamer
There was a dreamer.
There,
Was a dreamer.
Where?
Out there,
Outside.
Which outside?
The furthest out there is
What is there?
A dreamer.
Whose inside is he?
He is his own
Which inside is this?
There is only One
Where?
Inside
Which inside?
The deepest one there is
What is there?
A dreamer.
Whose outside is he?
He is his own
And whose is this?
No one's
There,
is no one
Where?
There,
is nowhere
Inside a dreamer.
There is!
Where?
Nowhere is here
Where?
Nowhere
Here it is
And where is here?
Inside where
And where is this?
Inside a dreamer.
Where does a dream live?
Outside of the world
Where is this?
Who knows!
No word has ever come back
From there
Why ever not?
So we can dream about it
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I see a cloud running inside my dream
Inside the cloud, a dreamer is dreaming
I see a cloud running, who can see me?
The dreaming dreamer in a cloud, could that be ?
I am dreaming inside a running cloud
Am I running the cloud? One can wonder
A cloudy dream is running after me
So I run as well.
Can you see now ?
The cloud inside the running dreamer !
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A cloud is running inside my dream​
Could the cloud then be dreaming me ?
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A cloud inside a dream, a dream inside a dreamer
But where am I? And what on earth am I running after ?
*Cloud
(Hikmat)
First, was Sound. The elementary heartbeat. A steady beat that bears itself and bears it all. The heartbeat creates a rhythm.
(Hikmat. Hikmat)
Hikmat is the rhythm. The passage from motionless to movement. Hikmat is an inaudible line of horizon. Movement of all movements.
(Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat)
From horizon, its goes both ways. Reaching the moon. Reaching the dune. It’s the same tune. One to mute sound. One to break silence.
(Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat)
Hikmat is a ribambelle. Smaller movements with a tail. Hikmat is all of the tunes. One single jump creates a scale.
(Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat)
Hikmat is two syllables. And just two lips to speak the world. Two vowels wrapped in two rhythms. Hikmat breathes movement into words.
(Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat)
Hikmat is the shape of all shapes. Above all shades, Hikmat is pattern. Hikmat is the scale of all scales. For a dreameer to return.
(Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat)
Hikmat is a S in disguise. Whispering words, hiding signs. Could the sky be soil? Could the stars be seeds? Could wisdom inside a snake be still?
(Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat)
Hikmat is the last step. A 9 leading to a 1. Sum of its scale. 9 is an 8. 9 is a height. His sight is great. Hikmat says that solitude is being its own soil. Swimming. Seeking the heartbeat. Seeing Hikmat through new forms.
(Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat. Hikmat)
Hikmat is the secret of all secrets. Mistress of symmetry. S is infinity. Its window left ajar. Quick! Fall asleep. Fall out of it. Slipping out of his S, the somnambulist’s nest. Slipping out of his mind. Wandering... What could he find? What if sound was silence, wearing tunes while it dances?
*Hikmat
Everything starts with a dot. A dense and powerful dot. A dot that holds within itself all the living force of creation. The tip of the quill kisses the white sheet. Leaves its drop of ink. A dot. The furtive instant of the first contact. Like an egg wrapped in a celestial plumage. A sleeping seed in the ground. A man's heart in the darkness of a cave. A secret garden behind its wall. A dot. Before blooming. An existence in the making. At this very moment, everything is still possible for the dot still belongs to the kingdom of Silence. That first kiss is the initial momentum with which the quill signifies its wish to enter the world of expression. So it begins. Extracting itself from its cocoon. A small line first. It might be a straight line. Or perhaps a curve. Something simple. Almost shy. As a dawning life usually is. But soon it gains confidence. Expresses a stronger statement. Draws a sharp angle. A rebellious act. A capital letter overthrows the kingdom. Silence is no longer. Then what happens? Well, the quill lifts its tip off the white sheet. There, the first separation has just occurred. From this moment, nothing can stop it from unrolling its own reality. Slowly at first. And then faster. And faster. A letter becomes a word. A word becomes a sentence. A sentence, a paragraph. A paragraph, a chapter. Then a book, a library, a civilization… Breathe! What could be next? Yet, it all started with a dot. One single dot. It is a long journey. The journey back to that dot. So many words have been written since then that the quill has lost its way back. As the spiral grows, the quill goes further away from that first kiss. Still, its muffled sound can vaguely be heard in the distance. It can still be perceived. The spiral continues its expansion. And the dot soon disappears. But still, it is known. It is there. Somewhere. Its presence is acknowledged. Even though no soul can claim to have seen it. It remains. An invisible evidence. Could it be what we call faith? As the spiral pursues its path, that evidence starts fading. Fading until no one can even remember it. It no longer exists. The distance is too great. The veil too thick. It is a long journey. An ever ending one. The journey back to the initial dot. Could it still be reachable? Such a long journey. The journey back to Silence.
*Dot