Chapter 1 – Aphantasia and God

“A canon event is a critical, unavoidable life experience that shapes a person's identity or a fictional character's storyline.”

If you ask me about my first childhood memory, a couple of moments contest fiercely for that esteemed honor. Dancing with my mother in the evening in her bedroom. Later that evening, my father explaining how the dinosaurs in my mouth can only be destroyed by brushing my teeth twice a day. And most importantly, and most vividly, the memory of me crouched on the ground next to a tree in our garden, feeding bread to squirrels, before I was tucked away into a bus towards school. A very private moment, even if my father had much influence and involvement on this ritual. After that, I remember much of my childhood being similarly private, like watching my life from a camera buried deep inside my body, observing everything around me. Circumstances, for instance, the birth of my brother, or the fact that both my parents were (and are) working people, led to me spending a significant amount of time on my own. Something I never feel bad about; rather in solitude did I fully understand or discover myself. Hobbies often reveal a lot about a person too, and mine were pretty much that of an introvert; avid reader, lone swimmer, and a piano player. If you ask me for more childhood memories, I have the intuition that I cannot weave a lot of them, least the happy ones. It feels like it will consume a lot of my energy, like pulling a pin out of a haystack. To summarise, I have realized as well that bad memories leave scars, and good memories feel unreal. And that was basically my childhood, like a full blackout and with no real meaning to it.

What I propose is a different question to ask. That is as simple as, “What was your first canon event?”

Everyone goes through one or two…or even three (if fortunate) canon events in their lifetime. And canon events are often always something bad (unless it’s the birth of a child, I would assume). If you ask me, my first one was at the age of 12, when I woke up one day and realized I don’t believe in God. This was triggered by something that would be touted incredibly childish – not getting the grades I prayed to God for in our several conversations across the country-wide pilgrimage my parents took us to. So just as strong is the calling of a theist, was just as strong the feeling that all of this is façade, make-belief. I did have a conversation with my father about it, I did respect my parents’ beliefs, and I did follow them on their small or big engagements over the course of many years with Him, up until and including my adulthood. But I remained determined on my disbelief. And this has, both to my parents’ and much more to my surprise, never changed. To this date, I feel my atheism deep within my bones. 

That was my first canon event. That was the day I was rewarded with the gift of critical thinking, with the courage of standing alone in my resolution, and the willingness to be open to change again, if it so happens to be.

How people influence the meaning of their names

“How can he be called Robert, and not Alexis or Sergei?” I complained to my friends over a video call. “He’s too complex for… Robert”, I explained. After a brief pause, Sam responds, “We can call him Bob” and both him and Alex burst out laughing. I gulped on the beer I was drinking, and let out a muted cry. 

Who knew a week later of knowing this person called Robert, I would come to like the name, so much. 

So here is an ode to a boy named Robert who lives in Max Beer Straße, nestled in an upscale and touristy neighbourhood of Berlin, the greatest city in the world. 

Every woman fawns over Robert’s curls, 

He proudly recalls telling his mother,

Each time she would beg him to chop them off, 

But it’s not his curls that enrapture the maidens; 

It’s him entwining his fingers into them, 

tugging them, as if to tap into his wise head, 

searching for a fact, a joke or, 

occasionally even a rap song, 

to which his head bobs sideways, eyes closed. 

Robert can drone for hours, 

over music, philosophy, people, and, surprisingly, even his own demons, 

His eyes smiling and his bunny teeth gleaming, through it all, 

But every morning, he goes silent while sipping his coffee,

and every night, he becomes pensive as he smokes his last cigarette of the day,

all on his small balcony that I was introduced to on my first day at his place,

boasting a fascinating, dazzling view of the Berlin TV Tower–

my favourite monument in my favourite city.

But as I spent the following days with him on his balcony,

watching his fingers twirl further through his hair,

his eyes sparkling like the Sekt in our glasses,

and the smoke from our cigarettes dissolving into the air, like time passing by,

I forgot the tower even existed, 

The balcony became a monument in itself; 

housing the depths of Robert’s thoughts. 

Author’s note: While the Berlin TV tower is physically enormous, the small balcony and the conversations between the Author and Robert within felt just as emotionally and intellectually vast.