Inuit Studies 101-The Glorious Dream

Eskimos have words for that shit. One of them is: Ilaru. It is untranslatable. Once you see it, you will not be able to look away; you will be unable to shield your pale head.

Ilaru describes the sudden wave of Awe and Fear that washes over you as you turn that last corner in the forest, see a grizzly standing on its hind legs, and notice he’s spotted you. Ilaru is triggered by that deep and thunderous crackling under your feet, inside the ice you were certain was thick enough, a cracking that goes on for miles and miles, on and on. After falling asleep on a fishing boat under a cloudless, diamond sky, gale-force winds–Ilaru again– blow in your face and through your clothes when you wake to the churning of an angered, roaring sea, speeding up a Himalayan wave.

It is the banshee scream of a plane falling short of an airport, a runway, but Ilaru is more, far more.

It laughs once you fathom that all these scenarios are mere metaphors, ones you’ll never have to experience, really, in your short lifespan. Ilaru laughs as you finally comprehend that Nature’s boundless wrath is visited upon you with good reason. Ilaru laughs loudly, again, once you see yourself purposefully designing these experiences to be metaphors so you won’t have to face the ugly, sordid truth:

Ilaru is the sinking horror screaming at you from quaking bowels the moment you register that all you’ve ever done and said has been grounded upon an unforgivable, fantastic lie; that because you’ve accepted this lie as truth, all those actions are rendered meaningless, moot.

The knowledge that everyone–from Adam right down the line to you, no exceptions–has been blinded by the selfsame assumption, the same lie, the same (vein)glorious Dream, brings a snort from Ilaru but zero, zero consolation.

Despite your paralysis, your bloodlessness, though, you also grasp that there are no other paths from this infernal place except through Ilaru’s overwhelming gloom. 

Bring a candle.