7 April-
In a sudden flash I open my eyes, fully awake from my night sleep, earlier
than the regular wake up time. All is peaceful in New York, how strange
that even this city finds a moment of torpor, at dawn. Incredulous, at first,
then puzzled and bewildered at the unusual indoor fog in my room that forces
me to pull up all my attention towards a phenomenon I never witnessed before:
a phosforescent green fog appearing still in front of me, well defined as
a wall would be, clear in its axis and pseudo solidity blocking a third
of the room. Manhattan is not San Francisco, none of that West Coast oceanic
formations manifest themselves here. I never knew fog can form indoors,
much less green hued, or perhaps it does. But then why is it so geometrical,
so neat as if it were a giant puffy cotton ball, sitting prettily as in
a surrealist picture.
One who is spatially conscious verifies the edges of what one sees. I come
close to this very unusual ephemeral wall in my own room as if I were exploring
Carlsbad caves, with care and in silence. Not for long. I scream calling
my roommate next door. No avail. I am the only witness to this.
All is vanished in matter of minutes and my apprehension is gone with it.
10 April-
Another mystery right when the last one was neearly forgotten. At exactly
3 p.m., I felt this intense prickling sensation all over my body, and in
a quick sequence I was covered with most unusual welts as fast as I can
say "what's happening?". Only one side of the body was reacting
strangely, as one would imagine a radiation exposure would manifest, red
and warm, burnt on a particular side of the body being exposed to a radionuclides
source. Horror. I feel sick from a deep set memory that returns to haunt
me. I did not ask for this, I want to be left alone.Those memories should
go away. Five days go by. Old fears come back like an army showing their
helmeted heads in an attack mode.
21 April-
It is all related, I am sure, and for all these years I had been negating
it. My 6 month old enquiry to interview Mr. Hopkins, I called it a study
to camouflage my real obsession, becomes a necessary call to someone who
can give me answers. I want answers, I cannot stand it anymore, the mystery,
the doubt, the question mark of what all that I remember means. Enough.
I am lucky to find him at home, oh yes between 5 and 6 in the afternoon,
answering the phone and listening to me. He is sorry and apologizes for
not returning my calls earlier. He has been busy. I beg to see me and to
grant me an interview, not the otherway around as I first planned to ingratiate
him and find an entry into a mystery.
23 April-
Mr. Hopkins is rather calm and suave. His interview room is a small tomb
of a room with an indirect opening giving some natural light. A womb where
one is placed in custody or waiting for trial. But it is soft and all enveloping.
A silent assistant sits discreetly at one side of the room, almost behind
him, very quietly, never intervening or asking questions. Mr. Hopkins wants
to know more about my past dreams, old, old dreams and sensations that I
can still recollect because they have been there pestering me with their
"oh you cannot forget but you will not remember either, or not exactly".
So bothersome to have half known truths.What about scoop marks, indentations
or cuts that have appeared somewhere in the body and whose origin I do not
recollect? What about this perfectly round scoop right beneath my knee,
which I vividly remember turned up one day and I always wondered how I could
have produced it, so perfect and overnight.
My dreams. I do not want to remember those trips into heart wrenching, cold
environments, where my will does not count, where I am simply processed
as packaged meat. I never receive explanations.
30 April-
It is always a good feeling to recognize a previously seen place, a room,
where the details now become familiar and friendly. Today with mr. Hopkins
we are going through the attempt at recovering old memories. I lay down
obediently, calming myself through some slow breathing yoga tricks. I am
calm. Nothing new rolls into my field of reveries. Blink. I did not expect
the vivid white light emanating from what I thought was my body and my bed,
thinking myself at the age of 9. Absolute fear assailed me then. An often
repeated sequence of body immobility, starting from the feet upwards, until
I could not even scream for help. My eyes closed and covered by the bedsheet
could still see clearly the light, the weirdness. I could not stop the procedure.
A column of light envelopes me, it has a spin and a strangte density, like
when we see ligh tshed onto a film screen. It also makes me nauseated and
ready to vomit. I spin with it and upside down I lift against my will through
a back window until I remain suspended at midair under a dark lightless
machine. I am afraid, I do not want to leave my home, my dear things. I
can only cry helplessly, the child I am, sick to my stomach with a pain
right behind my nose, as if I am dragged by some nauseating magnet. I hate
this.
I do not want to revisit or face those fearless lense-magnifying liquid
eyes, their pattern of electric waves shining from left to right of these
creatures. Insects, giant insects is what I think. Ants with hands in an
upright position. I cannot stand looking at their tiny bump of a nose giving
them a long face look. Yet they are not really there because they can disembody
on and off.
The waltz of image and message, remembering and forgetting, knowing and
not, comforting cosmic immensity and the end of all familiar. For this I
cry even more. I do not want to see those lovely almond tree in bloom perish
for ever. I do not want to think that all vegetative life is coming to an
end. How can I prevent this? I am so small and I only love all that inhabits
this world. I do not have control over its fate.I try to think mathematical
equations, scientific formulas, lists of species, all forms of living things,
mosses and algaes, rocks as time delayed slow moving organisms. Million
years come to mind for a shape to break up and change its content, its destination
from fluid to crystal, to something else again. It must be the "introns"
that need to be readdressed. I am sure now. Have I thought of comets as
delivery systems, or the synchronicity of gavitational waves across time
and space? Those plasma eyes were telling me stories, endless and painful
realities. My two legged, two armed being had a duty to fulfill. It was
the very form of my body that determined the consequences that were wished.
A little dog could not do what I could. That was the deep message and the
command.
5 May-
Adieu spacetime. Will you remember what I told you? Do you understand now?
How can I say it to you again?