The Visitor
…as if I can ‘wait it out’ or that it will get better on it’s own, I’m catching her more frequently fleeing from the edge of my vision this black withering sheet, perhaps she’s one of the aborted who I sent to an early grave if indeed a soul is implanted that fast, those from the netherworld itching to become one of us to taste/smell/touch to see what being ‘disconnected’ feels like and if everything they were told was true, that we aren’t really aware of ourselves, that we think in singular terms, that we feel ‘alone’ or ‘isolated’ or ‘observe’ and are really so easily tricked into believing nonsense and then fashion an entire six or seven or so decades completely oblivious, what a joy, what a joke to forget and live in false torment because of being ‘separate’ or ‘alive’ or the very myriad of words/songs/poems that describe the sensation so adequately so that the ‘living’ get to understand or connect or commune, and that they don’t realise even then, in that feeling that tiny speck of ‘familiar’ feeling that…the doctor says there is nothing wrong with my eyes save for the usual ageing and that I need reading glasses and if I think the television is blurry to buy a new television ‘hur hur hur’ coughs – disgusting to see a doctor, fat and grey around the eyes, cough like that in my presence, wheeze and heave out phlegm even a little bit with plaques on the wall and glasses slung on his wine bloated nose how he ‘makes a living’ shuffling humans in and out checking them with machines and then telling them things they must do and so on like this in every room in every place in the entire world with various people ‘doing their job’, that is ‘performing some function’, ‘carrying out a process’, links in the chain aren’t they input in output out daily, all you need to do is ask, reminds Jesus, just ask and thy shall receive (through the small door or through the window or in your hand or bank account or in a smile or gesture or really, truly from someone who doesn’t consciously understand their place in the swirling process that was started long ago and goes on rotating and mixing and mashing like a mother or a friend or a wife or son or anyone really coming into being in this system that has been massaged into a certain order or at least been given the appearance of a system or structure or, lets say, coherence, a tangible way of differentiating ‘what is going on’ and that seeming reasonable enough continues). Lately, though, it’s been images of a face or a moment or, its hard to put in words, but, the sensation of sun, or, the sensation of a moment in the sun a half second flashback, words are insufficient, how an entire song conveys one emotion or even one moment of emotion say or a film captures an encounter and it’s irresolute stain its confusion its emotion underlying every flavour of the memory and that that can’t even be resolved simply displayed, relived, chewed over because there was and is something there, something else contained within the moment – the combination of events and all the thoughts you brought to that particular moment then dreams imagination emotion hope desire wish coloured the moment and that will forever more be, in the eyes of the writer or filmmaker or whomever, something of significance, it carried in that say three or less seconds, all of the mystery of life and love that spoke/sung right to the core soul, right to the essence of life, it paralleled something that resonated with the moment of reality and the type of love or sentiment or understanding that human being knows of what it is to be a human and that one tiny cross-section of living instead branched out and formed or confirmed for that one speck of brief coherent consciousness the general importance or deeper incomprehensible or difficult to share deeper truth of what being is or should be; it mimicked or showed perfectly the exact accurate feeling or sensibility one would want to have and understand were one to properly grasp the full lived experience, say, and in this moment, those glimpses of a time or place or a projection of the future or a wish that this tormented soul flicking in and out of the corner of my eye, my new companion who has been growing in power, that is, her (I call it her because that feels more comfortable for now and, selfishly, makes me feel less lonely) ability to project deeper and deeper crescendo moments is gaining power: I imagine a future in which these tiny flashes of black or white light will leave me emotionally crippled, force me to me knees and push me into a clinic whereby I describe these images and moments not to an eye doctor but to a human being who offers assistance in aiding those with defects of the mind. Of course, I pretend I am having confused visual input, flashes of light or shadow or the normal reactions one has when say moving from a light room to a dark room and vis versa, these are merely signs of ageing and the resultant hallucinogenic film-stock emotionally loaded communiques are my minds new tendency to draw from the growing reserve of guilt loss happiness pain desire that has been building up in my psyche since birth, dreams included, their hodgepodge bungled mash of emotion with visual memory creating bizarre monsters of disproportionate chaos attaching extreme fear to simple objects or intense hate to innocent creatures and cutting them all together as fragments of a narrative whereby city scapes are nothing more than a tiled cacophony of glass sheets reflecting unduly bright horror or dulled slow-motion beauty just to entertain a listless sleeping mind, although unfortunately this rational doesn’t explain why the vision and the emotions are not mine, they are foreign, they are felt as new, as other, they are presented to me from a perspective and from a soul-level depth that I haven’t yet felt or experienced, and although each time they (of course) add to my greater ‘whole’ they are nonetheless felt in their oncoming as foreign, as a glimpse into a life lived in another’s body whereby their very essence and emotion is felt for that split second, their soft yellow hair brushing past their quickly turned face in the sun say – of course that’s easy to imagine it’s just hair, but in that moment the scent of flowers and the particular sensation of the sun which in every land feels different, softer or stinging differently, or that their body was smaller or lighter, but these are mere moments that my haunting ghost delivers as though she herself has no control over her fusion with me and, like an antenna, I am going insane. Yet it’s been weeks since my last vision, my last encounter, my last transcendent otherworldly glimpse into the intangible ether that may or may not prove that there is indeed an afterlife and that the past and the future are not imaginations or projections of a critically minded race who invented or has yet only chose to define everything in linear terms – my doctor tells me I am doing better, that I am not so erratic in my meetings and my speech has slowed to a more normal pace, I have stopped grinding my teeth in the night and have begun smoking a cigarette only once every two hours if, a little maniacally, on the second hour religiously (as if adherence to a staid sure procedure should be called religious, these beasts, these horrible people who continue reigning terror on humanity with their restrictions, in that sense ‘religiously’ could indeed mean constant terror, unwavering resolve minute to minute on the minds and hearts of human beings born out of the mud into this world, at first opening their eyes and taking a few breaths to be slammed down into the world of sin and servitude constantly, and in this ‘constantly’ sense we now casually use the term ‘religiously’ as though indoctrination or staid constant servitude and mechanic observance of process is imbued with anything ‘good’, or no, that, ‘good’ is relative and when we think ‘religiously’ we accidently think good, as in, if we choose to think that then no one is going to stop us, the good book, who called it that first and who stopped them from calling it that: the determination was ours to begin with, it is still ours, that is, we label or ‘give’/‘offer’ the term and they simply step forward mouths shut and bask in that glory, the glory of god)…
