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The body lacks essential nutrients and thus must find other sustenance. The result is the street opens up as a stunning vista of duplicity. There are the sun-speckled objects and their shadows, except now the shadows are the substance and the objects are simply cast from them. These are materials made up of utter lack.
Imagine the sky is a window pane, amigo, he says, as we lie on the grass and meditate. He takes voracious breaths, which come from within him but become him and all is a wild wind funnel, harvesting the power of God. Now the window pane is sliding open, he says, that’s where they’re coming from. It’s so simple, when you think about it, I’m realizing, but impossible to do, once you think about it. It’s precisely before the thought, I’m realizing, or outside the thought, is where the UFOs are coming from.
Mistaking a balloon for a UFO may indicate a true sighting is imminent, as if the balloon primed your mind and now you’re ready for something anomalous. The balloon attunes you to the frequencies from whither the strange ones come, says Captain, as we ride my sea of ancient bile and unkempt premises. He’s still getting used to his robotic hand. I’m still getting used to the rough surf in my abdomen. But look up, Captain says, snickering. In this way he’s gotten me. There’s the balloon—lilting along the black sky—upon which we both are traveling.
We’re smoking cigs on the curb outside that Coffee Bean. The white orb—which I’ll learn later is the outside embodiment of my spinning inner core—is up in the sky, just existing there; disappears, reappears, higher now. We’re playing Fear Itself, haunting the empty, midnight school grounds in Connecticut. The flash is so bright it covers everything, and we’re stunned, then running, haphazardly navigating through swing sets, sandboxes, and monkey bars. The light came from the hill! I’m yelling at him, waving my arms like a lunatic. It came from the hill, behind the scary church! We will never speak of these experiences again.
I wish I could kiss you.
I’m drinking when I see the Old Hag in the space between the window pane. I’m sinking into the living room couch, using elbows on stained pillows, trying to sit up straight. Getouttahere, I’m muttering at the deviance. She’s darting from window to window like ball lightning, gaining presence now, smiling, yellow toothy, causing the bushes to shake, poison pink petals falling listlessly from some black heaven full of ragged beasts. I slothrop the last squip of our sour mash. It’s hard for them to slip into this realm, I’m realizing, but easy for you to let them when you’re struggling. It’s been a rough couple years. I need to get my head on straight.
Do you understand what I’m trying to communicate?
If we look into each other’s eyes and there is sex there, an understanding of all that is possible, does this deepen the window or cheapen it, am I sick person or a religious one, is there no difference, or am I missing it, is love cosmic, the sky one big fuckride, I could stare and share this glance for all time, our solemnity over everything.
When the window closes it can be hard on you. You look around and everything is stupid and meaningless. You don’t doubt your experiences so much as you find no color in them. Like everything, you must ride this phase out. If it gets so bad, just remember, son: These strange places will always be waiting for you.
