Monday, May 4, 2009

final short story "amnesia



          They took his belt, his shoe laces, his wallet, and promised them that they would be safe. “Staff will be here to help and we will be ever watchful for you,” said the head nurse.

          I am here for a reason he reasoned. I am here to deliver the truth. These meds are to unlock my brain. These inmates are angels made impoverished by my eyes, so that we would not recognize each other and lose sight of what we came here for.

          He paced the walls. He ran his finger at heart level across the entire circumference of the ward, thus locking out evil influence, and all influence is evil influence. He nodded down the medicine and displayed his tongue for the nurse. All was set.

          There was one wretched God who was an angry woman. She had many accusations against everybody, but he saw through it all, and new she held a message.

          “So we were kicked out of the bar, and the bartender said I was disturbing the place, and Jesus I didn’t even have a drink.”

          “He was serving you spirits?”

          “I didn’t have any. But he kept saying.”

          “Did your spirit move over the water?”

          “I had Coca-cola. And not with gin.”

          He looked directly into her eyes, and felt his forehead glow, felt her grow scared at his eyes.

          The night was sleepless. But he wrote down three commands on a paper, and ate it, do digest the truth of it. Underneath his pillow was a microphone, and when he slept, the archangel told him the truth.

          You have walked into ultraprofound; your eyes see through the sun into world heart. When you awake you will remember none of this. The stone truths will be scribbles on paper, and you will be embarrassed of them. You will return to your job, salvage your friendships, balance your bills, take your meds, and be normal. Every startling insight and breath of ultradense will be gone. You will no longer see the angels, nor know the style of omniscience. Therefore, you must speak your revelations into hidden language that will escape the censors, a repeating text that will never be understood, except by your metaphor mind. Once you have written this ever word, it will return to you—in briefs, in details. You will draw close to a friend or coworker, reveal an intimacy, and then you will dismiss them, because they were only a means of translating a part. The deepest truth is ever repeated but never guessed at. Encode now.

          He hummed a melody all night, and was glowing like the dawn by shower time. The sun shone only for him now. He took his meds, and kept his tongue.

          In three weeks, he went home. He felt guilty. He felt better. He apologized to his friends. He apologized to his boss. He paid his bills. He paid his rent. He worked his job. He was happy. And he threw out the piles of papers with their scrawls and glyphs. He threw out the books with the circled words, the cryptic comments in the margins.

          That was crazy. And his girlfriend—ex girlfriend!—would not answer his calls. But he was tired now. So he slept a lot. Let her go. She was nice. She could understand.

          Then two years, and all was well. The meds were religion, and he never missed them. Strum on the guitar. Fun poems in this notebooks. And a recurring dream, completely indigestible:

          Sorah califana hirana—an angel with wings covering her eyes. A trail up a mountain. Perhaps a childhood friend. The sun growing ever larger in the sky. The world at the tip of his tongue.




Take care, Caretaker!

Your innermost is the sacred!




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