4. Incantation

Feeling weak and numb. Slept too much. Increasingly these days I must rely on the automatic pilot function that came as a bonus with my body.

Yes, I could go see a doctor, it’s already been suggested to me. But doctors truly make me sick. We’ll talk about that another day when I feel better.

I need to tell you stories. That’s why I’ve been reviewing my old treaties on Morse code. I need to tell you where you come from, in a syntax and with signs that can encompass the entire disproportions of our family’s itinerary.

Deep down, it’s an attempt (in slow motion) at disarmament.

I need to summon a lot of courage to do this. Inhalation. Exhalation. Waiting for a phosphorous cosmic consciousness to rise from universal dust; a diaphanous state into which I can sink, sufficiently entranced to enlarge the astral pictures of our history and draw them into comic strips.

I’ve often pondered the problem: How to project dissolved, unrecorded images unto phonetic elements, non-mutated terminology, a shout maybe, without ending up with static or unintelligible hieroglyphs.

Such efforts are part of small, but important inner victories, dear.

It’s like aiming at a speech external to words. The pictorialization of a blank mind. It’s like being constantly late in responding, indefinitely adjusting a mnemonic device to safeguard the dream-content of fluids.

I mean, little one, it’s difficult.

I'll talk to you in a while. I must now rest.

Laolao