You Will Jump Through A Window

Dionce, a healer friend in Phoenix rising from 9/11 psychic ashes, talked about shifts, frequencies and vibrations.

History said they manifested themselves one year well before a month in the Fall from supremacy on a myopic vision emergency frequency. Before emergency calls on hot lines melted through tribal retributions.

“A little premonition can be a dangerous thing,” he said. She sighed over long distance. He prepared to fly into exile come autumn when leaves departed their structure. Does the tree feel sadness when it loses leaves?

She well understood his intentions and motivations. His nomadic instincts called.
“You will jump through the window,” she said during a summer’s conversation.

“My work here is going well. I’ll complete the first draft by August 2001, then it will be time to go and renew the spirit. To pay attention, get back on the road. To go back in time. I leave September 1.”

“How is it going?”

“I’m blessed to be working on it. It’s coming together. It’s edgy, daring and insightful. It’s a weapon of mass destruction. It may not appeal to mainstream agents, publishers and a general readership due to its fragmentary nonlinear nature. I feel I’m working on some intricate puzzle and jumping through windows without leaving the ground. Some belief windows are desperate for a good cleaning.” They laughed.

“Puzzles are revealing,” she said.

“It’s like the Navajo or Tibetans creating their sand mandala. Through their daily practice they achieve a vision, their clarity allows them to manifest their intuition. When they are finished creating their work manifesting their internal vision of peace and nonviolence, they sweep up the colored grains of sand and release material in water or air. It’s a healing process of non-attachment. Impermanence. A gift.”

He read some to her.

“It’s all about the mysteries,” she said. “Will you send me some?”
“Sure. I’ll get some chapters printed up and off to you.”

She shared a story about three men in the desert who discovered the secret of the mysteries in the Cabbala.

“They had three choices. One walked away in peace, one died and one went mad.”

“Maybe that’s my fate.”

They discussed various moral ambiguities through their characters.

“To travel is better than to arrive because you are always here,” he said.

“Who is it that is dragging this corpse around?” she asked him.

“All time is now and all space is here.”

“Yes. Time is history and space is geography.”
“Be well.”
They rang off.

They’d exchanged the laughter and wisdom of a child’s voice inside living history. This was only part of the experience and he hadn’t written much about it because he had been living it day in and day out. One character lived it, another character felt fortunate to just get it down and try to make sense of it later.

He decided that everyone he’d met, known and loved would be fair game in this tale. If they didn’t like it, fair enough, it wasn’t nothing but the blues. The blues are life’s way of talking.