aaron_the fall of america_chapter_10

Chapter 10

Something happened in the jump. That is why I'm having trouble. I may have lost something as well as I may have brought something with me.

Time is a peculiar thing. I remember riding along Wellington Road on my way to work at the Coke plant one warm, sunny day, with little care about time aside from starting work at four. I forgot that if I was riding a big motor bike, time change was an influence on distance travelled. In my state of disassociation, I was watching the side of the road instead of in front of me. Two fellows were walking along watching me watch them.

When I was tired of watching them, I turned to look in the direction I was travelling. Shit! No way out. Cars were coming the other direction and up beside me. It was too late to think. I applied both brakes and watched for an eternity at my front tire, the road and eventually, the back bumper of an older model, white Rambler. It took forever to reach the back bumper. The pleasure of the reality of the event was a timeless cosmic experience. Each stone shape, size and colour of the asphalt were of brilliant relevance and somehow held not only slender but rather a vital realness, an existence all on there own while taking an important roll in the whole. The roundness of the tire past with a precise harmony over the peaceful pavement. The lustre of the chrome on the curved mudguard proudly displayed the tireless glow of the sun. It was the sort of event that could bring one closer to the God of one's particular religion. I had been perfectly involved in the present. Not one little distraction. It was a perfect awakening.

After all the time it took to reach the back bumper, it took no time to bend in the forks with the man's bumper and rip off the wind screen with my stomach. My bike and I were on the road sitting perfectly still. My leather jacket must have protected me because I felt little or no pain. When I reasoned I wasn't injured enough to wait around for an ambulance to take me away like a fallen conquistador or matador, I got up off the road to pick up my bike.

The man had got out of his car to see it he had to deal with the surprise event. He acted like a cookie thief or someone about to pay for sexual favours. He asked me if it was all right if he just left. I didn't need him, so I let him go. He turned into his hotel as I pushed my bike onto a kind man's front yard. It was so soon over that there was hardly a change in the traffic flow.

What I feel more than anything, is lonely. It is partly because of my ability to disassociate myself from my species that I am in the predicament I'm in. I didn't have enough, or didn't respond to, touch. Without a since of touch, fear made me build walls for my protection. My mental isolation made me a candidate for a mission only my brother was qualified for. His ability to touch made him unsuitable. My isolation has become more real than I would have ever believed possible.

Insanity is the fruit of the untouched. Without touch there is no reason to hold on. It is a poisonous kind of freedom, leading to chaos and ending in desperation.

To survive, I must resurface.



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by Joanne B. Washington

© 2001 | the jose wombat project