Seven Years

“music allows me to tune my mind off myself when writing. I can't write anything of value if I hold myself as the focus or as the source,” I say, cough, and continue in a firmer tone, “I want to transcend the subjective perspective of the I. I want to produce the same effect on others as was laid on me by huxley during a quick read from the giaconda smile: and other stories before you came over. there, on the pages, I transcended the I and was in a dormitory in oxford. I am a bit off my mind, you see.”

“I think I just remembered a dream I saw some time ago,” cynthia replied after a pause, looking at the young leaves of a hop climbing three stories to cover the window. the hours of now are the hours of evening sun in helsinki - a slow drive, a tease from the sun that will soon barely set. the days growing longer through each successive week of spring extend our waking hours, cherished in their effects by the mindful. now, one is made weary by the sun that began its rise after four am, still high in the sky at half past eight. I feel the need to stress my point,

“recorded music has never been as available for your average john before our generation. sets of sounds tune our minds to the sense of creation lying behind each song, potentially sparkling inspiration.”

“what generation? you need to cross a few more borders, jump a few more fences. when counting sheep, the fence eventually dissolves and you drift into another sphere, into a dream. want to hear the dream I just remembered?”

“if you'll sing it, then yes.”

“I woke up inside a dream, realizing myself to be walking on a country road. I had no recollection of what had happened in the dream before that moment. usually when I wake up within a dream I become aware of what has been going on before in it, still carrying all the emotions the dream has consisted of. in that dream I must have been just dreaming about a relaxed, uneventful evening walk devoid of any emotional attachments. you know, a walk with a pure mind, the kind that you often have when taking a long walk in real life, a walk that's so perfect you'll never again remember it.”

“some talk, some do the walk. so, what happened? nothing?”

cynthia stands up from the floor and walks to sit on the windowsill. a faint smile on her face, she continues,

“nothing. there was not a soul on the road, and I could not imagine anything to exist beyond what I experienced on that moment itself. usually in lucid dreams I fly, fight and fuck, but now I didn't care to think about anything beyond my immediate awareness. the scenery was opaline. all the flora of the field and the forest that bordered the road I was on had a fluorescent quality, looking more real than the eye can process. standing there, I let my gaze fall to the edge between the dirt road and the grass, and saw tiny pebbles. I had to pick one up, hold it in my hand and look at the astonishing object. I could but think, my mind does all this. I am within a production of my mind, yet this pebble I hold feels as real as any pebble I have touched in my life.

what is a mind, john?”

“a graphics processor? you know you can't study something you are within - when you were within a product of your mind, were you able to understand it?”

“understand is derived from standing under, so yeah, I stood under the sky of my mind, the sun shining and the wind wandering through my hair.”

“yes, yes, but my understanding of the logic of dreams is that one can dream only about things one can imagine, and so, understand. I cannot imagine how the electrical installations that make light switches lay an effect on screwed bulbs work, but an electrical engineer can. in my dreams, I am unable to turn on the lights, but I will bet my money on any given electrical engineer being able to.”

“well, I am able to imagine pebbles.”

“you should aim at being able to amuse kids by materializing coins behind their ears.”

after a bit more magical thinking, I take cynthia to the nearest tramstop and forget myself on the terrace of my regular. I cannot believe it to have been seven years since the last time we saw each others. it was here, on the same street I live on now, two blocks west. time has changed a lot, but the space and I remain.

when looking back at the memories of the summer seven years ago, I can remember the sensations well. sunsets, anecdotes in detail, faces. the sense of continuity I get from the person I was to the person I am creates a bridge over time, allowing me to observe myself and the events that took place then. when the sun finally sets, I remember sensing the events as though being watched by someone with the kindest of thoughts - probably I in the sky.