ONE I was born at the turn of the century. Or to be clear, at the end of the 20th century. I don't remember much. What I do know isn't really a memory at all. I discovered this information a long time after. After. There had been a lot of wars, a lot of warnings. But you get used to those sorts of things. Your tolerance for fear rises until you are no longer afraid. You see horror, crime, or war on the news; bad things always happen to someone else. When you never experience something bad, you stop being afraid. They are not my experiences. My last clear memory, that memory which is mine, was about 10 or so years later. I was a boy of 10 or 12 years of age. It was a typical summer morning. I could feel the cool dampness of the night clashing with the already clammy air of morning. The droplets of dew still clinging to the waxy surface of the grass and leaves. The summer sounds of early lawnmowers muffled by the thick air and the jackhammer's rata tat tat could be heard from some unknown distant world. I woke early that morning, excited about the prospects for the day. I ran downstairs, gulping my corn flakes, half of them in my mouth and half on the front of my t-shirt. Grabbing my backpack and tearing out of the house, I went to my friend's place. In my usual way, I rang the doorbell and counted the three deep tones of some chimes. I stepped back out on the lawn, looked up at Mike's window and yelled to him. - Mike! Ya up? We gotta get goin'! - Hang on! I'll be down in a sec. Mike came stumbling out of his two-storey brick house like a new-born foal just learning to walk. Mike was lanky, tall and a bit awkward. He already wore some type of Edison style glasses with a tuft of thick black hair hanging over one eye. We wore old t-shirts and faded jeans. Our jeans had holes in the knees; it took ages to get them like that. We were very proud of those jeans. We then walked over to his garage and went inside. I love garages. Garages are amazing. They're like different worlds you can go to and when you tire of it go home. I don't think garages were ever really meant for cars; or if they were they shouldn't have been. The garage had a small window the back streaked with grime, the sun shooting a silver ray through it. I could see the flecks of dust floating, suspended within the transparent beam. All around a cool gloomy darkness containing a father's bric-a-brac; new and discarded paint cans, a lawnmower still fresh with the scent of chlorophy l and engine oil and license plates from the keystone state, the sunshine state and ah, yes, my state, land of ten thousand lakes. I stood aware and unaware, frozen within my own mind. Mike punched me in the arm and broke my Zen-like reverie. - Whaddaya doin'? - Uh.Uh. Nuthin'. Let's get the poles and get goin'. We sauntered down a trail to the Mississippi like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, our poles over our shoulders, carrying the sandwiches our mom's made for us; tuna fish or peanut butter and jelly; and, of course, our fishing tackle. Well no. Not tackle really. We had some hooks and corn for bait. I still smile when I think that carp love corn. It didn't really matter if we caught any fish. The fish we caught were just so many dead bodies to be discarded - to be buried; until we came back later for more. It was the law anyway. Catch them, kill them and bury them. There were always more. We didn't talk much on the way. We didn't have to. The trail had great trees, like so many skyscrapers draped with green foliage. A corridor of green and musty leaves weaving its way to our place - the muddy Mississippi. There were some cherry trees planted by the river's edge; the short-lived, springtime blossoms now gone. We stopped by a spring to drink the cool, tasteless water, before settling down on the bank for a hard day of fishing. Next to the spring, there was a red rose, broken at the stem, the petals still fresh from the splash of water from the spring nearby. How many years have gone by since that day? I don't know what happened. I only saw a white glaring camera flash. Now, I only have that same memory of long ago. The cool stillness of morning with the heat rising, the dull brown water of the river, sparkling like glitter when the clouds passed by the sun. I do remember the simple silence between Mike and me, sitting together with an awareness and contentment that we would always be together. How little I knew that that would be true. I used to imagine when I died I would meet Mike in Heaven. You know, sitting on a white cotton cloud watching the world go by. But there were times after that flash.I could see but I couldn't see, I could hear, but I couldn't hear. It didn't make sense. It was a very strange sensation. I didn't understand. I understand now. They can't change everything - yet. They.They. Who are they? Us now, I imagine. They had found a way to prolong life or, perhaps, I should say prolong death - the gods of yesteryear. They discovered that the body could not be maintained. It wore out like any mechanical thing. The brain, though, could go on.forever. The body dies, but the mind lives on. This is my fifth body as I discovered. Oh! They can grow new bodies for me; they can erase parts of my mind and add new experiences. What a laugh - new experiences. For they are not mine. New bodies are grown for us when it wears out, our brain removed and replaced with the required information. Farmer, baker, tinker, tailor. But, they have forgotten that part of the mind does not die, can not be cleaned like a blackboard. The part that can not accept what is real; the part that will not let go; the part that goes into a deep dark hibernation only to be re-awakened when it is ready. I hold the keys to that dungeon and that paradise. I am the master of that minute part of what I call 'me'. But what am I saying? I speak of mind and memory, full of emotion and fury, of sadness. I am an idiot. I have so much to say, but of no significance - to you. What do you know? I know this; it is my mind, it is their body. They can not have it again. Today is different. I walked down a bright green corridor in my new body. I saw a beam of light coming through a window, and I recalled something. I don't know what it was, but something. I went outside and looked around the flat stretching plain. I smelled the fresh pungent aroma of rich black earth. Was it spring? I walked around and looked at the farmers - they looked at me. They know only one thing. How many bodies have they gone through? How many 'experiences' have they lost? After several minutes of watching in a Zen-like reverie I turned and looked at a farmer. We looked into each other's eyes for what seemed like an eternity. I use this word freely, because how can I measure time? After, we, with our eyes looking at each other in comprehension, recognised in each other a boy on the Mississippi. We continued to stare, our heads angling quizzically like the comic expression of some dopey golden retriever. We walked back to that summer place so many years ago. With each step we unlock a door and add to that bric-a-brac of clutter. We must re-learn, re-experience. We must go back and remember. My mind and body are mine. They can not have it again. The spring is still there and we stop to drink the pure clean water; next to it there is a red rose attached to its stem. Who are you? I am me. |
| William Murphy |