the letter A

A ball or flash of light, the luminous letter A, in a jet plane as I took a photo of myself in a mirror, above the steel sink, where it’s important to wash your hands. A natural kind of Orgone accumulator, in a jet plane, I bring my camera with me at all times, after narrowly losing it in January. I had set the camera down on a seat in the airport and went for lunch. When I got back, a friend had the camera. I was really lucky she found it; otherwise it could have been stolen.

Absent minded, so many things to keep track of, it’s easier to keep the camera strapped to the body at all times, a fourth eye. The third eye opened between my eyes during a wilderness retreat on a thin, sweet little piece of land extending between Lake Huron and Georgian Bay, not far from where I was born. I’ll write about that another time.

As the letter A appeared in the mirror, I broke into a sweat and started shaking. It was like I became the jet plane and the jet plane became me, pieces of metal riveted into the form of a bird roaring through space at top speed, erasing all sense of location, impossible to pin point a body in motion, other than to set approximate parameters. That’s just one of the freaky ways reality breaks down into the huge mystery of why the letter A.

A little pop, a ball of light, fireworks in the mirror next to my head, the letter A emerging and swirling around, like dots, luminous letter A, like when you see stars after standing up too fast. The pop, flash of light and letter A in the steel water closet, just large enough for toilet, sink, soap dispenser and trash bins, happened in the snap of a finger. In the blink of an eye, it happened, one world over, the end. Another world begins, unknown. What happens will depend on state of mind.