Blue_Opossum

Night of July 20, 2015 Monday.



I meet the “mystery girl”, the life-long “dream girl” at an apartment building (where her half-brother is living at the time) - the building with the same name as my middle name near a road with the same name as my first name; neither name being very common and certainly not that popular with mainstream society. I walk up to her taking in the layout of the building on the second floor, the railing, her beautiful smile. “Now you know for sure. That I really care for you. Only the eye can tell you why”.

The dream girl came from a place called Heaven. She lived in an unlikely house with exterior walls missing, like a cutaway view of a house as I saw in my dreams as a child; a rainforest girl, born on Friday the Thirteenth. She was the flower girl in a Nimbin event. The Cowsills sing “I love the flower girl. Was she reality or just a dream to me?” She was across the ocean though I always could feel her and sometimes tried to make the journey in my dreams. “Nimbin” is an imaginary place, a classmate tells me.

“What time is it when the clock strikes thirteen?” it says on the back of a paperback book of ghost stories. “Time to get a new clock,” writes my sister on the cover in blue ink.

“Why did you…?” I start to say to the “mystery girl”. Why did she copy the drawing of the only other person I suspected might actually exist on this planet in a way that brought on the blue light. She looked over my right shoulder on my desk in her moment of lucidity, the drawing of which she mentally took back with her to copy so that I knew something was going on when she sent it to me years later upon discovering she was real. The dream girl and the “other” (the one who originally drew the image) both had similar first names (Susan and Zsuzsanna/Suzi) and their last names; both seven letters, and vowels and consonants in the same sequence, probably not that important in the scheme of things

“I’ve got the key, I’ve got the secret,” sing the Urban Cookie Collective. “Come with me see a brand new day”, Yothu Yindi sing. Meeting my partner is the biggest joy ever, especially seeing her as the most beautiful girl on the planet since early childhood…Roma Hungarian (gypsy) but with an intriguing and unique Roma-Australian accent.

I mishear “you see that cycad palm” as “you see that psychic come”. When I learn of the real lyrics, I smile inwardly. It is a good thing. “Psychics” cannot exist because the Source will have none of it. The Source cannot be controlled, named, poked, or prodded. You might as well try to control how your food digests, molecule by molecule.

I look at her in the mirror (as if I was looking at my own reflection) just prior to her contact. “…and if it sounds a bit upside-down, it’s from down under…” The cassette is my first treasure from her.

My bride is the only voice I could ever hear more deeply inside of me (and it turns out that she was the one that told me things as I was growing up - such as the package of books in the mail that had been split open and left on a desk downstairs from my apartment before I got to my boarding house and their exact arrangement in an impossible visual “memory” - yet this was also somehow like a feminine memory and her voice at the same time), the only one who can bring the blue light within me, it seems. The only other one who seems to exist with me.

“Blue flame!” shouts my brother-in-law looking at me as if for the first time and twists his head around in his arm chair, almost straining his neck, to see if other people are looking my way. He says he sees “blue fire burning” around my head and shoulders. A few minutes later, he is himself again, short-term amnesia taking root as it always does with “normal” people.

I look upon the face of my “imaginary girl” and her visage is of the same beauty as before we met. The same unique voice and accent - since April 9th, 1994, the 99th day of that year.

Have others, somewhere at some point in human history, lived as I have…or even understood as I have, the makings of their own place in the universe, and where every little pattern and idea that exists seems to be specially designed for the self as some sort of clue or hint? There are no records of such that I know of. Skepticism. Anger. Jealousy. Short-term amnesia. Nervous doubt. Fear of the unknown. This is what makes people human. I have to remember that others are like chicks in eggs. I have to remember that even as a young child, adults were like chicks in eggs to me. Everything I saw around me was ridiculously deceitful but unable to sway what I knew. All those frustrated people of my past watch me walk away.