Sunday, May 11, 2014

Light-flash (Black Mary)

When I look back at that night, it was per near pitch pitch-black, thus, I realize now it wasn’t a vision, it was reality I was seeing. First there was a flash of light, then the shadowy figure of a woman alongside my wife’s bedside: I had to look hard and concentrated, she was a bit slender, and the darkness of her finely knit configuration I could see if I remained in a somewhat trance state so it seemed: she was very calm in prayer, in the dark. And then above her, a deviation of form of some kind, I took it as another figure, not a replica of the woman but the eyes were black in black, and the figure fragmented, and more possessive. It was a matter of coloring, although I might have been under stress of excitement, I doubt I was, nor having any to my understanding excessive tension, I`ve endured such pitch, or terrain, of the dark side of life, or ghostly world before, matter of fact, many times.
       I told my wife of the fullness of this experience the next day, and she didn’t know what to make of it. I did figure the second figure was a kind of intense spirit of rivalry, but I didn’t notice a struggle between the two, thinking that it was Rosa’s dead mother’s spirit, but she was too young, and it was more like the Shadowy reality of a dark Virgin Mary, placid and untroubled, I somewhat grew anxious to define the figure and the situation. Feeling it was no vision. The second figure was glaring fixedly at the other, but not frightful, and keeping its distance.
       Ominous of something dreadful, forthcoming from the second figure, and the lower figure, the woman, was preventing it, is my only conclusion I could surmise, that trickled slowly down into the chambers of my mind. But why could I see what I was seeing, and when I was seeing it, why did Black Mary, so I shall call her with full and due respect, not blink an eye, batter an eyebrow, face me, up or anywhere but steadfast in prayer?
       Well, be that as it may, I’ve come to this conclusion about the blackness (thus already concluding whom it was).

Color, to a high degree is a sensation, that is to say, a conscious feeling one senses. It has no objective reality, in that it is unbiased truth, what you see is what you see, if the truth is not suffocated that is. In other words, it does not deceive you, you deceive yourself perhaps. With this premise in mind let me take this a step closer into darkness of that night.  It was dark in the bedroom, and the figures were both darkly dressed, so it would seem, hence the environment was dark to the point one could no longer see objects or color themselves in that darkness.  All objects became black in this darkness.  So just looking it is impossible to strike them with the eye if no light strikes them, which makes sense because no light is flung back to our eye, and it is vision here we are taking about, not visions. It is like a black robed, Negro priest walking in the dark, with no moonlight or ark light to shine on him. Your sense may pick up something, but you are really unconscious to figure.
       We don’t have perfect black with perfect black, if so, I would have been completely blinded to the figures. Within each figure there were certain components, pigments, a combination of dark or blackness, this in itself will produce near invisibility. That is perhaps why both figures chose dark to light, to reduce their discovery, or at least the indefinable one looking down—if that makes sense. It perhaps is a good way for demonic spies in Congress, or at the Vatican, or White House or Kremlin, to gather information unnoticed. It is like when you take all the oxygen out of ice, you get blue ice, when you take all the pigmentation out of black, you get near invisibility, only thing left is that which is reflected by light. And in this case, a transparent body cast no shadow. The molecule structure is rearranged I would think, for such a person: ‘Ad infinitum’; in other words, having no end to what structure it may produce. But one thing cannot be overcome is that light, flashes! So one can see into invisibility with a ‘light flesh’ and people do see things they think they do not really see, which they really do, and I saw—that evening, Mary in prayer, as a demonic being was overcast above my wife’s sleeping body, for what reason? My best guess is: they don’t need any, they’re just born pests.


Repairing the Mind (A Minnesota Miracle)

I do not see why I should not turn this small account of unusual information to a story, I told myself. Knowing most folk, with similar knowledge, have not expressed their experience, could but wouldn’t or couldn’t and wouldn’t.  And I have not journalized it, so I’ll have to tell it from the top, kind of like a photo-shoot. Precisely! From the very top, I had a heart attack, and on the operating table, had a stroke, my doctor, from the Veteran’s Hospital, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, said I was a fruitcake, so he said to those doctors and nurses, and interns, and trainees around him as he interrupted suavely walking from bedside to bedside, and even my bedside, “He’s a fruitcake,” meaning brain dead.  But what he didn’t know was like Lazarus, I’d be raise from the dead comatose state I was in. Fruitcake or not: the word itself is not pretty one when comparing the mind and cake as equals: and it has a deadly connotation when it is used as an image, a personification, an instrument to identify the human brain waves, in thinking; it says in essence, a person  like me has leaped to some off stage polarization, as if a night-scavenger, that can’t find its way back to humanity’s reality—being in a lost world; lost in some ocean stone, never to be found and reunited with humankind.
       Well that is how it was, but in a three day period I resurrected from the dead. You might say a spark went off and caused an explosion inside my head, and I miraculously survived, and came back to the world I once knew. I remember I woke up from my sleep, an angel was at the foot of my bed, guarding me.  My skull had been mangled, my frontal lobes mangled like pulp. The doctors looked at me capricious, as if I was unpredictable. Indulging in  that parodied word, “Mr. Siluk, you were a fruitcake,” now posthumous, retrospective, that was all he could say,  “Thanks for trying but you know you really didn’t have anything to do with my recovery, it was the Lord,” and of course the angel, not allowing the diseased demonic beings to  sniff about me.
       This all took place in 1994, and the doctor said I had, three to six years to live, that was 20-years ago. In college I had studied the human brain, I am no expert, and disaster strikes people in different ways. I know part of my brain suffered. I couldn’t dial a phone number for a short while, and it took me six months to relearn how to play the guitar, I had played for 40-years. And some folks that recover have after effects, become pathological liars, some lose ability to speak, or sing.  I never swore, and now I found myself doing just that, I had to pray and work on my tolerance. I didn’t drink or smoke, so I had no way to nurse my bad behavior. Thus, I had now pour moments of frustration, I became a more complex person, but I figured I could live a semi-normal life. This all was an uncanny valley for me at first, engineering my way along, back into vague humanity.
       If you have such a friend, or family member, try if you will to put yourself, your mind into the mind of the character, even if his mind is damaged,  only then can you realize  the same things: disappointments, bewilderment.  My friend, a poet, Apolinario, in his sixties had a stroke. I visited him, a side of his body and speech, and walking ability, was somewhat damaged, and somewhat paralyzed like mine was for a short while, his was for a few years. We talked frankly; he is also a television commentator, and journalist, a poet and writer. I told him: “Look at me, I recovered from a heart attack, operation, and stroke, I beat all the odds in the neurological novels, and you can too.” I just gave him a little hope, his wife looked franticly happy when I did. I simple jumped into his world for a moment.  He wrote me a few weeks ago, telling me he finished his 15th book, just finished it, and he wanted to give me a signed copy next time he saw me.  He didn’t mention it but I saw he was back on television. So for those folks that cannot realize recovery, pray, and stop being pessimistic.

No: 1061/5-10-2014