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.
1060/5-10-2014
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
