I
call it the dark void; it is like a deep shadow as if you had entered bubble, a
dark packed together bubble: giving it a second thought, the dark being ajar.
How I entered the noiseless large dark void I don’t know but there it lay, and
there I was, I had an intense interest—nothing, nothing else. Besides I was
completely spellbound. Though I was a spiritualist about to communicate with
God; I suppose I am hideous to remember it in such terms. It was as if my soul
was warm. It was as if my soul was looking for a source of all life, where it
originated, I was unable to protest. There is much to be experienced in such a
situation, now that I think back on it. The whole moment: me, the air, the
darkness all chained and subdued. I had no objection to being there—why? Indifferent to everything; it should have
filled me with terror…
Who knows—should I have stayed longer,
what nature carries in the womb of such darkness…who can even guess it? All you do is bide your time, I didn’t know
at that point, and I still don’t know, the end and aim of this, the reason why!
Everything has a meaning of its own. Never have I endured such a instant. As
that day, a haughty night that is. I was as if I became the property of many,
not only of myself. It all is something out of the ordinary.
I must have thought death was on its
way, and here I was to wait for it, but it didn’t come, I woke up, laying
halfway out of my car, and the other half of me, inside the car, on top of the
Mississippi River, in the middle of February, the coldest month in Minnesota,
laying on cold ice that was cracking, stretching, I had gone over an embankment
thirty-feet, the old 1953 Desoto flew
through the trees, smack on the ice; that was when I was fifteen—a drunk
fifteen, in 1962.
