THE SORROW OF A DEPARTURE

They had come at him in the morning while he was looking out the window at people on the street hurrying to work. It was a lovely day in late spring. The leaves in the trees below were still pale and fresh. There was a delicate scent of flowers in the air, as well as the usual exhaust fumes from the busses and the smell of coffee from the hot dog stand across the street. And so he was thinking about coffee, remembering suddenly that he had thrown the maid out, yelled at her just an hour ago.

They had gotten a key somehow and they moved in on him quickly. They had done this many times before. He fought as hard as he could, hitting and kicking, and screaming curses the whole time. But there were four of them, and his body though tall and imposing no longer had enough strength. In the end, they wore him down, lying on top of him on the dusty floor. One of them jabbed the needle silvery and cold into his arm, and that was the end of it. They abducted him from this world.

*

The next thing he knew, he was tied to a chrome metal bed, his hands roped to the sides with bright blue ropes, his feet to the end. He bucked and struggled, but the restraints held. Someone came from behind a curtain. A hissing sound, another shot, and he was gone.

*

Then a blond young man and an older one in a white lab coat were standing next to him. The older man was speaking to him. He could not understand the words, wondered if he was hallucinating, but suddenly he was exhausted. He stopped struggling against his restraints and he began to weep. He was alone.

*

When he woke, he was groggy. The curtain had been pulled back and he could see another bed. A gaunt old man lay in it gasping and staring at him wordlessly. A woman, nicely dressed sat in a chair beside him. She looked over and smiled pleasantly in his direction, then turned back to watch a television screen mounted to the wall. The old man did not move.

On the television young people and their parents were shouting angrily at each other, egged on by a leering man with a microphone while an audience of ordinary middle class people cheered and booed. In spite of the din, he found he could not understand them at all. It meant nothing to him.

Beyond the couple, there was a window through which he could see nothing but a cloudy gray sky. As he stared at it, he felt overcome with an sheer emptiness, and he fell asleep. For some reason, the taste of sour pickles filled his mouth.

*

Now it was dark, and the room was lit only by a glowing globe as the bedside of the man next to him. The man was alone and silent, staring at the ceiling now. Outside the room, there was the clatter of crockery. A slender energetic black man with a beard and wearing a three piece suit ducked into the room, looked at him, nodded, smiled as if they shared some kind of secret, and left. He could not tell if he was dreaming.

*

He woke in the night. He knew what had happened. When it had begun and what it was now.

Perhaps it was as long as seven years ago. He had been at a dinner party. The food was very good, and the conversation was bright. All the people were younger, good looking, quick and clever. Their conversation was up to date and full of promise. His own remarks were sharp and his aphorisms witty, but there was a moment when he knew that he was a visitor from a different time while those he addressed were in their element. This was their time. It filled them and gave them strength. They could not imagine a world not shaped by their own interests and ambitions. He was still a welcome guest but it was no longer his time.

He had made a mistake then in letting this happen. For a moment he had entertained this thought and dwelt on it. And it took root in him, opening a door through which he was taken from his world and time. Now, they had come and brought him here and taken him from time altogether.

We are listening, and not to the clatter of specifics. That is to us inaudible, individuation not being within our register. Audible is yearning. Cellular yearning is for us what sound is for you.


^^^^

Always we are so close to you.


Within your colonies 10 quadrillion specialized animal cells;
Within your colonies 100 quadrillion specialized bacterial cells;
We visit, take up abode, visit and pass through you,
Then returning as all cells do to our own kind.


Traveling through all that is known as space, perceived as space, known as time, and experienced as time;
Traveling beyond the limits of those modes and concepts; pervading them;
Traveling in touch, taste, sound, sight, smell,
Traveling in light, in awareness, in experience, in continuum, in gap;

We who mutate and do not change
Bring you into being.
We sustain you.
We take you back.


Moving in invisible clouds through the infinite expanse of space , flowing through air or water or earth in vast tides,
Our journey knows no end.


As wave upon wave of numberless beings, we seek rest and home. We emerge onto the terrain of perception and are for a moment known. Indifferent, we continue, swirling around your earth in spiral waves whose hunger resembles lust, whose spread resembles hunger, whose violence resembles rage, whose campaigns resemble the mind of a conqueror.


For an instant, we bring you who are
Lost in the mirage of gross phenomena,
Face to face with reality.
As we bring you back.

Introduction?

Deep in randomness (for you, some click, perhaps amid discouragement or the hopeful boredom of some solitary night or afternoon), no so-called law has brought you to this disembodied encounter.

Nonetheless we have entered this juncture which exists no-where- except in the fragile alternation of certain electronic charges, oscillating in some version of space we can not see and is so easily disrupted. Momentary and inexistent in this medium, yet we are meeting.

Would you find familiar comfort, would it seem best (so as not to cause alarm) to provide some introduction, some, as you would say, some explanation of what you have now just met?

It is not so easy. We (and even using this pronoun is dubious and used here only as a kind of locational marker) will try not to shock.

So, let's try: (Please do not worry: there is no solicitation of any kind here)

We are not exactly plural, and definitely not singular. Something/somewhere between.
We do not call ourselves a people or race or tribe or clan or family or colony.
We call ourselves, if at all, View.

Our origins are not known nor ascertainable.

For instance : Some of us are individuated and some not. Of the latter, it is both pointless and literally impossible to speak. Of the former, some are incorporate and some are in transit.

As individuated beings, we are reliant on certain modes: space, elements, sound, awareness, and none of these.

As individuated beings, we are constituted from the above either singly or in combination.

More problematically, the overwhelming fact of arriving anywhere as individuated beings (with all the sensoria, speech habits, drives, concept formations, etc.) causes many forms of differentiation and confusion. We recognize ourselves and each other with difficulty and it is a struggle for us to do so.

It may be said that our journey or purpose, if there is one, is to accomplish this. And whether it is our purpose or not, it is certainly what we are doing, and it is, in some sense, why we have come to be among you.

To speak more clearly, we find ourselves as you. (Please read this last sentence particularly carefully)