I’m proud of my FBI record. To clarify, I’ve never worked for the FBI. What I mean is that the FBI has a file on me. Not only do they have a file on me, but it’s secret. That’s why I am proud. That they would worry enough about me to have a secret file. I’m not being exactly fair, because the story I am going to tell you has nothing to do with my secret FBI file or how I came to learn about it. I only mention my file because it’s eerily unrelated to what follows, which is the essence of what follows.
I’ve been reviewing James’ letter to his Kickstarter backers, and it’s about 12:15 am or so. I’m in the hammock that stretches across the studio area, tip tapping away at the laptop. I keep whiffing the faint odor of a not unpleasant burning, like aromatic woodsmoke. Perhaps the pot of chaga has cooked down to it’s chunks and is beginning to carbonize. Or maybe something worse. There’s food on the counter – left over pancakes and watermelon from dinner with Luke and Abigail.
Ready to browse without remorse and feeling a bit parched too, I slide out of suspension, balancing the laptop and it’s swivel base like a svelte titanium pizza box. Clunk onto the floor and stiff but serviceable standing joints. Into the kitchen and no, the chagga is off. My imagination or crosstalk from an adjacent dimension more likely. Turn to the counter and the crash landed dinner. The comal has a few pancakes – dryish but beginning to wilt with the trapped humidity.
I extract one onto the bare counter but… no. Watermelon. That’s the ticket. Returning the pancake to it’s dark lair I reach for the less than ideal serrated knife, start to saw waxy rind and then it happened – the eerily unrelated event.
Out of nowhere, out of an unknown, unsuspected aspect, I spoke the words, “Mitt Romney”. It came out clear and calm, like a statement. Without any emotion or context, just “Mitt Romney”. I can’t say it was a message, a sending or a channeling, because it was completely and utterly devoid of any content. As if I wanted to hear myself say it. The simple music of speech, but why those words, why that… name?
Why not that name? Is not THAT name as equally sacred as “Earth”, as “Philip K. Dick” or “watermelon”? Sure, that’s all well and good, but the whole incident is still a bit creepy. To be surprised by myself is not an everyday thing, more dreamlike than waking, methinks. In conclusion, I offer with these words…
“Mitt Romney”.
Say it. See if it sounds like the thrum and rush of the cosmos to YOU.