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| A Vision, by George Kordis. Egg tempera on handmade paper on board, 100 x 150 cm. |
There is a song that I know I want to die to: Where I Belong, by Switchfoot. It wasn't a conscious decision, just something I knew when I heard the song. Everything I want to think about as I die is in that song. I've a habit of listening to it on New Year's Eve as a reminder as to what the next year is to be used for.
One night I had a particularly awful flashback. C-PTSD serves up extremely intense flashbacks, things so horrible and direct only a child could conceive of them. They don't come as often as they used to, but man when they do! This was one of those nights. I was hurting all over. I'd had a whole day of my body aching so horribly that I really wished I could lie down and die. Just to have it all stop. Cause God, I wanted it to stop.
So I listened to another of my favorite songs: Sycamore.
Yes, you should get all the way through.
No, really, I know it's thirteen minutes but it's worth it.
One of the things flashbacks do is they keep a horrible moment playing in your body on loop. Your body loses the sense of linear time and experiences this one hellish moment, over and over again. Most advice I've gotten is to find a way to stay in the present moment, to root oneself firmly in the right here, right now. It's some of the least helpful advice I've ever gotten, right up there with bullshit like "Believe in yourself" and "You're enough". Myself is the problem, thank you very much. If it works for you that's fine, but the myth of adequacy has never done me any good. So no. Same holds true with the present moment. In the present moment my body is dumping poison, the present moment is the problem!!! I could do with a lot less of it, thank you.
This particular time in experiencing Sycamore I could feel my body start to let go. Something about those folks at the drumset, playing, always fills me with hope. My body began to let go of the present moment. And this quiet whisper came to me, deep in my heart, on the wind.
Hello.
I've gotten so used to weird shit happening around flashbacks I didn't even flinch. The voice sounded familiar.
"Hi", I said back, audibly. The rest of my family was asleep, I could act as crazy as I wanted!
It's Time.
I knew what that meant. When I was younger I wanted to die one of two ways: crushed by the corpses of my enemies or surrounded by family. No, really, this is what I would tell people. Either one was fine by me.
"How is It happening?"
With family. There was pride in that voice, a profound joy. My body trembled at it. And yearned for the moment when it could finally stop doing the insanity we call life.
They're so scared. I'm scared too. Will you sing with me? Help me help them, ease their pain?
"I can't cross with you, beyond The Gate."
That's okay. I won't need you there.
I walked outside, humming the opening bars softly to myself; I didn't want to wake the neighbors. I felt old and tired hands clapping to the beat with a vigor that is only present in the young and the dying. I could feel the stares. There was a momentary anger from some of them. I could feel the indignation, however slight.
And then we roared the opening. Together. And the resentment, the consternation went away. He stopped singing to encourage those around him. "Louder, let's do this like a rabble! A riot!" he called. There was a joy, an abandonment, that I'd not felt in decades. I thought this part of me had died a very long time ago. But inside I could feel the doubts, the fears, the questions this old man had. Life had started off so difficult, so brutal, so cruel. Light had slowly crept in. Was it enough? Truly? I really wanted to write that it wasn't. I really did. The modern in me wants to stamp and scream that nobody could be this peaceful, happy, strong, secure, that life is a great unknown. He caved, at the last! He was a charlatan! It would let me off the hook, let me say "Well, that's just unrealistic. Nothing that good exists, not in this world." And then I could go about my day, isolated and alone and darned happy about it.
Make no mistake: the modern mindset is built on spite towards anything remotely real.
But that shriveled and evil worldview of our ignoble present will not win today. The old man had been at peace for awhile; failure was no longer something he contemplated. Our voices became stronger. There was a powerful, almost frantic pushing, on our parts. There was a need, an immense desire, to get every last drop of this Light out, into those who surrounded that bed. Out out out. I couldn't see the room, but I could feel the Light coming out in waves, gently enveloping everyone as he tried to give away every last drop of peace he had left. Nothing else could be held in that body. It was a fire sale of life; all had to go.
And then there was that youthful energy again. I felt like I was five years old, before everything had started happening in earnest. The old man's voice became powerful, buoying the voices around him, pushing them farther and farther. My voice broke, choking in sobs. I had to come our back fence and collapsed against it, reveling in being held up. Just a little bit farther! Just a little bit!
GO!
I still believe we can live forever. You and I can live forever now. We sang, his voice soft and vanishing, mine harsh, broken by sobs, and also vanishing.
GO!
His voice cracked.
GO!
The strength was vanishing.
GO!
The peace grew stronger.
GO!
Hands could be felt. On his hands. On his face, which he nuzzled into. On his slowing heart, which rejoiced all the more because those hands of reassurance had never been truly anticipated. Cruelty had rendered that heart distrustful of expecting goodness, but not at being surprised that good still existed. Power was leaving, and peace was winning. His voice was almost gone. So was mine, as I trembled against the fence, tears streaming from stinging eyes. They were holding him now, supporting him as he filled them with peace.
You can't go much farther, young'un. The Wall's here. So's The Gate.
"I... I really want to go! I NEED TO GO WITH YOU! TAKE ME!!!!" I begged in a loud and breaking voice. At that moment I wanted to be him. To go Home. A great exhaustion and desperation came over me. I just wanted it to be done. Over. The peace he was facing was so intoxicating, so inviting...
No, no you don't. Trust me. Let it play out. Let me go. Please.
I began to hear the noises of the city at night again. He was leaving me. I was letting him go. We were letting go together. "It feels like it's been worth it," I said, suddenly afraid. There was no way this was what I thought it was. Right? This couldn't be how it ended. It had to be a trick. I was crazy. I had to be crazy. This wasn't real. No one else ever talked about anything even remotely like this. I needed it to be true, but that didn't make it so!
It is. And then the voice grew softer, quieter. I'm glad I hoped.
And then there was a silence, a serenity, like a child long overdue for a nap had finally settled in, soft and calm breathing conquering all around it with its sheer sincerity and innocence.
I couldn't see through the hot water. My body collapsed into a fetal position, and I rocked myself as best I could. The fence felt good. Firm. Certain. It helped counter the swimming in my head, the shaking of my body as it struggled to accept what had just happened to it.
After a few moments I was completely in the present again, back against the fence. I looked up at my stars, which were probably dead tens of millions of years, with their lights only just reaching me now to say "I was here once". There's a weird element of time distortion to the night sky: what's up there hasn't been there for goodness knows how long. We see echoes and are unappreciative of the marvel. I looked and admired what I could through the light pollution. But, for whatever reason, this is what I felt that night, looking up into the light-choked sky.
After Schiphol I went inside.
I was fine. My body had been relieved.
And the next day I woke up, happy to be alive.
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