A crack in the wall not wide enough to enter, but wide enough to emit mesmeric shadows. Female heights, female heights, is whispered. Shapes with names like Karin and Francesca twist and succumb to the whims of another side, as the wallpaper splits and strips away. The woodman approaches and the dust of rusting propellers fills his empty basket. What does it all mean I wonder? I search the shelves for the work of Francesca Woodman. I locate an image of a nude self-obscured with torn flowered wallpaper. In a monograph on Bergman I examine a set of stills taken from Through a Glass Darkly- a menacing helicopter touches down, casting the shadow of a spider god, as Karin, succumbing to the destructive edge of madness, kneels in an empty attic room covered with the same shredded wallpaper.
The cat claims the black cloth. It is covered with her fine pyramid colored hair. The equipment has been running for several hours and there are pages of notations to translate. At first, I consider the frequencies to be a form of abstract poetry, a puzzle of sorts equaling an invitation to a parallel world. One of pure mind, uncorrupted by virus. But after a time, I suspect I am not being invited but lured, just as Harry Haller in Steppenwolf is lured into the theater for mad men only. But desperation awakens a deeper potential. I have come to believe it is neither a case of choice nor seduction. There is a mission at hand and I am certain that I am being summoned. I sit and listen intently throughout the essential hours, and write what is instructed, and eventually acquiesce, giving my silent yet whole-hearted consent. I would soon go where instructed to go, venture where frequencies hail.
It seems to me the nights are getting colder, so much so that I imagine snow, and unroll my down quilt. I awaken at odd hours and sit at my desk in a hooded parka shivering. The outside world seems far away, as if my room had spun in the center of a cyclone and landed in a deserted park with a small airfield covered in frost. And yet I continue my vigil, listening until deciperable phrases form within a sonic center. I diligently transcribe and glimpse a realm with corridors of ice opening onto a room with a familiar circular table of stone.
Question: How many selves do we have?
Answer: How many can you imagine?
Question: What is the process?
Answer: Drink a vial of tears, sleep yet not sleep, dream yet not dream.
Question: If I disappear who will feed my cat.
Answer: Do not worry, all continues as it is.
I look and see myself, still bowed over sheafs of notations at the worktable. A bowl of water and provisions on the floor by my feet.
Come, step into the fire, says a voice, then step out unscathed and tell of its terrible mastery.
It’s a metaphorical fire. I submit, but with caution, as I am a Capricorn, a practical if not eccentric goat. I have no fear, deeming myself well prepared, having concentrated on an entrance but also on a way back.
I possess the key of return, in the form of a hologram composed of the love for life.
Later, I watch as my daughter approaches the stairs. Confident all is well I ready for departure, allowing myself to be pulled along by some benevolent force, like a child’s kite with tails of red silk drifting into the clouds.
End of Part 2
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