View From 16th

There is a sense of not wanting to be here on 16th and Center, address 319 North, some awful transposition of 19 squared there, in the Masonic house. Two small, concrete obelisks are on either side of the driveway and it ought to be pleasant to look out onto the hills from the large, clean windows of this house, the natural hills and those which are man-made and called slag; the way the sun and the iron play off of each other to create lavender vistas all around is very lovely. There isn't though any solace in the view or on the roofs of so many quaint houses staggered around the smallish valley nor any charm in the massive structure sitting directly across from here just under a natural incline where the cliffs contain whole dynasties of evolution in fossils. It is right at the base of dump number seven. That would be the old hospital which is now a boarding house for the indigent and elderly. It is a handsome building, particularly in the afternoon when the light sculpts the art deco facades into crisp shapes. The place is charming the way things like that are, irresistable to people not used to the less than Byzantine. It is mostly brick and wood laid against timber, all quite flammable and impermanent. The only solid structures in sight are the several frames of shaft elevators that dot the hills in seemingly arbitrary places that mark areas where minerals are easy to find and extract by those who, in the past descended to mine the rock walls for a variety of things like copper and silver and sometimes, a bit of gold. It ought to be pleasant, but it isn't.

The best part of being in a catastrophe is actually being in one. There is nothing anyone can really say about that sort of thing, there is no choice within the boundaries of it, no conclusions and nothing which resembles remorse. It just is. It is a case that one does what one is compelled to do and that would be, to move along with it as if in a river, just glide along and look at things as they pass by or remain motionless at various points along the way.

Waking up in a large hall prepared in advance for the arrival of so many souls (on the run) after one has slept what seemed like several lifetimes contained in a few seconds, is the material of which epiphanies are made, the kind of thing a person only gets to do once, like everything else in the scheme of things. Ship load after ship load, ours was the fourteenth wave. When a person arrives in such a hall, the rest have already disappeared to wherever it is they ship people like us, refugees. There are lines and lines of open cots with one blanket each and a brand new pillow depending on the invasion and the invader. In this particular case, it could be said of it, "it was well appointed". There are boxes full of food and the essentials, foot powder and sanitary napkins and one bathroom with three stalls and three sinks for the women and probably, about the same for the men. It is an exhibition hall on the Turkish side of the island. It is prearranged for cataclysm.

I lay down after spending several hours settling in to the camp by organizing and reorganizing my few possessions but could not sleep because I was still bleeding and felt unclean. I didn't want to shower out in the open with the other women. The children were sleeping on and off and our traveling companions with whom we had left the city two days before were actively moving about and making phone calls to Kabul and Boston. They seemed very busy. Jessica, the mother, was worried about her diet, she could not be around people who had eaten carbohydrates within the previous 24 hours, it was very important to her that we respect this. We had no phone though and there wasn't really anything any of us wanted to say, my children and I, to anyone we knew. We felt very far away, so far that no phone could ever span the distance we felt.

Night began to fall and the hall was still empty. The few stragglers from the boat before ours had departed at one, just after we arrived. We were absolutely alone with thousands of empty cots and all sorts of personal expectations that we knew could never be fufilled. We did not know how we felt yet, not really and somehow, I knew we wouldn't really know how we would feel for a very long time to come. Perhaps forever. We might never recover, I knew that much but also knew that recovery isn't always the best thing if it means there isn't a lesson learned or a price paid. We were paying dearly for something but didn't quite understand what or when the debt we had incurred would finally be paid in full. The numbness was profound.

I spent a few hours walking around the fairgrounds looking for others like myself or those even worse off, those in shock or perhaps even ill. I looked for tears and slouching and found a woman on a bench sitting all alone. I tried to comfort her with talk of God and she appreciated it even though we were of different sects entirely, whole different ballparks of understanding about our status and the cause of the invasion. The woman sobbed as we compared what we'd seen so far and how we feared what else it might be that we would see. She spoke of the sister she'd left behind. It was a kind of sad excitement that allowed the closeness to exist between us for nearly a half hour. I finally got up, held her her for a moment and said goodbye to her. I can remember her face as one of average intellect, average sadness and a complete sense of loss and frustration that aggravated the tiny lines around her eyes. Her face was already anemic from several days living under seige in the south of our country. She could have been a woman in a painting.

When I returned to the hall, everyone in my group, my children and my friend and her two daughters were already asleep or resting with their eyes half closed. No one seemed to have anything left to say even though we'd not spoken more than a few words to each other since the early afternoon. I hadn't slept for nearly a week. The last time I had slept I awoke to a thunderous explosion above our building which lit the sky like a match suddenly lights a dark room. No one moved or said anything as I prepared to lay down, not even a goodnight let alone, an I love you. Then I fell without even a pause to observe my last deep sigh into a dark and immense sleep.

I woke up suddenly but without being startled or disoriented. I had no idea how much time had passed but if time were to be measured as change it must have been years that I had slept because what I saw as I opened my eyes was a world which had completely changed.

The cavernous hall which had been so empty was now filled, every cot in it had a sleeping body there and some held two. None of them moved. I cannot imagine how they settled so close to us in such silence, the way an army of butterflies must arrive in a tree. Thousands more had arrived in those hours or moments of sleep of which I have no real record to refer to. They appeared to be dead rather than exhausted. There was only one soldier walking out of the hall who looked back over his shoulder briefly before disappearing and I sat alone looking over the great event horizon. I sat and waited for things to begin moving again, I was frozen in pain and wonder at the company of souls in which I was immersed as if in the clearest water on the highest mountain, a place where no one had ever been before or would ever go again. Here it was at last, Nirvana, wildly unstable and utterly somnolent. The darkest star on the brink of radiation over a graveyard of the living.

The two obelisks mark the driveway but I do not want to know what they mean. I only know that I exist on the corner of 16th and Central, 319 North.