FATHER’S DAY

All day, one Father’s Day, arose love, the first seed of the soul.

。︁。︁。︁

June 18, 2023 — The day of 22 also known as 4

INT. DAWN’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – MIDNIGHT, NEW MOON (SAME PHASE AS THE DAY SHE WAS FIRST BORN)

Fanned out on her bed, lodged between her child-hoodlum-walls, lies Dawn. Staring back at her, a mysteriously slashed window screen. The wound. The scar. Did something try clawing its way in or out?

Dawn scrolls through her iPhone, tunneling through various social media masks, lives of strangers, waiting for invisible waves to happen. In fragmented flashes, multiple dashes, the iPhone’s language accelerates to a blur; losing its Mother’s tongue, she no longer has anything in common with it. No longer could her eyes hold its images. What she did not understand was buried in the sand by the invisible waves coming to her rescue. She drifts away. Connection lost. Do Not Disturb On. Do not disturb the ascent of the sibilant tongue.

She stands up just to fall under her ankles as if her feet were numbed and hewed from the rest of her body. Slowly but duly, the body rolls blood back to the tip of her limbs. She steadies her ship to the bathroom and washes off her painted eyes. Her contacts were useless a few days ago, both right and left contact left her vision blurry still. She ended up wearing glasses for fear she would do violence to her eyes if she continued to force sight into it. Blindness. She is swimming on a missed period too. But she has been chaste, so she knows she can’t be pregnant. Her body refused to bleed or hold sight. A deluge of a breakup forced its way in a month ago so perhaps there was no room for blood tears yet.

She sits down to eat her In-N-Out Burger hoping to steady her limpness in these heaving waters. Some food to the bones to weigh her down to the bed and fall asleep just like every other person in the house. She tries to reach a grounding but there are no directions undersea and no lanes in the sky. Her eyes have to work twice as hard to give shape in the night. Perfect 2020 vision is not possible underwater. Her glasses become useless, mere frivolities weighing her eyes down, just like the heavy headphones weighing her head down and disrupting the silent sounds of solitude. With eyes wide shut the current takes her away.

She no longer wanted to be grounded anymore—the burden of reality. She takes off her glasses, preferring the blurs. The burger was revolting. She dare not to give it another chance. She was to walk higher and higher with each step just like a recurring childhood dream that never left her alone until she moved out for college. She would walk the school hallways and suddenly lose contact with the ground and there was no telling when she would come back down no matter how wildly her arms would flap, how she held her breath to weigh herself down to earth. Her dreams cleverly hid the answer to where her drifting would take her. Like how you cannot die in dreams, her dream would stop short at the roof or she would awake terrified she would disappear from the face of the earth and be lost forever. Dawn resisted the ascent each time, scooping air bubbles, cursing the name of gravity for forgetting about her. Sometimes she could feel this uncontrollable ascent rising to happen and her consciousness would do everything in its power to stop it, assiduously taking each step making sure she makes proper contact with the ground and pray the rest of the body obeys. (Dawn’s consciousness used to be able to manipulate her dreams but nothing more drastic than changing a step in which direction) But still this dream was more powerful than her consciousness. Its destiny was wandering elsewhere.

She was doomed to move in the opposite direction from the rest of her generation. They get smaller and smaller, behind the iPhone screen, only she “feels it’s really [her] getting smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and the excitement at about a million miles an hour.”1 She couldn’t comprehend the iPhone’s language because it robbed her of years and she did not want anything to do with it tonight. 

Her body moves separate from her mind. Its movements are like water as if her silk slip dress possessed her body and needed no further command. The mind becomes only a witness. It watches and documents like a mother recording her child’s first steps. The child blindly follows instinct. The mother wants to remember everything, terrified of missing the marvelous first steps, first words, first laugh, first smile, first cry, the first of all firsts to quench her thirst, ravenous to be the Child’s first witness. Still, her own two eyes are not enough. She needs more witnesses. A third eye, a close up shot, a behind the shoulder shot which is impossible for she is the actor and the director, both the Mother and the Child, sitting alone in her bedroom. Stuck in this womb, she silently glides around, careful not to disturb her parents’ peace just as her iPhone could not disturb hers. She runs ahead of the iPhone. It lags behind and cannot keep up with the Child within her.

She feels a great rush of love for her parents. Constantly thinking of how they raised her and put up with her bouts of anger and selfishness. She records every minute to jammify the yolk of living into memory so her loved ones might understand her better. She constantly fears that she has carried herself too far away like her childhood dream for people to understand her. She was not mad anymore only madness.

She picks up her pen and draws on blank canvas pages. She tries to write but she has not learned to write yet and could only paint pictures of an imagination untainted by thought and adherence to formality. Facing its snowy face, she bleeds black ink for words to spill in prophesy. She draws by automatic hand; there is no telling what the conducting hand would do. Her brain is not notified of the pen’s strokes. All of her movements are blind but guided by love. Notifications silenced. Limited to a spectator behind the screen, she observes herself uncoiling by the tail end.

Do not disturb the ascent of the sibilant tongue.

In one breath, she draws a skein of birds circling around her, commanding her to unravel again.

She wants everything in her room to become one.

There was only one way.

The way of water and pen.

The transient was left behind to become Eternal.

In front of her were memories wrapped in a fuzzy haze breathing in and out, in and out, in and out. Because she didn’t wear glasses, she grew eyes in other parts, eyes in her art ahead. She adapted for what she lacked. The brushstrokes pulsate and vibrate, as if patiently waiting to be blended by water. The sea that accepts each drop as its own. It is not possible to divide this glue of love. The blue water shared by the Texas true blue sky. Does the sky reflect the sea or does the sea reflect the sky? Blinded in the womb, groping in the dark with infantile movements in infinite space. Each element she drew was to be possessed by the neighboring tongue no matter where each came from, they became One.

Dawn wanted to hold everything in her aged-beyond-her-years hands. Her hand moved ahead of her. She was chasing after it making sure it does not get lost in symphonies of the womb. She loves her hands and its wrinkled lines strong like the black ink she paints with, bold in what it has to say, skipping pencil lines to demand each line of history to sing without regrets. Each wrinkle cracked open just enough for a grain of sand to fall through or a fleeting sheet of music to slip by.

“I love my hands because they sweat like glory.”

The water drags the sand down. Dawn feels enormously heavy in her body as sand continues to wash in via wrinkles of her ancestors. Each grain falls in to become indistinguishable like its sister drop of water. Her hands smear her notebook ink onto her silk dress which slips back into the water where it came from. Ink bleeds onto the wrinkles of her silk and linens. She lets her whole room become tattooed by the flow of water within the walls of the womb. Her eyes played tricks all night but she did not mind. She swam with its caprices. Its whims trailed no pattern to follow. Everything sang in a trance dance, vibrating the earth anew, awakening dormant cells.

Soul of a Woman was created below.

Soul of a Woman was created for love.

Underneath our souls, everyone has the apple of their own rhythm. We must eat the apple to know its taste. We must live our inner life alone as we have to die our own death. An act of thought alone can not deliver the full message to us. We need an act of action. Dawn was tracking with her two eyes but could never fully comprehend each individual rhythm without losing track of the next. She could not live out the lives of the other, only her own. She didn’t want anything to disappear so she left each part of the symphony to wash over as a whole. Without pinning things down, the symphony flows free. 

Witnesses arrived. Dawn trusted Zoom least of all. Her Voice most of all. She couldn’t even listen to the voices of songs she loves, only the orchestra was allowed through her floodgates. Everyone else’s words were distracting to her conductive tunnel. The crackling fire of the air conditioner was more fitting and energized to the symphony’s receiving pores. All lines and images drawn pulsed to life, finding their own beat to add to the Unconscious Flow. Dawn still desperately wanted an over the shoulder shot to watch her watch herself hold all that she loves. Art unfurled across the world in front of Dawn. And she was looking for someone with far away eyes. 

Delivered. 

INT. CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – MORNING AT NEW DAWN

I am washed up ashore with the rising sun out my window. I am eager to leave my room and see the nascent sun with newborn eyes. I am still dreaming, but it is time to leave the womb to meet the Sun. I wrap a robe of holly and ivy over the silk dress my māma gifted me for Christmas. She will not be pleased I made it into a canvas. Blue—the color of water, a transformative indeterminate color, beams like the sun extending its hand to all along its path, never to suspend its light if blocked. A perpetual current running in the translucent tunnels of the body waits to create a warm contact with all. A sea of emotions rush back to me from my time in the womb, memories heaving beneath my feet enough to take me back to the moon. But the Sun calls my name forward. I must carry what is delivered to the Sun, to the world outside of the individual world I created or rather revived, where I learned to touch by osmosis empathy. The lack of empathy which had entered the womb in the first place and separated me from the Woman within all along. From a wound to a womb, that scar grew.

Today, on Father’s Day, a Woman is found again.

Today a Child is born. 

I am the Mother. 

。︁。︁。︁

P.C. (Post Credits)

We are in contact with a center, yet part of us escapes and lives marginally, a part of us in exile, hence the feeling of loneliness. It is that we live in becoming, in the future.

—Jean Carteret 

This core Jean talks about, is this the Unconscious Flow I felt for the first time but had no name for it back on Father’s Day? This Unconsciousness lives before our Consciousness and drives the becoming of Consciousness. I am chasing after this Unconsciousness, catching up to my past selves. I believe the true good nature of our iPhones is to document our Communal Unconsciousness so we can become Conscious of the Unconscious. They are helping hands, assistants who record so effortlessly our habits and desires. But what is gained is lost. The iPhone precariously tips us over to deeper sleep, deeper than the sleep of our ancestors. All things have at least two sides—one evil, one good. “Why is there evil? For the joy of good arising from it. Why darkness? That light may shine the more. Why suffering? For the instruction of the soul and the joy of sacrifice. Why the infinite play of creation and evolution? For Anandam, pure joy.” 2Why? For Thou Art to be Artist again. Awaken Children, it is time to dream again.

On Father’s Day from midnight to nightend, I was in a state of timelessness. “Awareness comes sometimes before the drama has taken place. Primeval innocence. No recollection.”3 But only heretofore for I was awake the whole time and recorded my journey to the End, here on out on my iPhone. 

So here aGirl with an iPhone begins. 

And who is the Father of aGirl, the third eye she was looking for? 

Only the Spirit knows.

。︁。︁。︁