There are terrible truths to

April 26, 2003

There are terrible truths to tell. I went away from the internet. I spent several weeks working hard on things I could touch, taste and smell. I have strayed but only by accident not intention. I discovered how to do it all on the web. Two weeks ago I browsed aimlessly through my day, slouching silently at my terminal, doing God’s bidding and clicking frequently on the “vote only once” button. One link led to another led to a dead end and then a pop up. Barely as interesting as daytime TV but legislated by the law of modern living. Don’t fall behind. All the while fingers of opportunism reached quietly into my personal details, mp3s and account profiles to ensure me adequate offers of penis enlargement, Japanese girls and low mortgage rates in the inbox of my future. Having reached the end of a three hour surf on the reef of an Idaho bed and breakfast scandal I received an indelible pop-up at www.interventionparty.com. No way to close the window. I would have taken it for the merciful screen freeze that signals futility and bedtime if it were not for the pulsing fuchsia words in 36 point Arial “Beyond this machine is a mind boggling and rich dimension”. I hit the three fingered Mac salute and waited for the steamboat and wind chime wake up and the then the little happy Mac resting on its bed of gray pixels. Clean the slate. This did not happen. No hard restart either. Nothing. Still “beyond this machine is a mind boggling and rich dimension”. Last resort. I went right to the wall socket. When I unplugged the computer the house went dark. All the 60 cycle hum you never notice but is always there...was not there. Out the window and into the street and down highways and across bridges there was no light or power. Synchronicity with some lightning bolt to a substation or some driver asleep at the wheel taking out a power pole? I felt my way upstairs. While doing so I realized I loved feeling my way in the dark. Wood grain in the railing. Rope twined fibres of dirty polyester in the carpet. Oh. I had a hole in my sock. The odd painful surprise. Things in the fridge would soon thaw and spoil. I ate strawberry shortcake ice cream in the dark. An oral supernova to my heightened senses. The venetian blinds cut the moonlight into stripes. The stripes hugged the contours of the kitchen and turned it into a domestic relief map. Everyone slept. I heard the highway from inside the house for the first time. I could picture the model of each car by its particular pink noise whoosh. I had been locked away so I tried to guess what the family had eaten for each meal by what the room smelled like now at days end. It took some time but it was worth it. I took off my clothes and felt my way to the bathroom. Carefully I touched the tops of the jars and tubes and bottles in the cupboard 'til I found the talcum powder. The one with the rotating holes on top. I made my way down and out the door quieter than I had before. I emptied the whole canister of powder over the surface of my skin and through my hair. I started with my chest for sheer surface area and spread it evenly over every nook and cranny. I walked through the ivied arbour and down the centre of the silent street. Glowing and lunar. As long as I walked it remained nighttime. I returned two weeks later and woke the kids for school on the same day. They have never asked me where my clothes are or why I am all white. They want to know if there are any Cheerios left. Tonight I will stop the power again and tonight I will walk farther.