When the Birds Hit the Windows.

On November 24th, 1999, the man that lived in the second house on the


other side of the river took out his rifle and shot himself.   I want to


tell you about it; about the things that are going on that could push a


man to such an act.








I can also tell you about that man's brother, who died in September,


1999, at age fifty-four, from a ruptured blood vessel in the frontal


lobe of his brain. And about his twenty-two year old son who died in an


unexplained accident two weeks later.   And of the grandfather, now in


care for the heart attack that followed his son's suicide.








I can't tell you about that son's experiences as I'm not fully informed


on them; but, I can tell you about mine, just a few miles down the road.








What I'm about to describe falls into the appalling and the incredible.


The kind of data that is gratefully dismissed and that one thankfully


ascribes to mental phenomena, reassured that some specialty or another


claims to 'understand' it and can even do something about it.   Until it


happens to you.








The first thing I took note of, in early 1998, was a visual disturbance


in my right eye.   A wiggling shimmer; an occasional 'spark' in the space


before me; the sudden increase in brightness of whatever I was looking


at with that eye.   Then I noticed a crystaline form on my line of sight,


like a small lens.   Solitary, spiritual, and open to all types of


communications, I quickly moved through surprise, fear, discomfort,


interest, and, finally, acceptance.   I got used to this 'little lens' a


few inches from my eye. I got used to the morphing visual effects it


created. I integrated it into my paintings, my walks in the woods, my


life.  







...