The transmutation of one mineral
into another, or into something completely un-mineral like, take your pick, was
exactly as advertised by those who had told me about it upon my arrival -- with
lightning flashes fifty miles distant and regular updates on the airwaves by anyone
who had access to the airwaves, who had paid their money up front and were
delivered of equipment eighty years out of date. You turned the knobs one way
and you received information from as far away as Spain; you turned it another
and the information you received was no longer really information at all. It was
a bland re-working of stage dramas with names that suggested they took place in
the Ural mountains and examined the everyday lives of everyday people but
delivered nothing of the sort. I pitched my tent close to the outcropping the
locals had named for a legendary pair of lovers who would meet up there nights when
the moon was full and sometimes when it was crescent-shaped, or, as the locals frequently
expressed it,” mimicking the uterus”, until they were discovered by a great,
lumbering aunt of one or the other of them. She (it was said) wagged her finger
in their faces and, when no one paid attention to the warnings she doled out
from that evening forward with such regularity even her own siblings (at any
rate, those who were still living) believed she had gone insane, she cast a
spell that no one was able to break because they didn’t fully understand how it
worked or how exactly it had managed to change the lives of those it had been
cast on. The only difference in the victims was a certain ruddiness of the cheeks
that appeared now and then inexplicably and a tendency to dream about snow
leopards when before they wouldn’t have known what the animals looked like. When
not pouring over old atlases or boning up on my trigonometry, I spent my
evenings there reliving the experience, jotting some of it down in a notebook
that I subsequently misplaced, but the trumpeting like bereaved swans and the
sulfurous aftertaste stay with me to this day due to their novelty and what
I’ve come since to understand was their association with that thing we term the
Ground of Being when we need some entity or some place from which to begin. Someplace
other than our own remembered origins which have the feel to them at this
remove of something invented, something paltry and a little unconvincing like the
plot of a novel, say, or almost any spoken sentence accompanied by tears.
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