IMA DEMO (Novel Clutch continued)

J. CUASAY

Windy days are what spark my thoughts out here. Especially now, with the multi-colored leaves chattering as they follow wisps of smoke up - foregrounding the humble mountains. Sometimes, I actually forget that they sit there. Everyday. Quiet and immense. The sudden cold turning one a bit more inward. Except when the small futon is shared, or the occassional sunny warm days that prompt one to put all the laundry out in one shot and sit reflecting on it from the tatami matted floor.

But it's the dreams that get scared up the most. Especially on windy days, Especially on groggy mid-mornings when the flapping laundry assumes subtle ghost-like hues, dancing on the veranda while the rough and tumble of the neighborhood dogs await the 5 AM morning call.

Morning whispers are close in my ears and it seems I'm always up before the alarm. Up in time to fall back asleep and sleep through it. But lately, thoughts and afterthoughts of scenes mix with the dreams. Pieces of films I've worked on and the half scripts and scrawls of notebooks fading away...

Last night, I had the dream again.
Apparently, I had died.

St. Peter was taking me on a tour of Heaven. I think of my brother of the same name - plodding away through a quiet forest on the Thai-Cambodian Border, beside a silent elephant. And it is as if it is he, through St. Peter, who is leading me through Life and Life After.

The Heaven is so Dante-like. And so specifically perfect. For example, if you want to read all the books you didn't have time to when you were alive, there's a room for that. You sit there. You read. If you wanted to learn the guitar, there's a room for that. You sit. You play guitar. Cooking ? Running ? Singing ? Whatever. There are places for that. You go there. You do that.

It's all a bit absurd.
And then we come to the end of the tour.
St. Peter turns around and asks: "So where would you like to stay ? " Which place is best ?

[JUMP CUT to the story I'm working on now...]

There was this monk, who upon witnessing several tragedies, looked about him and saw much violence, unrest, and turmoil. It was all rattling inside him and there was no PEACE. So he stepped inward and shut his eyes for several years. Kept them closed until his mind settled and he could think clearly about how to deal with this uneasy karma.

One day - his day of enlightenment - his friends brought him a new born butterfly. On that day, he opened his eyes to see a lightning flash of color spreading its wings.

"What did you see? What did you see ?"
They asked him excitedly.
The words flowed as he spoke the Dharma. So intense, he went blind.
Enlightened !
[BLACK OUT]

[Scene FADES IN with VOICE OVER from a Bio Lecture. CLOSE-UP of a notebook]

I'm taking down notes about a friend of my professor's. My notebook is filled with diagrams, equations, and anecdotes. We're supposed to be talking about MRI, PET tomography and brain scanning, but he's relating this story about a friend with a detached retina. Some doctors performed re-connective surgery and his friend, blind at birth, remembers at 17, his first experience of sight. (After class, I hurry quickly to the editing room).

[POINT OF VIEW SHOT through the VIEWFINDER of my camera]

In my dream there was this one special place. Up in the crags of a mountain. Out there on a precipice. Out there, an old man sat facing out from the cliff into the wind. Silent.

St. Peter asks, "Where will you stay ?"
"That place. Up there ! What place is that ?" I ask.
"That place, " he says, "is the Crying Place."

[In the old man's head. Eyes closed. Wind blowing past my ears. Soothing memories wash away. First sight turns to seconds, fades into tears pulled by the wind through each strand of my hair.]

	There's just one more thing... 

	"In heaven, St. Peter took me to the crying place. 

		He asked me for my eyes." 

















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