It is that period between daylight and dusk and I am in an open space near my home. In the neighborhood I hear a cacophony of chattering, screeching, howling, and squealing.  The sounds are too high pitched to be monkeys, which are not found in this neighborhood, so it must be children. I wonder if they are entering the “primal developmental stage” that I’ve been reading about. Maybe that is the reason why their parents brought them to this solitary location, and allow them to play together in the safety of twilight. I listen carefully to their ear-piercing shrieks in an attempt to detect a rhythmic drop in tone that indicates the biological change from human to primate. This would be one of those rare moments of marvel for me that holds a place in memory like a prized piece of art in one’s home.

I know that the biological change doesn’t happen often (nor does a moment of marvel), but according to what I now know, this is a fragile developmental stage childhood stage that occurs somewhere between the end of toddlerhood, soon after learning to say “no,” and early childhood when children improve upon their fine and gross motor skill. There is a potential bump in DNA sequencing and the child begins to develop into a monkey. Scientists do not know what causes the developmental aberration, but suspects that it may be triggered by some sort of trauma. It is estimated that its occurrence was one in a billion, except for certain periods and locations, like the Middle Ages in Europe, after the atomic bombs were dropped in Japan, during civil wars and coups, and in some  swampy areas of the Deep South and Roswell, New Mexico where it’s rumored to still be prevalent but is kept a secret.

Children do not turn into monkeys, but develop certain attributes. The more prevalent ones are an insatiable desire for bananas and other fruit; a penchant for scratching, especially their arms and legs which has grown inordinate amounts of hair;  screeches when they are anxious or displeased; and an occasional forgetting of words or phrases, where they revert to gestures and sounds.  

I listen closely to the squeals. It seems like the four distinct tonalities broadcast a sense of playfulness. Being curious I walk down the dirt road and see four little girls, ranging in age from from to seven. Seeing them so happy playing together initially sends a current of elation through me, that quickly turns into dread. I’m scared that something I do might trigger the primate response and I carefully retreat back to my house where I feel safer and distanced from their well-being. 

A jetliner roars overhead and I believe I see passengers looking from their windows.

Abruptly I notice that there is no more room in the universe or in my mind for anymore objects and maybe anymore thoughts. Everything has stopped. There’s an absence of energy, light, sensation, or sound. My breath sputters.What remains is an overwhelming sense of solidity.  Space is, in every respect, filled. There is a complete standstill, an existential paralysis making any ambition or action impossible.

This is it I think, all I can do is wait it out.

Things begin to gradually loosen up. Cracks penetrate the dense solidity. I feel my chest slowly relaxing, my breath deepening. As space opens up I sense that things become free of each other. It remains dark.

I may have fallen asleep or fainted and when I awake I find three objects at my feet: an open box, the number 10, and the color red.

I feel relief that my mind accommodates to thinking once more, yet my vision continues to be limited to what’s in front of my face. I’m not sure what to do and I don’t want to make any mistakes. I move cautiously through the area. I find a large envelope and place the open box, the number 10, and the color red inside. Sealing the envelope I address it to myself.

I leave the area of darkness and search for a mailbox.

I am in a small cabin. There might be a bed in it, but I’m not sure because I’m presented with an enormous red canvas bag. I do not know how it appeared, but I’m certain that my task is to sort through the stuff and place them into the smaller bags. There are no instructions. I take the smaller red bags, open them, and place them neatly on the floors , one next to the other, with enough distance between them  to create a separation. This is important because it somehow clarifies the classification of the contents in the large bag.

I begin to dig through the large bag. At first I do not recognize any of the objects. They are abstract shapes, unusual colors, and unconventional designs. As I dig deeper I find familiar objects: a camera, fountain pens, a notebook, a couple of different kinds of balls, an unwrinkled black tee shirt. I think: one of the categories is “useful things.” I stack these objects atop one of the small bags. I find a pile of photographs and correspondences from people from my present or past life: dispatches, postcards from other places I’ve never visited, birthday, anniversary and holiday cards. I think: these are not useful but they are memories. I put them on top of a second small bag.

Digging deeper I find some old notebooks and books that are dogeared and filled with underlines and annotations. I place them on the second pile. I’m still puzzled by the strange objects which make no sense. There are no words to describe the shapes and textures, and the designs defy any possible description.

I notice that the cabin is completely empty except for the bags and their content, and looking out the sliding doors I notice that I’m on a ship that is traveling on a fairly calm sea.

The large bag is empty and the pile of abstract objects makes a colorful and curious display. I think that there is a similarity to these things and since I do not recognize them. Looking at the other two piles I categorize one as important useful objects and the other as memories. Feeling good that I have come to some sort of resolution to this challenge I have an insight: these odd colorful objects seem not to have a discernible meaning, but have a semblance to thoughts, ideas and emotions that on an unconscious level I have been a part of my experience at one time or another.

And just maybe, the things I sort through and collect in the three bags may be the stuff of reality.