Chrisonomicon

Thursday, March 29, 2001

This is a good week. It?s spring break, and despite my compiler project, it?s actually quite relaxing. I?ve gotten the majority of the project done, spent quite a bit of quality time with Sumo, and have even met a few new guys. As far as dating possibilities go, there are none yet, but it?s nice to be meeting some new people, nonetheless.

The girl at the corner coffee stand gives me free coffee. I can?t remember her name, but I went to her wedding last year because her mom was room-mates with mine and ever since then, she refuses to let me pay for my grandé mochas, no whipped cream. I tip her extra, and thank her. She?s very nice.

I had a horrific dream last night. It took place in some futuristic, parallel dimension, and in it, a friend had just returned from a South American expedition and a group of friends and I had him over to hear about his travels. We were excited to hear his stories, and all gathered around to hear how it went.

During the course of tale-telling, he began, with difficulty, to detail the findings of a dreadful disease he had encountered. This sickness was passed by simply touching an infected object, or being bitten by mosquito that carried the disease. Incurable and deadly, somehow a tribe of people had learned to survive with this pestilence and even incorporated it into their culture. He had spent most of his time with these people, studying them.

He pulled off his rucksack to show us a few artifacts he had obtained. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a fly on his back that was hiding under the pack. It quickly flew off into the corners of the room, free of its confines, and I nervously looked around to see if anyone had caught it. They hadn?t. Turning my attention back to our raconteur, we examined the items he had brought back: a key, a book, a few leaflets, and many pictures. He explained that all the items were possibly infected and for none of us to touch them, so we sat back while he described the pictures for us.

Suddenly, one of the dogs in the room that had been quietly sleeping in the corner, got up and came over to investigate. Wrapped up in conversation, no one noticed when he picked up the key with his teeth and swallowed it down.

I was lost in the sudden comotion that erupted in the room. Everyone began to panic, and I turned to my friend who began frantically digging through his pack.

"What?s going to happen to him?" I asked. "If that key is contaminated, will it affect a dog?"

"I?m not sure," he replied, "but let?s hope not."

We waited for what seemed an eternity, and eventually the dog went back to sleep in a corner. A few people were pacing nervously about the room, and I started to wonder if this visit was such a good idea. The light in the room had dimmed with the setting sun. Everything began to take on the air of a "Blade Runner" scene.

I climbed up a flight of stairs to a loft above the living room where we had been sitting, and the dog got up and began to follow me. As he was climbing the stairs, he suddenly began to retch, violently. Everyone stood to see what was going on. A few started to gasp at the sight that followed. The dog?s gags became more desperate, more vicious, and he began to throw up a clear liquid. Suddenly, the liquid turned bloody, and as he vomited more blood, he fell to the floor and began convulsing and shaking. I turned away, as a few girls in the room began crying. Someone screamed for help.

And just as soon as it started, it stopped. The silence that followed was eerie. I turned around. Lying in a pool of blood was a pile of fur and flesh and bone. The dog?s skull had split, and it?s hair had shed in a mess around the body. Horrified, I turned away. The crying resumed, and our visitor stood solemn by the scene.

"Well, you?ve all just witnessed how deadly this disease is, first-hand," he said, softly. "It strikes without warning, and there?s no predicting when it will hit once you?ve been infected." He turned to his belongings and began packing them up.

"What do we do now?!" I screamed at him. "You know, you?ve probably killed us all." He apologized under his breath, and continued packing. I could sense he was just as horrified as the rest of us, but somehow it seemed as though he didn?t care. Frantically, I scrambled down the stairs, past the body, and grabbed him.

"I saw a fly."

"What?" He stopped suddenly, and turned to face me.

"A fly. It was under your pack, and when you took it off, it flew into the room somewhere."

"Shit. Nobody move," he said, and everyone did as he said. He began to walk around the room. I ran into the restroom and pulled off my shirt. Standing in front of the mirror, I examined my shoulders, and found a small, red bite mark. There was no way to tell if whether it was an insect bite, but I began to panic. I ran out of the bathroom.

"I think... I think I?ve been bitten." Everyone turned around, and my friend turned with something clenched in his hand.

"It?s okay, I got it." He opened his hand to reveal a flattened fly, the same one I seen escape, earlier. A sigh of relief passed around the room, but I was still scared shitless. Everyone began to leave, and I pulled my friend aside.

"What do I do if I?ve been infected?" I asked, frantically. He motioned for me to quiet my voice, and pulled a weathered notebook out of his sack. By the time everyone had gone, he handed me the notebook.

"While I was down there..." He paused, and looked around. "I got it, too." I looked down at the notebook in my hands. "Those are the notes I took from the tribespeople who helped me get through this. There is a lot of wisdom in those pages. I know it by heart now, so I don?t need it. Here. You take it. Read it." He grabbed my hand, and squeezed.

"I?m sorry," he whispered before heading out the door. Over the next few hours, I reluctantly cleaned up the mess, stopping occasionally to vomit and wipe tears from my eyes. When it was done, I sat down in the dimming twilight, stunned at the day?s events. The notebook was lying on the table next to me and I picked it up to read what words my friend had written. What I read was horrifying.

The tribespeople had learned to live with this disease, mostly by learning ways to avoid becoming infected. Inevitably, though, people did become infected. They had a special name for the event, the precise moment when someone caught the disease, although I don?t remember it. There was a ritual ceremony to commemorate the moment. The infected person was given a list of ten rules or suggestions he should do, now that he had become a ticking timebomb with no visible clock, and although I remember reading them in the dream, only a few of them come to me now.

A few points described the symptoms of the disease becoming active, and what to do to prevent infecting others. The one point that stands out most in my mind, however, is the atmah -- a life journey, or quest, one must undertake once he has the disease, and he cannot wait another moment to begin. The inflicted must leave at once, ignoring all belongings and responsibilities. The exact time the disease will become active always varies and can never be predicted, so the person must take full advantage of the time he has. The ultimate goal of one?s atmah is known only to the person, himself. It is a deeply personal and spirtual journey.

Upon reading this, I realized I had to leave. I had to do what I had always dreamed of doing -- of traveling, of seeing the world, of being things I?ve always wanted to be. I had to begin my atmah. Frantically, I began gathering my things, but remembered the point of ignoring all worldly posessions. Confused and frightened, I wondered if I could do it. Could I really leave all this behind? The thought of dying like that dog petrified me. While wondering, I realized I was wasting time. I had to leave. Now.

I took a deep breath. And woke up.