The Specter and the Volcano: A Hallucinatory Hope

  
The specter visited Miri not when it was night nor in dark spaces. It visited her when the clouds blanketing the sky cast monochrome; that unique time when everything and everyone fade into backgrounds; when there is no distinguishing between object, subject, thing, being. It made itself known by minimal movements deftly defying gravity. Miri liked its visits. She prayed for cloudy days.

On the other side of the world, a volcano beckoned and billowed. Its low soft grumble invaded dreams across nations. People stirred, tossed, flung arms and legs as if a spasm burst from bellies. Miri's dreams were quiet. Her specter already warned her about its friend. "Soon, I will never leave," it said one Tuesday afternoon. "I shall walk among you thanks to my friend, volcano. We will never part, dear Miri. We shall be as one. You must remember until that time comes."

Miri woke each morning eagerly rushing to her computer hoping for news about volcanic activity, disappointed when none was found. Time ticked forward, and Miri's anamnesis waned. Her childhood friend became an adult hallucination that faded with each ray of sunlight or moonglow. Each visit was more fugacious leaving less and less on which to hold. The hope of permanent union became smaller than a poppy seed.

And the world moved forward too. Quickly. The pace of lazy afternoons cavorting with friends was replaced with instantaneous internet connections demanding continuous response. Casual business lunches spent listening and inquiring shifted to conference calls about bottom lines and increased efficiency. Time became smaller and more incremental: measurements meant to lengthen only shortened. Faster and faster everything spun. It was so accelerated dreams were lost.

Still the volcano beckoned and billowed.

Miri sat in her cube -- ear buds plugging external sounds and eyes mesmerized by green flashing cursors -- as outside clouds bubbled. A soft pitter patter cascaded down windows only a few feet away. Lights crackled and thunder clapped. Miri was static; lost between the virtual and the real. She didn't notice the gray wash everything. She didn't feel the tiny flick of her specter caress her cold, pale cheek. Hope, even the tiny poppy seed-sized hope, had shrunk. And so too did the specter vanish from recognition.

No one noticed it. No one. Everyone experienced it. The moment the volcano spewed its ash everything halted. Airports closed. Computers turned off. Phones hung up. Cars stalled. Business ceased. The back and forth buzz of clatter and commotion silenced. Monochrome covered all.

In the universal gray, shadows danced.

Miri's screen went black and her music stopped. She felt a warm itch on her cheek and scratched. Something tickled its response. She had the vague idea of a cloudy Tuesday afternoon and a hint of remembrance. Annoyance at interruption almost eclipsed childhood hopes, but hopes are tricky things: while shrunk beyond ocular perspicacity they never truly cease. They infect your body waiting to be recalled, only their awakening is more violent, catastrophic, cathartic. They are like chicken pox becoming shingles.

The itch on Miri's cheek mushroomed and soon enveloped her whole body. She was on fire, flush red, a stark contract to her cinereal surroundings. Her body burned quickly and noiselessly. Her curly black hair now a charcoal burnt scalp. Her once freckled skin a crusty scab. Her sunny sundress soot beneath her broken feet.

In that moment of combustion, she remembered; a door opened; the specter entered. They became one. And right before their communion one emotion pervaded everything: hope.

On the other side of the world, a volcano wailed, "The time of the specter is here."

The only thing that moved was Miri.

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