"Floating" fra min bog "A World of Weird Truths and Trut...

This wasn't the best way to start the day. Everything went on in slowmotion and I couldn't make myself move. I just lay there, stuck, flat on my back even when trailing my arms and legs over the white sheets of the bed. The sharp, metallic sounds from nowhere and everywhere blended in with the wallpaper quality of anonymity in this room that wasn't mine, not even my choice. I was brought here and vaguely remembered when they lifted me off the pavement and put me on the stretcher. "Careful, careful," someone yelled, perhaps the one who had called 911, when he found me, "poor creature, looks like a stroke."
Yeah, I thought, more like a blow to my head. More like something-out-of-nowhere that made my head spin, my legs fold, and my soul slither down my spine, untying each chakra as it went. When I fell, I was dead, and when someone grabbed my purse and kicked me in the stomach before running off the pain brought me back to the bleak realities of being robbed and not being able to move.
I suppose I should be grateful for that revival, but somehow I couldn't and when those two came to visit me, lying there, I even regretted having collected my chakras and surviving.
So those people were my close relatives? The one in black and purple looked nightmarish, like a vampire, and she even kissed me and called me "My dear". The other one, so stiff in the features that they almost creaked when they moved with something that vaguely resembled a smile, called me "Mom". I was appalled. This creaky one came from ME? Then what was - or am - I to have produced anything like that robotic creature?
The thought made me spin in my white room with all the instruments, the syringes by the bed, and the nurses whipping in and out the door. How did that happen in my world of wavering colours, sounds like deep sea murmurings and floating in and out of flowery realms? Not me, no, not the one without any anchors in the world of necessity. All that was left on that pavement and now brought back as a rerun of old movies, something in black and white that's so very much in the past that it feels quite creepy as all the actors are gone long ago.
Still, that stiff face did hurt, only I didn't know why.
They talked of chances, life expectancies, of treatments, hopelessness and of insurances. The discussion even got heated, stiff-face cracked and the word "money" escaped those thin, thin lips, but black-and-purple said "hope". I knew that meant new syringes, new treatments and new floatings somewhere out of their reach and into that world of colours and sounds, anchored by chakras.     

© Else Cederborg

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06.10 | 15:04

Det jeg vil sige med dette er, at genrebetegnelser ikke er faste størrelser, selv om de ofte bliver fremstillet sådan.

28.02 | 19:15

Et godt spørgsmål, som jeg bare ikke kan besvære. Det er for længe siden, til at jeg kan huske, hvad der blev af disse hæfter - og om jeg har set dem.

28.02 | 09:08

Har ikke opgivet ønsket om kontakt og uddybning af svar. I bogen om Else Bannister citerer du fra kladdehæfterne på s. 86-87. Hvordan, hvis ikke set hæfterne?

16.12 | 22:44

Jeg er ked af, at jeg ikke har flere oplysninger til dig. Geoffrey må være død nu. Han havde én søn, som jeg aldrig mødte. Jeg husker ikke at have set hæfterne.

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