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    The Note
    The Note
    The Note
    Ebook78 pages57 minutes

    The Note

    By Mark Curnane

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A Novella in 41 sections.

    The note is a first person journey through recollection of dramatic events. Love lost and damage done.

    Feedback & ratings, positive or negative, received with thanks.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMark Curnane
    Release dateDec 2, 2010
    ISBN9781458067647
    The Note
    Author

    Mark Curnane

    International Educator

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      Book preview

      The Note - Mark Curnane

      Section One

      Sure enough, as I looked outside, the blue sky of two hours back had turned to the dark grey blankets of present. Existence of presence follows this same pattern; previously things were bright and happy, perhaps even prosperous; and two hours later, or two or twenty years later, all is dark. The pessimism of the intellect morphed into a present reality - from whatever reality can be found - of gloom and endless turbulence.

      I believe I can remember, in time, the events which precipitated this present. Few dare to talk of those days. I believe I could remember them, but this admittance means – wherever meaning exists - I could, some say should, be omitted from the present. There is no doubt that the near past saw many who remembered become omitted; their future and their past being struck from all records, all history - of whatever history the present use.

      Yesterday I discovered the value of my memory. That is why I am taking this risk in recording my thoughts; though a strange sense holds me back from putting everything on down, writing it all, to be on record. Perhaps it is a stretched hope that if my state treachery is discovered, those things I have missed will outweigh those things I have not, and somehow breed a release; a non-omittance.

      Or perhaps in some unconscious way I am no different from all those who walk and crawl outside; perhaps I too am still under the powerful influences of the state, controlled by the present zeitgeist. Yes, perhaps the sense of right and wrong which I drink daily, and eat occasionally, stops me from writing falsehoods; things which are not true memory, but dreams - nightmares even - just pure, naked, disgusting imagination. Doubts on all sides menace my thinking continually. The strong influence of a state enforced zeitgeist fights the personal reasoning; is that reasoning a savage and warped imagination? Which is which I have no way of finding out; not in life, not in death, and not - perhaps - in omittance.

      Yesterday I came across a slip of paper which had slipped behind the desk on which sits my computer. Just what I was doing looking behind there, I can't remember. Memory is a floating point. What I do recall today, and what I have thought about ever since yesterday, was the vague memory that the paper revived in my mind. By revival, I believe that the paper brought to mind a real event of the past, a concrete occurrence. So many things have happened in the state that I am never sure for certain what is a real event, and what is the state interpretation, which everybody is obliged to remember. If that piece of paper stirred a real memory then the importance has more significance than anything else in my manipulated presence. Unfortunately I cannot rid myself of the possibility that it merely reflected an old state enforced zeitgeist, and if this is so, then, I don't know.

      Yesterday I read on a piece of paper a short, simple message; it was hand written using a coloured ink. Nobody uses coloured ink any more. Nobody writes by hand any more; I have vague recollections that it used to happen; somebody wrote the note by hand so it must have happened, but I cannot recall when, or how the art was accomplished. Somehow, I think a pen was held by fingers, but looking at my hand now, with its normal two digits, I cannot even imagine how this could have been performed.

      'Dear Colin, We must talk. Please can you arrange a time we can see each other. I am pregnant! Sorry for the confusion the other day. Love always, Julia.'

      Yesterday I read those words which could not be said today; not simply because they would end in omittance, but because it just could not happen today. If I remember correctly, in the times past, before the great changes, we used to get 'pregnant'. This state of being, at the moment I forget how this happened, but it meant that a child was inside us. There is something inside my head that tells me this is not quite correct. It may be that I am under their influence and control, and believe it to be wrong by unconscious thoughts; or perhaps there is something that isn't clear. I hope I can soon be clear in myself what it is which is missing from my recollection. The mist of history prevents all from being seen at once, but mists must move on and all mists must eventually clear.

      Since yesterday, since finding the

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