Things start to appear in my peripheral vision. First: a flash of light. Later: a yellow butterfly. I do what any of you would do in my position: I think I imagined these things. I am tired, I say to myself. I spent too much time in the sun again. I had too much wine. Etc., etc. But the peripheral vision visions keep on appearing. Once, I see a big black dog darting from my building's front stoop where I sometimes go to smoke. Another time I think I see a hot air balloon float by and disappear behind a building on Wilshire just as the sun sets. I sit at my computer at night and five tiny monkeys flicker on and off on my couch at the edge of my left optical field, disappearing even before I turn to look. What does all this mean? I do what any of you would do: I try to ignore it and wait to see how it plays out. Or maybe you'd go get an MRI. Or call your mom late at night and after a pause too long not to be awkward, after the phrase "I have something to tell you," ask her if she thinks you should go see someone for this peripheral vision visions thing or not. Maybe you think brain tumor. Or not. Maybe you think these are signs of some kind. Or maybe you tell your neighbor who sometimes smokes with you on the stoop about it and she says, I know what to do. And she brings her video camera around, the one she uses to shoot shorts on, and sets it up to capture the whole room. And clicks record and then leaves. And then you are sitting in front of the camera being watched and nothing happens, no visions appear, and all you and the camera see is the tiny apartment, your bed and your couch, the coffee table and the desk, the stacks of books and magazines and boxes of photographs and postcards that you've been collecting for years. You see the window that faces the neighboring building where the woman who only vacuums super early on the weekends lives, and that guy who used to be an actor. You see the plant that you bought from the 99 cent store. The camera is still on but there are no peripheral vision visions. You stare at it, then give it a big Kurt Cobain smile—all teeth, goofy eyes. Then you see Kurt smiling at you from the kitchen nook and you don't turn, you sit very still, screw up your eyes so you'll keep seeing him and Kurt says: I just need some clarity, you know?

I don't remember if I turn the camera off or if I just let it keep going even after I turn the lights off and go to bed, in the middle of my tiny apartment, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling, watching the stars fall from the sky.

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Ioanna Mavrou is from Nicosia, Cyprus. She's had work in Electric Literature, Paper Darts, The Offing and others.

Read her postcard.

Detail of photo on main page courtesy of Saraia77.





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