The Qualia

July 3, 2010

It was like a breeze blew through the neighborhood and left a house,
(poetry here, but this
is how it felt)
pristine pure, but it left
no people visible inside,

it left curtains, chintzy curtains.

It was like the world will bear no reflection.
Suppose the brain is like
an old house, with some shrubbery put in,
the front lawn all reseeded overnight,
and one day a hand-carved sign
that reads, ‘The Qualia Family’ is hung
next to the door out front.

Inside everything is all white, stark white,
the furniture, as such, is white. White lights
are left on all night, so it made you think of ghosts.
Suppose mail was delivered…
to Frank and May Qualia.

My son—he’s eight years old, in third grade—starts a story:
He asked me how to spell ‘putrid’; ‘oster’ we’ll leave for now.
He wants to call the story, THE QUALIA.
(Full disclosure: the first word was ‘MY’. I suggested ‘THE’—so much more menacing.)
(Full disclosure: he meant to write PERIOD, not PUTRID.)

Maybe we’ll write this story together.  The Qualia.
Maybe invisible creatures will invade the brain.
Something like that.
Something Stephen King would write.
Something set in Maine.

But with pictures of The Qualia.
My son still thinks he can draw them.
We’ll see.


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