of our mind and look around. Most of what we think we know about our minds is pseudo-knowledge. We are all such shocking poseurs, so good at inflating the importance of what we think we value.
― Iris Murdoch
I took a day to explore my new locale and was astonished to discover my surroundings were not as unknown to me as I previously thought.
I had been here before, only it was in another life and time. I know, it sounds deranged but it's true.
Nevertheless, the very thought was absurd. I did not believe in reincarnation or past lives and yet I was drawn to a strange house in a city, where to the best of my knowledge, I've never been and knew details about the property I couldn't possibly have experienced.
It was obvious the memories the house inspired were all from the 1920's based on hair styles and clothing of people I recalled in memory but none of whom I recognized.
A wave of anxiety swept over me. Was I losing my mind?
I returned to my SUV and entered the location of the house on the GPS and waited until my nerves had steadied enough so I could safely drive home.
On the drive back back to West Harbour I recalled the words of the neurosurgeon who treated me at the hospital:
"We've taken care of the brain trauma, Marcus, but your memory loss may require you to seek counselling later on. I'll give you the name of a well- respected neuropsychologist at McMaster Health Centre near where you'll be staying. Don't hesitate to see him if you're experiencing any adverse symptoms."
I had tossed the business card into the manila envelope that contained all my hospital discharge papers.
Might be time to dig it out, I mused.
Back home, I made a creamed Earl Grey tea and took the cup outside where I could enjoy it on the flagstone patio overlooking the harbour.
I sat on one of the Muskoka chairs, closed my eyes and leaned back allowing the warm April sun and the tea to warm me.
But images kept flowing through my mind, fragmentary pictures that came unbidden as if falling out of a family album and being picked up by me and fondly studied.
Where these visions or memories came from I had no idea. Perhaps the theosophists were right―maybe there is a book of life with all mankind's collective past experiences encoded on the mental plane and somehow, perhaps as a result of my head injury, I'm able to access these and tap into the universe's supercomputer.
Or perhaps, I'm simply out of my mind.
Regardless of the visions' meaning or source, I didn't try to censor them or staunch the flow―I allowed my thoughts to drift and exhaust themselves until the last image that remained on the wall of my psyche was a boat anchored, sail furled, rocking gently on the lake.
How significant was that? What was the universe trying to tell me?
I made a mental note to enquire about the sail boat Arthur Reid told me was in dry dock at the marina. Maybe my subconscious was suggesting a way to assuage my anxieties, and if so, that was a good thing.
But I'd also make an appointment to see the psychologist the trauma surgeon suggested and ask if he could see me at the earliest opportunity.
As Hamlet said, madness must not go unwatched.