I have conducted over forty plus years of research
not only on the house itself
but on all its surroundings.
I have studied the thousands of abrasions
and microscopic scratches.
Nobody understands the place or the events
better than I do.
And yet I still can’t answer a simple question:
Where is the surface?
Where does it start?
Where does it end?
How can I locate its source?
I was present when the family members came
to look through the many mementos,
the old photos
the Smith Corona typewriter.
I was present when the scientists came,
when they thoroughly analyzed and studied the house
and gave their quick pronouncements.
Before It happened
those who came to see him
would often find the place wide open.
Music was inevitably playing
and the walls were stained with cigarette smoke.
At every turn there were bookshelves,
filled with more than 1,000 books.
And all the surfaces were caked with dust.
“You ought to paint this place up,” some would say.
“This place is fine,” he would respond.
“It took me a long time to get it like this.”
Two very different viewpoints can exist within the same space.
The sub microscopic tracings of surface marks,
they were all invisible to the naked eye.
Friends and neighbors couldn’t help but ignore them.
It took me a while to notice them
and trace them one by one.
I confirmed it personally
after the sudden disappearance.
The two giant crystals
that held the house in an eternal embrace
were indeed carved against the grain.
I confirmed it.
They were indeed crystals
and they had been carved in a way I couldn’t understand.
That was my only conclusion.
Anything else would involve fantasizing.
And I wanted to stay as close to the surface as possible,
as impossible as it was to locate.
The surface was the ultimate mystery,
the one I would never solve.