canconarticles
home | about | archives | forum | submit

When the Birds Hit the Windows

Mick Poirier

let us preface this nonfiction piece with a few emails that Mick and i sent each other after he submitted this piece.


Fri, 14 Jan 2000 10:04:53 PST you wrote:
hi mick

this is very compelling and reads like a scary sci-fi story. when you say this is non-fiction are you totally serious or being satirical to make a point about technology? in the case that you are serious, i don't ask this to treat you like a nut or belittle you. i just need to know your intentions with the piece.

talk to you soon
james


Hello James;

Thank you for your reply.

The work is completely non-fiction and is a toned-down summary, leaving out the worst parts. If the subject interests you, there are other testimonial sites on the web describing similar events on every continent except maybe Antartica.

My intention is to get the data known. Being close to the nation's capital, Ottawa, Canada, and being in a drug and contraband corridor, this area is subject to heavy electronics activities.

I leave to law-enforcement agencies to do their jobs. It's the people I want to reach; the people and the doctors giving them medical care, that they become aware of what is happening, and get proper treatments for it. I have attended too many funerals. And too many of them were young people, or parents of young families.

Mick


On November 24th, 1999, the man that lived in the second house on the other side of the river took out his rifle and shot himself. I want to tell you about the things that are going on that could push a man to such an act.

I also want to tell you about that man's brother: he died in September, 1999, at age fifty-four, from a ruptured blood vessel in the frontal lobe of his brain. And about his twenty-two year old nephew, who died in an unexplained accident two weeks after his father's death. And of the grandfather, now in care for the heart attack that followed his son's suicide.

Were they still alive and able, each one could give you the specifics of his experiences. I can't; but, I can tell you about mine, just a few miles down the road.

What I'm about to describe falls into the 'appalling' and the 'incredible'. The kind of data that is gratefully dismissed and that one thankfully labels "subjective" phenomena, reassured by the claims of some medical specialty or another to understand it and to even be able to do something about it. Until it happens to you.

The first thing I took note of, in early 1998, was a visual disturbance in my right eye. A wiggling shimmer; an occasional 'spark' in the space before me; the sudden increase in brightness of whatever I was looking at with that eye; a momentary blurring that didn't clear with blinking or rubbing. Then I noticed a crystalline shape on that eye's line of sight, seemingly suspended in the space before me. Solitary, spiritual, and open to all types of communications, I gradually moved through surprise, fear, discomfort, interest, and, finally, acceptance. I got used to this 'little lens' a few inches from my eye. I got used to the morphing visual effects it created. I integrated it into my paintings, my walks in the woods, my life. My universe now had many layers, all visible at will, and at once, if I so chose: the every-day world of trees, leaves, and knots in the wood, patterns in the wallpaper; the overlay of random marks, re-interpreted as known forms by some mental template I was only beginning to understand; and, the transitional rearrangements from one to the other which seemed like a clipped version of a badly edited movie.

Gradually, other things were added: I could hear a high-pitched whining sound and my ears would often click or pop. I felt tired, so much so that when I lay down, I'd drop into a deep unconsciousness that didn't hear even the big farm tractors driving the loaded hay wagons not twenty feet from the house. I'd often feel painful, needle-sharp jabs into my fingers, especially when I was sitting on the couch, in the same space for some time. Occasionally, my legs and feet got jabbed too, and an odd sensation of "pulsing" on the surface of the skin would start on my stomach, my shoulders, my neck, my head, and any points of contact with whatever my body was touching.

Walking across the kitchen one day, I got shoved hard from behind. I avoided the hot wood stove, barely. After that, there were many incidents of the "pushing and shoving" type, especially directed at my head. When I was working with knives or tools, shock waves would hit my hands. After a fresh surgical incision was smashed open against a door frame, needing a fast ride to emergency, I learned to focus my full attention on what I was doing. Gone the relaxing, soothing motions of sweeping or raking: the simplest task demanded concentration, with pain the penalty for me, and damage or breakage the penalty for objects.

I woke from a nap, in the fall of 1998, my skin burning and prickling, feeling scalded. This happened several times. In a few weeks I was barely able to move, weakened by diarrhea, my gums and privates bleeding, my skin peeling, my hair falling out in large amounts each time I brushed it, my face and abdomen bloated and digestion iffy at best. In those two weeks, I had lost ten pounds. Strange to feel so sick, yet have no fever, no cold symptoms and no name-able illness. It seemed to pass, whatever it was. Not much later, I woke one morning with a large and painful hole in my gum, going deep under the tooth. I had felt no "happening", or beginning of this, no moment of realization that something was wrong. It was suddenly there. Several rinses a day with iodine and salt in warm water got the 'infection' under control, but the sore left a deep and sensitive scar.

read part two >>


Mick Poirier is an artist and published writer:
www.storm.ca/~mcpoirier

home / about / archives / forum / submit