Read Online Voyage to Alpha Centauri: A Novel by Michael D. O'Brien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael D. O'Brien
Tags: Spiritual & Religion
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Feels good to be writing again. Not much to write home about. I’ve read a lot of books since my last entry (see attached list). Some loss of the finer mind / brain / motor control in the fingers. Pia says it will return with practice. I don’t want to waste paper, so make do by scribbling with the stylus on the max ’s imprint tablet. Seems to work well, since there is some improvement as long as I keep sending messages along the neuron paths, waking up the little fellows in my wrist and hand, one by one.
Day 206 :
I woke from a strong dream last night. In it, I was as old as I am now. An elderly woman—an East Indian woman—was seated beside me. We were on the afterdeck of a wooden houseboat, holding hands and watching birds flying over a lake. There was lapping water, floating water lilies perfuming the air, a slight breeze. A soaring mountain range rose above the far shore. The woman turned to me, and I saw that there was great love in her face, a beautiful face, her eyes wise and innocent. I was in love with her. In the dream, it seemed that I had loved her a long time.
She said, “You know me, Neil.”
I answered, “Yes, but what is your name?”
When I awoke, the feeling of love burned quietly inside me, lingering a little. It has been such a long time since I felt anything like that. Tears started running down my cheeks. I put a stop to it quickly.
Day 291 :
Rereading this journal some months after the above entry, I discovered that I had a similar dream on the flight from America to Africa. (See entry, 13 October, 2097, Earth base—Africa.) So, two dreams about an Indian lady, one of them occurring before I met Pia. The women in the dreams didn’t look like Pia grown old, nor was there the sense of Pia-ness. Though I am fond of the few Indians I have met during my life, I have no exceptional attraction to them. Well, there was one, that girl I met at college, though it came to nothing. What was her name? Raina or Ryka, if I recall correctly. No, it was Raissa.
Obviously my subconscious is sending me oddly consistent cryptic messages. I am feeling my old age, am approaching the crest beyond which is precipitous decline. Yet I remain lonely for what might have been, for a family of my own, for a legacy of human lives to bequeath to the future. A torch hurled across the abyss of time. Too late for all that. Emotionally, dreams can suffice for reality. About the objective future, well, we must leave that to the future archivist, if there be a future for our sad little island-universe race.
I don’t feel much like writing. The visual screen shows no change outside the “window”. It’s beautiful, but static; the channel never changes. Only AC-A-7 has changed. It is closer but still a blur.
The human mind is stimulated by change, motivated by meeting the challenge of novelty or threat or pleasure, rewarded with the sensations of being instrumental in altering environments, and will persevere in this as long as there is some degree of perceivable progress. People turn to knitting baby booties, doing crossword puzzles, collecting rare coins; they may even make an effort to understand E=mc 2 or to study the genetic adaptations of cacti, but in all cases, they need to see some fruit of their labors.
We weren’t permitted to bring personal flora or fauna on the voyage. Only the ship’s official botanists and zoologists have authority in those departments. Our first step on the planet will be absolutely sterile, just to make sure we don’t ruin someone else’s ecosystem. Wise move. Still, I do wish I could have smuggled on board my little potted Echinopsis chacoana , with its splendid white flower, and also Opuntia polyacantha , with its brilliant crimson blooms. What a consolation it would be to have one’s own personal organic friends to care for in this lonely universe. Like humans, they are a combination of prickles and glory. Alas!
Day 299 :
Speaking of prickles, and not much glory, Dr.
Feels good to be writing again. Not much to write home about. I’ve read a lot of books since my last entry (see attached list). Some loss of the finer mind / brain / motor control in the fingers. Pia says it will return with practice. I don’t want to waste paper, so make do by scribbling with the stylus on the max ’s imprint tablet. Seems to work well, since there is some improvement as long as I keep sending messages along the neuron paths, waking up the little fellows in my wrist and hand, one by one.
Day 206 :
I woke from a strong dream last night. In it, I was as old as I am now. An elderly woman—an East Indian woman—was seated beside me. We were on the afterdeck of a wooden houseboat, holding hands and watching birds flying over a lake. There was lapping water, floating water lilies perfuming the air, a slight breeze. A soaring mountain range rose above the far shore. The woman turned to me, and I saw that there was great love in her face, a beautiful face, her eyes wise and innocent. I was in love with her. In the dream, it seemed that I had loved her a long time.
She said, “You know me, Neil.”
I answered, “Yes, but what is your name?”
When I awoke, the feeling of love burned quietly inside me, lingering a little. It has been such a long time since I felt anything like that. Tears started running down my cheeks. I put a stop to it quickly.
Day 291 :
Rereading this journal some months after the above entry, I discovered that I had a similar dream on the flight from America to Africa. (See entry, 13 October, 2097, Earth base—Africa.) So, two dreams about an Indian lady, one of them occurring before I met Pia. The women in the dreams didn’t look like Pia grown old, nor was there the sense of Pia-ness. Though I am fond of the few Indians I have met during my life, I have no exceptional attraction to them. Well, there was one, that girl I met at college, though it came to nothing. What was her name? Raina or Ryka, if I recall correctly. No, it was Raissa.
Obviously my subconscious is sending me oddly consistent cryptic messages. I am feeling my old age, am approaching the crest beyond which is precipitous decline. Yet I remain lonely for what might have been, for a family of my own, for a legacy of human lives to bequeath to the future. A torch hurled across the abyss of time. Too late for all that. Emotionally, dreams can suffice for reality. About the objective future, well, we must leave that to the future archivist, if there be a future for our sad little island-universe race.
I don’t feel much like writing. The visual screen shows no change outside the “window”. It’s beautiful, but static; the channel never changes. Only AC-A-7 has changed. It is closer but still a blur.
The human mind is stimulated by change, motivated by meeting the challenge of novelty or threat or pleasure, rewarded with the sensations of being instrumental in altering environments, and will persevere in this as long as there is some degree of perceivable progress. People turn to knitting baby booties, doing crossword puzzles, collecting rare coins; they may even make an effort to understand E=mc 2 or to study the genetic adaptations of cacti, but in all cases, they need to see some fruit of their labors.
We weren’t permitted to bring personal flora or fauna on the voyage. Only the ship’s official botanists and zoologists have authority in those departments. Our first step on the planet will be absolutely sterile, just to make sure we don’t ruin someone else’s ecosystem. Wise move. Still, I do wish I could have smuggled on board my little potted Echinopsis chacoana , with its splendid white flower, and also Opuntia polyacantha , with its brilliant crimson blooms. What a consolation it would be to have one’s own personal organic friends to care for in this lonely universe. Like humans, they are a combination of prickles and glory. Alas!
Day 299 :
Speaking of prickles, and not much glory, Dr.
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