2 instants in the retina of God

...In fact, Ruben Silveira was not looking for something, specifically

among that pile of -already- ochre papers, nothing, in that moment

nothing, concretely, no, nothing.



The old office in which Silveira worked, in the centre of Montevideo (Bartolomé Mitre Sreet. Nº 2***), it was a rancid place that smelled like coffee and saliva

and papers

one too many papers populated the place, and 5 typewriters from the early 70s, "Olivetti"
I doubt now if one of them wasn't an "Underwood"? Maybe it was.

The Silveira's desk was a robust piece of furniture brought from Buenos Aires, along with most of the inventory of that infernal and hot office, hot even in July, mostly due to its subterranean condition, since it was an undersoil office, like a sort of strange cellar or basement, with access by means of a short stairway
the desk had 4 metallic drawers, 2 at the left, and 2 at the right, drawers full of useless papers, broken pencils, small bottles of ink (totally dry), old pencil sharpeners, rubber erasers, a plastic ruler (30 cm), an old "Sanyo" calculator from 1981, plus plastic bags full of paper clips, a couple of magnets, piles of rubber bands, clippers, scissors, and vestiges of several things like ashes, crumbs, coffee stains, sugar and some unidentified pills.


The wooden floor had a permanently sticky texture that got slightly adhered to the sole of the shoes at every step, no matter the cleaning lady was there once a week (Fridays, specifically), and she mopped carefully, office and stairway.

She had an habit that annoyed Ruben Silveira particularly: she washed the ashtray with detergent, and left it upside down on the desk, sometimes wetting important accounting papers.



For some reason, the day 8 of July of 2.004 at 5:03 PM, a few minutes before going back home, Ruben Silveira sent a paper to the trash
possibly he was absent minded after a hard day, a few minutes before going back home

he crushed that paper carelessly, and threw it into the dustbin.

It was a rainy and cold winter evening in Montevideo: Ruben Silveira picked his umbrella, and glad after the working day finished, he started walking toward the door, which would lead, then, to the short ascending stairway, and then to the cold streets of July.

After some few steps, and already holding the cold door handle with his left hand, he realized that that paper contained some data that could be more important than he thought, in a first place

returning over his own steps, Silveira took a look at the dustbin, and crouched down to search the small crushed paper in the trash.

The dustbin was quite large, and it was replete of discarded, humid papers, tea bags, empty plastic wraps of "Criollitas", rubber bands, cigarrette butts, sucked candies, exhausted chewing gums of yesterday stuck on forgotten invoices, some squeezed and semi-petrified slice of lemon, and more and more crushed papers.

During long minutes Ruben Silveira was scrutinizing among the waste
5?
8?
10 minutes?
And the more he searched, the harder to find that cursed paper was...where it was? The paper, the vital paper of Ruben Silveira, where it was among all that chaotic pile of crap?

It seemed as if that damned, cursed, lousy piece of crushed paper never existed...did that paper actually exist? Or it was all and only a figment of his imagination?

It was, perchance, that sequence in which he threw that crushed paper into the dustbin, a dream, an infernal entelechy?

It happened, perhaps, that patent and limpid act, that his mind remembered with pristine clarity, in another dimension? To another being?

Was, sacred Hell...! Was, maybe, Ruben Silveira watching himself, from a dream, perchance?
Was Ruben Silveira observing Ruben Silveira crush and throw that paper into the dustbin, from the interminable and convex set of mirrors of an illusion?


All these thoughts flashed in the Silveira's mind like satanic lightnings in a catholic cathedral, while his head was, already, almost into the dustbin...in that right moment, when Ruben Silveira was almost decided to download the full content of the dustbin on the floor to search more minutely, a light.


A tiny and white light sparkled timidly from the depths of the large receptacle

Silveira stopped fumbling in the trash, his hands got paralyzed in the air: his eyes were fixed on the sparkling light, what was that?

Ruben Silveira, lost and out of his mind, introduced his head into the dustbin, to behold more closely

that light...what was that light? A lantern someone dropped into the trash?

As his retina was getting closer, the light was changing, acquiring different definitions at every milimeter

slightly, the light was turning its luminosity into image, images yes, some few images seemed to start acquiring a sharper resolution, slowly.

Slowly, at every milimeter closer, the image was getting enlarged and clearer, enlarged, clearer

clearer and enlarged, enlarged and clearer, like a screen.

A screen.

A screen...



Suddenly

suddenly, exactly at 5:38 PM of the day 8 of July of 2.004, suddenly...the image occupied the whole dustbin, like a rampant luminosity, and 1/2 second later occupied the whole visual field of Ruben Silveira.

Then, in 1/18 of second or possibly less, everything was redefined as one and only point in space that contained all other points, a point that anyone who gazed into it could see everything in the Universe from every angle, simultaneously, without distortion, overlapping or confusion, notwithstanding every angle lies over itself, and over the rest at the same time, in an infinite gallery of reflexes or reflections that appear in synchro in the beholder's brain

gallery which holds all the epochs and none, and all the places
and none

at once, and never.

And forever and jamás.


An instant of fullness which doesn't admit duplicate or course of time.

During 2 seconds of his time Ruben Silveira could behold the point
which wasn't a point, but the whole Universe

During 2 seconds of his time Ruben Silveira could behold the point
which contained everything, including Ruben Silveira, and the crushed paper.




Now, now.

Now. With the machinal movement of the demented, Ruben Silveira sank his right hand into the dustbin and picked the right paper without -even- looking at it, his eyes were fixed on the wall.