For real

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I’ve been reading a book called A Crack in the Edge of the World by Simon Winchester. It’s about the history of earthquakes in North America, particularly one that devastated California in 1906. I’ve taken to reading the rather dull book every night before bed as a way to drug my mind into a deep sleep so as not to dwell on the uncertainty of my future plans. I finished the book Tuesday night with this passage,

“All that humans do, and everywhere that humans inhabit, is for the moment only – like the cherry blossoms in a Japanese springtime that are exquisite simply by virtue of their very impermanence. Geology … serves as an ever-present reminder of this – of the fragility of humankind, the evanescent nature of even our most impressive achievements… It is a reminder, too, that this consent is a privilege and one that may be snatched away suddenly, and without any warning at all.”

It was while pondering this notion that I drifted into sleep, where I stayed soundly until just past midnight when I awoke to a foreign sensation. My bed was rocking back and forth. I pulled myself out of bed and struggled to stay on my feet as the floor shifted to and fro underneath me. I heard my host sister shout, “Mami!” so I knew I wasn’t dreaming. I opened my door to find the whole family standing in their respective bedroom doorways looking utterly confused. “Oh my God,” my host sister said in English. The next morning all the talk at school was of el temblor. There had been a powerful earthquake in Panama near the Costa Rican border.

The earthquake gave me such a strange feeling, as if I was standing on the surface of the ocean, being bounced gently by consecutive waves. Even stranger, though, is the feeling that I dreamed the earthquake into reality. On Wednesday night as I worked my way into sleep, I tried pondering the notion of money piling up in my bank account, but so far nothing’s happened.