The Black Domain

1. Here we see the Forest of Blackness itself. I would say the entrance to the forest, but it has no entrance: you’re either in it or not. But this is the point at which, on my fifth visit, I became ‘inside’ the forest. And I call it a forest, though much of what constitutes this zone is evidently synthetic, rather than organic. For that matter, it’s not strictly black, either. The tonal range in most areas is pretty limited, though – say, from charcoal to jet black. I used a flash for this shot, but in upcoming slides you’ll get a better idea of the ghostly surface-radiance I mentioned earlier. Note the sequoia-like trunks encoiled by smooth rubber tubes. The ground looks like granite, doesn’t it, but it was actually spongy underfoot. Now, what startles me in this photo is the owl. When you look at this image, it’s the first thing your eyes are drawn to: this brooding sentinel glaring down at the camera lens. I had no idea it was there at the time. It didn’t make a sound. Mind you, nothing makes a sound in that hermetic landscape. I couldn’t even hear my own tinnitis. Next slide, please.

2. The same, but without the flash. No owl this time. You can see where it was – that area without detail. Some surfaces seem to emit light – blackly translucent auras. The slightly granular look of this scene is the result of the film speed I used. Even a high-resolution film, however, would have failed to convey the hyperlucid quality of the zone.

3. Yes – your fashionable narrator. I used a tripod and flash for this. I wanted to show that materials exotic to the forest maintain their chromatic integrity within its bounds – hence, my lime-green suspenders and orange shirt. Not exactly standard attire for a sober researcher such as myself, but ...

   All right, another slide – no, could you just go back to the last one for a moment, please? Do you see that – in the lower left of the frame? Yes, it is a football. A perfectly natural – well, not natural, but a real football. I picked it up: it was typical in every way – size, weight, feel, even scent – of a brand-new leather football, except it was utterly black and there was no label on it. I put it in my camera bag, but it was gone when I returned. One of several objects I’ve tried without success to bring back from the forest. I’d love to have even one of them to pass around to you. Um ... I’ll answer questions after the slides, if you don’t mind waiting. Okay – slide, please.

4. Yes. This is not a mistake. It’s a picture of one of the areas of the zone that is so black ... well, you can see what I mean: no surface reflection at all. And this was taken with the flash. Took me ages to get through this part because I just inched my way along, afraid I might land in a pit or tumble from a cliff, but fortunately ... well, I think it’s fortunate, anyway. Slide number five, please.

5. Here we are on the other side of that particular void-like area. This shows you how voluptuous the forest can be. Moss-covered knolls and lustrous rocks. Weeping willows and enormous ferns. What appear to be giant glass eggs ... don’t know what they are. They have marvellously articulated patterns just beneath their translucent contours: arabesque swirls like turbulence renderings, intricate maze-like lines, tracery reminiscent of ocean-current maps, all displayed in a lavish variety of ebony gradations. Yes, blackness is relative – even white, I now believe, is merely a shade of black. Next image, if you would.

6. We’re getting deeper into the forest now. And I say ‘deeper’ but I mean that only with regard to this particular excursion. Notice the jagged vertical slabs of what looks like obsidian mirror. It doesn’t photograph well, but up close each of these slabs appears to be a window onto a different area of the forest. The views presented – three-dimensional, as if holographic – are negatives; that is, what would be the darkest tones appear as the lightest. Very subtle – it took me a while to figure out what was different about these ‘vistas’, but I think that’s it. They’re reversal windows affording remote views ... sort of virtual small-scale dioramas projecting other regions of the Forest of Blackness. Occasionally these slabs are grouped in configurations reminiscent of prehistoric stone circles. They tend to appear in areas where black grass forms the dominant ground cover.

   I didn’t encounter any this trip, but there are a lot of snakes in the forest. They seem to be – apart from moths, which I’ll get to later – the only animate creatures native to the zone (there’s one other known exception, come to think of it, but I’ll come to that in time). These snakes are exceptionally thin, and either extremely swift or completely motionless. One of my strangest forest experiences was coming across a huge mating-ball of such serpents. One moment it would be writhing wildly; the next, utterly still, like an overgrowth of vines or roots. The snakes are eyed, but without mouths. Most are of a uniform blackness – no sign of scales. On some, I’ve observed herringbone patterns along the back. Others are marked by parallel circular bands. One had a meandering line of a relatively light shade running from the base of its head to the tip of its tail. My presence, by the way, had no evident effect upon their activity.

   Now, I’ve mentioned the animate creatures as a prelude to this next slide, which features one of the inanimate creatures. You can run the next slide now.

7. Startling, isn’t it? This close-up of the dog’s head was taken without a flash. The exposure time was at least ten seconds, yet there’s no blurring except in the eyes. It’s quite haunting. From what I’ve seen, these dogs are always motionless, statuesque – apart from the eyes, which peer at you as you approach. They seem to be retrievers, though I haven’t managed to match them with any known breed. Pet them, they feel like dogs, but they’re not breathing. I don’t know what they’re doing. It’s poignant, somehow. I love those dogs. Would you click us on to the next frame, please?

8. Here he is again, the poor chap. Seems content enough, but those eyes! All right, on to number – let’s see – number nine, please. Thank you.

9. What this is, it’s ... I’m behind a waterfall. I’m looking out from a sort of grotto, photographing this tattered sheet of black water as it cascades over the jutting rocks above. Its soundless flow was mesmerizing, but after a time I began to feel more and more spooked by the mysterious pitch darkness of the cavern behind me. The hollow silence of the forest can be unsettling at times. Next slide ...

10. The environs of the waterfall, seen from an approach of several yards. I backtracked to get this photo – or did I get the slides reversed? Both, come to think of it. The water gives the impression of a shimmering, darkly luminous drapery. The vegetation is also somewhat hazy – the leaves are, anyway – because of the long exposure and because of a gentle rustling that I attribute to the effect of a wind. Not a typical wind. Neither my hair nor my clothing were stirred by it. I call this phenomenon the ‘parazephyr’: a subtle current not reliant upon air molecules for its material influence. And while I couldn’t detect it as a physical force, I did have a kind of internal awareness of its presence – somewhat like the mild exhilaration many of us are prone to at the approach of an electrical storm. The temperature of the zone is approximately 23°c. Nevertheless, an eclectic poly-climatic assortment of plant life flourishes there. Tropical ferns and vines – that appears to be banisteriopsis caapi in the foreground – thrive alongside peyote and other forms of cactus, while mushrooms such as stropharia cubensis spring up alongside the trunks of sumac, silver (if it can still be called silver) maple, and other typically northern species of tree. I tasted the sap of one such maple but it was completely flavourless. It occurred to me that my sense of taste might be nullified in that setting, but when I put my finger to my lips after pricking it on a cactus needle I could taste the blood. Later, when I bit into a dusky peach I couldn’t taste it at all, though the aroma of this otherworldly fruit was magnificent.

    I’d like to stay on this slide just a bit longer. Some of the more intriguing things in this scene are less easy to pick out. For example, that sort of cone-shaped object between those two irises – it’s partly concealed by a thistle ... do you see what I’m talking about now? It’s hard to tell what it is from this photo – I’ve got a much better shot of the thing, but it’s at my publisher’s right now. If that thistle wasn’t in the way, I’m sure you’d all recognize it as being a component of every standard household washing machine. The name of the thing has slipped my mind – it’s that plastic spindle that swooshes the clothes around. And if any one of you can tell me why there should be such a contrivance sitting in the middle of an uninhabited forest, I’ll do your laundry for a month. I guess it’s kind of like that football – an incongruous artifact designed to spin and cause a lot of commotion.

    Okay – what else do we have here? You see that small cedar tree on the right? It’s fake – plastic. And those rocks on the far left? More dogs, from the rear this time. One’s sprawled over the back of the other, which is curled up on the forest floor. The muzzle of a third can just be seen poking up over the haunch of the sprawler. A small pile of dogs. They’re probably still stacked there. So let’s let sleeping dogs lie ... sorry, I couldn’t resist. I think it’s time for another slide.

11. This slide reveals the terrain just beyond the luxuriantly wooded area pictured in the preceding shot. A jet-black lawn stretching as far as the eye can see, which under the conditions was about fifty or sixty yards ahead and to both sides. The grass blades were ankle-deep – a lush ebony carpet covering the flat expanse of a seemingly phosphorescent field. The overall effect – poorly conveyed by this photo – was of a country field on a moonlit night. But there was no moon and there was no sky. The murky radiance seemed to emanate from the lawn itself. Moreover, my physical presence appeared to change the surrounding landscape such that the ground within about a three-yard radius of my body was brighter than the outlying area. Whatever force was at play also caused my footprints to remain noticeably luminous for some distance behind me as I continued to explore the region.

12. The next slide ... yes – thank you ... shows part of this brilliant trail I’ve forged. This was certainly the quiestest stroll in the country I’ve ever taken. Remember that this realm is silent. You can see it and feel it and sometimes smell it; but you can’t taste it or hear it. And the only souvenirs I’ve managed to smuggle across the border – intangible as it is – are these images. Next slide.

13. This is a very long exposure, taken after several minutes of walking across this broad plateau. I said several minutes but, as on previous visits, my watch had stopped upon entering the forest. Invariably, upon once again finding myself no longer within this black region, I discover that not more than six or seven minutes of actual time has elapsed. As for direction, I’ve twice brought a compass to the forest and both times the needle has spun continuously, as if at the centre of a magnetic vortex. Technologically, the only instrument that has behaved itself in this landscape is the camera. Mind you, I haven’t performed much by way of experimentation. I’ll have to bring a cellphone next time. If any of you get a call and there’s silence on the other end, take note – it might be me ringing you from within the Forest of Blackness.

    And, as I mentioned, the term ‘forest’ is somewhat of a misnomer. Obviously the place is geologically more eclectic than a mere woodland. Now that this zone has revealed a greater range of its constitution than what I glimpsed on my initial visit, I should probably rename it. Perhaps calling it the Black Domain, for example, would be more appropriate. Who knows – I might one day discover a city there. With any luck it will have a better public transit system than the one you have here. I’ve got to blame my late arrival on something.

    Okay, back to the lawn. There’s a circular glow in the distance, more pronounced than it had appeared to me because I left the camera shutter open for about a dozen seconds. I didn’t know what it was at the time. It’s ... well, let’s move on to the next slide.

14. Here’s a ... here’s an upside-down slide. Can you ... ? Thank you, projectionist. Here’s a cliff face, smooth and globular, like melted wax. This is huge, stretching upward and to both sides as far as I could see. It disappears in total blackness about fifty feet up. That glow that was visible from a distance is the entrance to a cavern. Why some caverns are illuminated and others dark, I couldn’t tell you. My eyes had become accustomed to the sub-gloamy conditions, so this tunnel mouth seemed relatively brilliant. Rather than following the vertical cliff face to right or left, I decided to explore the cave. If you could click us forward a frame ...

15. I’ve used a flash to highlight the mottled surface features of the passageway, which is approximately nine feet wide and just as tall. Its surface is covered in splotchy lichen, lending the interior an ambience of inviting softness. The grass has given way to a putty-like humus, which in turn is succeeded, as we move through the tunnel ... next slide, please ...

16. ... by fine-grained sand. The slope’s descent becomes steeper at this point, and the sand denser. I paused here to remove my hiking shoes and socks, partly to facilitate ingress and partly, well, because I felt like it. Note the vermiform depressions in the black sand. These patterns I found oddly alluring, as if they were a sort of welcoming calligraphy to which I unconsciously responded. Rarely have I felt so at home in an environment, though customarily I’m drawn to a more colourful decor. Another slide, if you don’t mind. Thank you.

17. And we’ve arrived. What strange splendour – the interior of my moth grotto, as I call it. Such an extraordinary, lovely, pacific chamber– yet not without its ominous aspects, which my rambling commentary will detail.

    This is the first wide-angle shot of the cave. The tripod was set on the threshold, just before the tiered descent to the sand floor. The contours of the curved walls and ceiling gave me a sense of being within an enormous black eggshell. And while the initial impression of this ovoid hollow is of absolute smoothness, closer inspection – and you’ll see this when we get to the next slide – reveals a delicate embossing to the entire surface, a voluptuous textural marbling, like an elaborate non-repetitive Art Nouveau pattern infecting every inch of the osseous interior.

    This glorious embellishment is mirrored in the glass-like surface of the pool. Even the sand surrounding the pool is scalloped in swirling ridges, as if carved to replicate the grain of an exquisite wood. The only part of the decor that contrasts with this hallucinatory motif is seen on the far expanse, more or less opposite the entranceway. This is the carpet of moths, but I’ll discuss that when we examine it from a closer vantage. Another slide, please.

18. This is a timed-release photo from the same position. The foreground, including your guide, is flash-lit. After the initial shot, I’d wandered down into the chamber to explore its wonders. My enthrallment was unrestrained, as you can see from my expression in the photograph. Never before had I encountered a setting that inspired such euphoria and provided such æsthetic satisfaction. By this stage of my journey, I had been within the zone longer than in any of my previous incursions. I was feeling more and more remote from the ordinary world – remote, yet intensely comfortable, as though I’d stumbled upon a space that was the topological analogue of my own soul. When I say that now, it sounds arrogant because this room was exceptionally beautiful. Yet, at the time, there was a tremendous sense of rightness to my being there. And I don’t know quite how I’ve been changed, but I still carry this conviction that entering the moth grotto was a metamorphic experience.

    Well, enough mystical testimony for now. On with the objective inspection of the cave. This next slide ... that’s the one ...

19. ... is a close-up of an arm’s-length patch of wall-design. I almost said ‘wallpaper’. Believe me, if I could replicate this pattern on paper, it would cover the walls of my own abode. It’s a natural, perhaps supernatural, intaglio carved upon an even more complex chaos of lines in various gradations of black. My first thought was that this opulent lineation was a language, but one my species was not cognitively equipped to comprehend. As I stared into this profusion of lines, I became awed by a compelling notion, a forceful intimation: this pattern was not a language, at least not merely a language, but an organism itself – an intelligence that had spoken itself onto the surface of this ovarian catacomb. And the longer I stared, the more profound the revelation. The mesmeric weave pounced out at me, through me, in a holographic explosion. The pattern – now envelopingly three-dimensional – was no longer articulated by shades of black. It was alive with every conceivable colour, saturated beyond imagination with otherworldly hues, a sublime prismatic flood of kaleidoscopic variegation, ever shifting, ever ... I was just demolished by its splendour. Totally transfixed, I submitted almost painfully to this rapture of tonality and form. How long this communion lasted, how long I was in its throes, I’ve no way of telling. When I finally turned my head I saw that the whole cavern was infused with the same magnificence, a living cathedral of supernovan glory. But almost instantly, upon my turning, the spectacle disappeared, as if sucked back into the walls and drained of colour. Dazzled to the point of vertigo, I dropped to my knees and convalesced in this supplicant position, pondering what the hell had happened. Did I somehow trigger this psychedelic refulgence by neurally interfacing with the sector of the pattern upon which I gazed? Or was it all internal – did I attain a type of spontaneous samadhi by concentrating on some sort of hyper-fresco – an abstract, perhaps alien, motif latent with vision-inducing dynamism? Whatever it was that happened, and however it happened, it happened only once. I may have become too cerebrally agitated, or maybe I achieved ‘tolerance’ – but further meditation upon the pattern failed to activate the spectacle. Regardless, the walls did yield some interesting impressions as I resumed my scrutiny of the interior. Now, if our projectionist is still awake after all that, we’ll have the next slide. Thank you.

20. Further along the elliptical wall ... Similar to the last patch, but from closer range. I used a macro lens to zone in on an area about the size of a ... I don’t know, a laptop computer screen. The detail seems to be infinite, reducing almost fractally to a microscopic degree. There was no recurrence of colour or animation, but whenever I gazed steadily and directly at the pattern, images unfurled before my eyes – like a morphing tapestry of unconscious generation. I’ll spare you the particulars of what I saw, but I’m convinced by the personal nature of this picture-play that what is seen is dependent upon the psyche of the observer. The ovarian wall, in this regard, is a metaphysical mirror. I’ve named this endless pattern the Vision Engine – but that doesn’t adequately convey its insistently vital quality. Maybe we should call it the Living Vision Engine: let’s see, what would that be ... the ‘Livien’, for short. Slide number, uh, twenty-one, please.

21. Proceeding in a counter-clockwise manner, we come to the narrower end of the eggshaped cave, the end furthest from the entrance. I’ve employed a diffused flash and a long exposure to capture this wide-angle impression of the curving end-wall and part of the ceiling. The tripod was planted at the sandy bank of the pool. I invite you to stare at the middle of the screen, to focus unwaveringly on any point of the pattern’s multi-latticed skein. If you can perform this exercise steadily for a minute or so, you may find that your focal area expands to take in the periphery. This simple method of optical concentration – referred to as ‘visual flooding’ by the writer Christopher Dewdney – is what I practiced when viewing the cavern walls. When it works, especially when applied to a densely filigreed visual plane, this technique (to quote another visionary author) ‘opens the doors of perception’.

    If you’re not ‘seeing things’ – and it sounds like a few of you already are – you may want to try again later. I’ll be passing around some large-format prints featuring sections of the Livien prior to the question period.

    We’re going to move on now, in our counter-clockwise tour, so that I can introduce you to the moths. I hate to interrupt anyone’s trance ... but I’m eager to show you this next slide.

22. Ah, terrific – you’re picking up on my projection cues very well. Soon I won’t need to prompt you at all – we’ll just do this telepathically. Okay – here it is: the mosaic of moths. About a third of it, anyway – as much as I could fit in the frame using a standard lens while standing on the bank of the pool. There’s only about eight feet from the pool to the moth wall, which, as you can probably tell, is considerably flatter than the other portions of the shell. The camera was handheld and the aperture was rather too large given the charge of the flash – hence the overexposure responsible for the ethereal quality of this shot, which I quite like. I think the next image is the close-up: it will give you a better impression of the moths – from a lepidopterous if not an æsthetic viewpoint. So ...
23. Yes, this is the close-up. I’ll try to skip the technical details from here on – those of you who are photographers are welcome to interrogate me later. I’ll say only that this is the most successful of several close-ups I took. It shows the moths in suspended animation – their collective fluttering produced hypnotic undulations – and it reveals the fine, subtle tracery each possessed, apparently in mimicry of the ambient ornamentation.

    These moths – look how closely gathered they are, not a speck of wall visible – they resemble species of the noctuid family, though they’re distinct enough to be unclassifiable. The markings alone make them unique, but also the head is anomalously large by comparison to the body. My presence didn’t distract them at all – even when I brushed them lightly with my fingertips they merely adjusted their position and continued clinging to the wall. A fragrance reminiscent of hyacinths, but muskier, emanated from this soft quivering drapery of moths.

    For the next picture, I switched to a wide-angle lens and set up my tripod at the edge of the pool ... next, please ...

24. ... and this is the result. A seamless cloak of moths that covers an area – extending beyond the frame – possibly equal to the surface of the pool. I felt oddly privileged to behold this black wingscape. Choreographies of fluttering would erupt in swirls. The vibratory clusters would sometimes collide or converge in spellbinding arabesques. An exhilarating entrancement overcame me as I watched the textural oscillations of this living carpet. If I ever manage to return to the Forest of Blackness, I hope I have a video camera with me . Now for the pool. Slide twenty-five, please.

25. This slide is actually out of sequence. I’d intended to photograph the pool more methodically after documenting the moth wall, but I didn’t get the chance. So what you’re seeing is basically a snapshot taken shortly after entering the cavern. The black gleaming surface, reflecting the dome of the chamber, is devoid of even the merest ripple. It remained so, remarkably, when I entered the pool.

    I felt that being in this wondrous setting called for a baptism of sorts. I wasn’t even sure the stuff was water. Jet black like printers’ ink, but it seemed like water when I put my hand in – except that it would not ripple. My fingers moved through this liquid as they would through water, and when I withdrew my hand there was a dampness to my skin. But I couldn’t make a splash, or even the slightest billow. As foolish as it seems in retrospect, I was determined to enter the pool.

    Leaving my clothes on the sandy bank, I lowered myself over the edge, which was almost level with the surface of the water. Probing with my legs I discovered that the pool extended horizontally beneath the shelf of rock on which I’d been standing. Maybe it was really part of a lake, or even an ocean, the greater shores of which lay beyond the territory of my present adventure. (If such was the case, might I at the outset of some future visit find myself teleported to the middle of a vast sea of blackness?) All I could feel was water – no way of judging its depth. Euphorically, I pushed off from the bank and floated on my back to the centre of the pool, just far enough that my feet could not touch the ledge.

    From this strange well I gazed up at the gloriously reticulated dome of the moth grotto. An ecstatic surge of energy seemed to charge every cell of my body with its expansive revelatory force. I was immersed in a power spot. The boundaries of my physical self – well, I’ll spare you another lapse into quasi-religious reportage. I lost awareness of my physical self, yet was still conscious of the need to breathe in order to stay afloat, not to mention stay alive. But no volition was required: my nervous system knew what was expected of it and got along perfectly well without me, so to speak.

    When this spell began to lift and I again felt my body treading the amniotic blackness, I yielded to the temptation of total submersion.

    I just wanted to dunk myself completely once before leaving this preternatural isolation tank. Closing my eyes and sealing my nostrils between finger and thumb, I took a big gulp of air and plunged vertically, using my free arm to propel me deeper into the pool. Still in downward motion, I felt a large, slick, blubbery form slide across my left thigh. Before I could do a proper job of panicking – frozen with terror was as far as I got – my lower legs were encoiled by tentacles of a similar flaccid, rubbery constitution. There was nothing ostensibly threatening about the way this creature, or creatures, greeted me; however – warm welcome or not – it wasn’t the time for interspecies diplomacy. My previous tranquil complacency had been displaced so rapidly by a state of sheer horror, I was in danger of expelling the air from my lungs.

    With a couple of kicks my legs slipped from the serpentine embrace and I shot towards the surface. Gasping and flailing – my limbs felt like soggy cardboard – I floundered to the ledge of land from which I’d entered the pool. My efforts to raise myself onto the shore must’ve been quite comical, but I was still seized by fear of being ensnared or devoured by one of the mysterious forms lurking below. No siren song, however alluring, could have enticed me to return to the pool once I was back on dry land.

    And speaking of sound, as soon as I emerged from the water I became aware of a low murmuring drone. As I looked about me to determine the source of this ethereal tone, I could hear also the panting of my own breath. Then a new noise, growing swiftly in volume, caused me to look again at the opaque surface of the pool. Waves were forming on its previously flat surface, rolling concentrically till they lapped at the shore. A vortex began to occur in the middle of the pool, and soon a counter-clockwise swirl chiselled the water into a turbulent spiral. My ears, unaccustomed to sound, were filled with the reverberative roar of the whirlpool, as if it were an ocean mælstrom. Stricken by a rush of vertigo, I stepped back from the edge, shivering now as the sheen of liquid started to evaporate from my skin. A moth landed on my wrist, then another on my neck, and several more on my spine and shoulders. I turned to see the entire mosaic crumbling tile by tile as the moths fluttered from the wall to adorn my body. The aftereffects of my underwater trauma dissolved in a giddy scintillation that rose tremulously from the tip of my spine to the top of my skull. I was now almost entirely covered in a quivering noctuid cloak. The oddly sensuous taction of myriad insect legs upon my flesh made me feel at once placid and unbearably skittish. This vibration of thousands of tiny wings – that was the origin of the drone I’d heard upon resurfacing. And now the drone was within me as well, fluxing discordantly with the vorticular resonance of the pool.

    The slide you are about to see is a self-portrait taken by a man utterly enmothed. Slide, please.

26. Yes – it is astounding, isn’t it? Fortuitously, after photographing the moth wall, I’d left the camera on the tripod, its settings unaltered. I could see only by fluttering my eyelids and shaking my head to disengage the moths clustered on my face. One finger was all that I needed to set the timing mechanism and trigger the shutter. I ambled backwards, careful not to harm the living garment that enwrapped and enraptured me. With uplifted arms, I became the strange statue you observe on the screen. Notice that beyond me, the wall that had been occupied by the moths is absolutely black, is not even a wall.

    This image of me cocooned in the moth grotto is the last from within the region of blackness. Though I have attempted to re-enter the zone many times since, by readying myself mentally and gesturally as described in my preamble to this lecture, all efforts have been in vain – perhaps because the effort itself, too conscientiously applied, precluded my admission. Or perhaps I have already reached the limit of what can be revealed to me, of what I am disposed to sustain in such a realm.

    There is one more frame of film I exposed in this sequence. Moments after the camera captured my moth-embellished pose, I rigged the device for another shot. My breathing was hindered more and more by the overlay of wings. There was little hope now of clearing my eyelids without harming the delicate creatures that roosted there. Sightless and covered in moths, like a somnambulant entomologist overcome by his specimens, I groped my way towards the camera. Only with difficulty did I perform the necessary prehensile gestures to set the timer in motion. Retreating softly into focus range, barely breathing, I awaited the click of the shutter. In that interval, those few mechanical seconds between action and reaction, I left the Black Domain. I am standing in my livingroom, clothed as I was upon entering the forest, my eyes closed as if in prayer.

    Last slide, please.