Frozen by the shining sun, my mind is set alight by her long breaths. Liquidity. My transformation is complete as full dark slips over the world. I stare at her face, so peaceful in its repose. The ache of my love is so strong now that I fear it will wake her. My mind races across our life together, finding pain. I immerse myself in it so that it can’t defile her.
I am the night watchman.
I guard the innocent light of the day, battling darkness so that the sleeper can rest without worry. Silently waiting for the next wave of foes, I direct my gaze to the window and wait for the birds to sing.
“Why do people have to be this lonely? What’s the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Why? Was the Earth put here just to nourish human loneliness?
I turned face-up on the slab of stone, gazed at the sky, and thought about all of the man-made satellites spinning around the Earth. The horizon was still etched in a faint glow, and stars began to blink on in the deep, wine-coloured sky. I gazed among them for the light of a satellite, but it was still too bright out to spot one with the naked eye. The sprinkling of stars looked nailed to the spot, unmoving. I closed my eyes and listened carefully for the descendants of Sputnik, even now circling the Earth, gravity their only tie to the planet. Lonely metal souls in the unimpeded darkness of space, they meet, pass each other, and part, never to meet again. No words passing between them. No promises to keep.” (Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami, translated by Philip Gabriel)
I live in phases. Up and down I go, from periods of great productivity, joy and vigor to periods of something else altogether. Like Murakami’s strange Sumire who was so cherished by the story’s narrator, I too use writing as a means to think. Just as she did, I go through low phases which find me unable (or more likely unwilling) to think and therefore I avoid the act of writing. I recede from the internet, from books and from anything which may challenge me to think only to come crashing back later, like the returning tide. I don’t know how to prevent these cycles other than to force myself to continue to read, write and engage with my thoughts. I don’t even know if that will work, because my dark days come in force and unexpectedly, gripping me with an unwillingness to engage with the world. I prefer instead to dull my mind and dwell in nothingness until drawn out. Perhaps I need to make a stand or a decision, like in the book. I have love and companionship, but maybe I need a narrator of my own to draw me back from the twin world.
I’m back, for now.
Published on
February 11, 2009 in
Poetry and Writing.
Tags: beast, bedroom, boy, camel, closet, dream, haiku, nightmare, parents, Poetry, shoes, sleep, Writing, young.
I’m running as quickly as I can, my bare feet flashing out in front of me and slapping the hard white sand. As I run, I notice the vast emptiness of this place and it terrifies me. How am I to get to safety? Where can I go? I notice a black curved line in the distance and change direction, surging toward it as fast as my small body can take me. He is still behind me. I don’t see him so much as I get a sense of him back there, his presence a taint on my very being. A flash of his face overwhelms me with fear and I try to run faster. It’s like a camel’s face, but blood red and with dripping yellow fangs. His ears are longer than a camel’s, and he suddenly calls in some way, raising his head briefly to the sky. What does that mean? Are others coming? He’s too fast. I come to the black line and see that it is a road. No. It isn’t a road, it is a frozen black river in the middle of this desert. I get the sense that he can’t cross this. If I cross I’ll be safe. I leap almost recklessly down the bank and skid across the ice toward the safety of the other side. My left foot thumps onto the soft sand along the far bank. Just as it lands, he’s there looming over my right shoulder, his fangs sinking into my flesh. My voice joins his as we scream to the sky.
I wake up panting. I’m terrified and I want my mother, so I get out of bed and venture into the darkness. The big circular rug is there in the next room and I lay down on it, gathering the nerve to enter my parents’ bedroom. Will they be angry with me for waking them? I play with one of the orange tassels on the rug then get up, walking into their room. There is no darkness greater or deeper than the darkness of their room as they sleep. I lose my nerve. I find my way to their closet and climb inside, losing myself in the safety of the confined space and the scent of shoes. I drift off to sleep, safe from the creature.
two in the morning –
a nightmare beast comes calling
in a young boy’s dream
Published on
January 10, 2009 in
Poetry and Writing.
Tags: bed, blackbirds, cage, cold, frost, haiku, lion, mane, old, pillows, Poetry, sleep, slippers, treetops, winter, Writing.
She shuffles around the room in her slippers. As I wake, she glances over at me. I’m sprawled out in the bed like a magnificent stretched lion, wearing all of the pillows as my mane. She tells me it’s cold outside, which doesn’t really surprise me. It’s winter. I’m not really clear in the head as she mentions the frost. Her words take a few minutes to register, slowly worming their way through the silky filter of sleep. I lift my heavy head. It’s like a rusted iron cage in the morning, which always scares me. Is this what it is like to be old and senile? Will my head be this heavy and dull? As I look out the window, my worries scatter and the moment seizes me.
weak dawn –
the frosted treetops stirred
by hungry blackbirds