In the Past
I thought I might have liked to live in Alaska for a while - some far out place where I'd be surrounded by ice all the time. I thought the isolation might do me some good. I thought I'd like the sensation of blinding sunshine on ice freezing my senses. I wanted to spot whales playing hide and seek with icebergs and watch the endless progression of glaciers. I wondered what cracking ice sounded like from miles away. A bullet, thunder ... maybe rain? I still wonder, if I lived by the frozen sea, would whalesong and wind haunt my every waking moment?
I Was Superstitious
It was mid-day at the waterfront. There was no sun in the sky. The world had been swallowed up by the great grey. The skinny evergreens were bent sideways, mowed over by the heavy wind. God, my head hurt. It had been hurting for months.
The sea was gray-green and querulous. The waves smashed against the brine-slicked rocks spitting foam and salt at my feet. The birds - so many of them. How they must love the cold, I thought. The wind and water had bullied everything into silence.
Two lovers, a short distance ahead, were trembling as they embraced each other. Her head was buried in the lapel of his coat - he looked to the grey horizon. I wondered if it was really the cold that had robbed them of speech.
It was so beautiful there. Even if all humans died and that place fell into ruin it would still be beautiful. There are things that are simply what they are. Not even time can change that.
As I sat in my car listening to invisible hands clawing at metal and rubber, the realization overwhelmed me - that I was waiting. Every time I went there, I was waiting for someone or something to find me by the sea. All the park benches were empty but even after I left here some part of me would be sitting there gazing out to sea, wishing and waiting. Grey birds were swarming the haunted sky. I kept thinking how they must really love the cold.
I Started Slipping Away
At 1:00am I couldn't sleep - just like the night before and the night before that. It's not that I wasn't tired. I was weary to the bone. I always felt like I was moments away from slipping into a deep sleep or coma. I wonder what it is I feared most. Was it dreaming or was it not dreaming?
The weather turned gloriously nasty one night. The rain gutters overflowed. Flashy little explosions of thunder streaked across the sky. I had a sudden memory of the firing range, the rifle tip still hot, the the acrid scent of gunpowder on my gloved fingertips. I thought I was going deaf that sweaty afternoon, having forgotten my earplugs somewhere...
I stood at my desk staring out into the night remembering and amazed by how the lamplight made the raindrops glimmer like molten crystals. The sky kept on rumbling as if the world was some mythical beast with an upset stomach. I could almost see the thunder rolling in waves toward me. The walls shook every few minutes. The roar got louder and closer. The sky flashed from ominous pale red to bright white. The insistent flickering - some ancient code humans no longer understand - fustrated me for a while. I took my shirt off and burrowed beneath the bedsheets.
The next day, I found myself wondering: When we say we believe in something, are we merely attempting to will the object of our desire into existence?
Today
In the aftermath of writing a tragic scene, I couldn't stop crying... but I wasn't sad.
I Am Still Foolish
When I was young, I loved in earnest and spoke the truth carelessly. It never occured to me to try to rein myself in. Though in all honestly, I probably still can't tell the difference between heartburn and a broken heart.
Still Wistful
When I was young, I wanted to be a world traveler - no, a wanderer. I wanted to meet interesting people, who do strange and incredible things. I wanted to find them in small, faraway places - to lose myself in the fabric of the world. What did I hope to find? What might I have gained? What have I lost by staying in one place all this time?
Still Filled with this Strange Longing
I have this dream of my perfect house. It's cool and comfortable. It's small and humble, barely two shades from a shack. When I close my eyes, I can only see the world from the edge of that house. It sits on rough, wave-eaten rocks overlooking the sea. I can hear the waves, the way the wind whips them into foam. I can smell and taste the salt that clings to the air. I can see twigs from nearby trees being dragged away towards the deep end of the ocean by the froth. Save for the song of wind and water filling my being, the world is silent. The sky is clear and blue.
As a writer you have to believe that there isn't a single thing under the sun or beyond, that can't be put into words.
I wonder if that's really true.
