Everything’s pretty good really. Meaning the usual mess has arranged itself into pleasing patterns for the afternoon.
It’s a dredging exercise, progress. Stirring up the silt. Fact is, most time is ‘inbetween’ time. Not just pushing aside the drapes to glare, to glance, but actually muddying it with my fingertips, and finally breaking the glass.
The odd part is going through the jagged window.
I want to land on the pine-smelling slopes, the dark dirt and needles, the wet. I want to land on my feet, knees bending to absorb the impact, and then go. But from way up here, there still isn’t much in the way of ground orientation.
The way seems clear from below, but just for a moment at a time, and then- here I stand in the dark mud, realizing a neighborhood stretches in every direction, enclosing this false, sacred wood. There’s no getting out of here, not really.
You can make the most of this friendly delusion, and erect a barrier around what seems special, or familiar. Shall we spend ourselves protecting what’s already too small, too encroached upon, or try to break a path through it, to some half-dreamed magicland, where everything hasn’t already been used up before?
Sometimes I’m attracted to the neighborhoods. Not the shape of cultivation, not the sound of voices, they’ve never drawn me… but a figure, a solitary shape, with eyes. It’s the way he fits in his own picture that makes me fantasize he’d look good in the place I’m trying to find. He fits into the silly little patch of primordial darkness I set aside for myself, way back when.
“What were you planning to do?” The sound echoes off of radiators, clouds of exhaust; halts against weathering sealants, slips into the cracks of outdoor grills.
The funny part is, we had no purpose. You are an archaic remnant of wiring and predilection. Even your actions, the startle reflex of your wrist assailing the shadow of a ceiling beam, these are all superfluous echoes of extinct imperatives. Your purpose disappeared with a world you never met, but you aren’t someone engineered to recreate the place in which you belong. You’re a foot-soldier, not a mystic. Not a creator. So what if you can hear things that no one will acknowledge, and sense the underlying rhythms of wind and speech? It doesn’t make you special.
Just more irrelevant.
Invite him, invite him in. Let your own space get turned slowly into a carnival. Pretend to feel a deep magic that actually fled when you fashioned a bit and harness for it. Try to make your shoulders bend to fit the throngs around you.
Try not to feel special, and apart.
I sure like how friendly his eyes seemed though, as he bent down to greet his garden with generous attention. He was some old idea woken in my brain of a warrior man, a perfect mate. I could see the lines of his body, how he moved, just what he was meant to be- before this life of insulated boxes.
I could scream and scream and scream, but I still couldn’t crack the facades. We are that domesticated.
So. What to do after I break the window? Maybe if it cuts me, the blood that pools below will nourish a new and more savage forest.
Maybe it will claim his world, my world back.
Until that time I keep watching, measuring, making marked scribbles in my analytic box of unused and unnecessary inscriptions. No one is awaiting these thoughts. They all passed this way long ago.
I am an exercise in time wasted, but you appreciated it, didn’t you? I saw you watch me the way I watched him… seeing what I could have been if I could have been a creature of my own good time.