I awake each morning to the sound of waves. It comes through the window in endless and persistent rhythms. It greets me and comforts me and reminds me of the energy of motion, the soothing pulse of a pumping planet. The sound is of passing cars. Sometimes the waves honk at each other.
Trucks rumble. Police cars and ambulances screech. Motorcycles show off but scooters, scooters make a peculiar and distinct sound. A high-pitch whine. Rare. I like to imagine it's the sound of a paleolithic dragonfly passing by on its way to a paleolithic leaf in search of paleolithic pussy. Back then dragonflies had monstrous wingspans, two or three feet, presumably because that was the trend at the time. Monstrous to us, of course, but perfectly normal to them.
We're all a version of normal.
Only a few of us, and I mean US, ALL animals and plants that ever lived, are lucky enough to die in a fossil-friendly zone. These are the immortal. Stories told in stems and teeth and bones, written by creatures and transcribed by scientists.
I hope I die in a muddy river bank that is then covered by a thick layer of volcanic ash. Some day the reptile people who replace us will find me and make conclusions about my diet and my lifestyle.
"He ate a high carbohydrate diet, mostly popcorn and twizzlers and sand. He was above-average height," they'll say. "His cranium was smooth, indicating a high position amongst his people. His thumbs were robust from frequent communication. His vertebrae was thick. He must have carried a lot of weight on his shoulders."
"He is our link to the past."
Such is the folly-filled mind of a brain during a moment of self-importance.
Light is my enemy. Dark is my enemy. Shadows are where things make sense. The gray area, where things are uncertain and undefined.
Although I do admit I have night-lights in my apartment. Orange in the kitchen, green in the bathroom, and aqua blue outside the door to my bedroom. Anyone who's stubbed a toe on the way to empty a bladder understands the value of a few smartly place night lights.
Also there is the street lamp light that bleeds through the blinds of my two windows.
I hurt someone I care about recently. I hurt her deeply. I hate myself for that. But it was necessary. To not hurt her was to hurt her more. I don't understand it either but it was the right thing. Her pain is my shame. I'm still processing. Chapters end. New ones begin.
She's the kind of person for whom sunshine exists and I know she'll bloom again.
An old story. New to me. But old and tireless and always a trenchant reminder of reality's insistence.
Persistence, really. That's a better word. Reality persists, no matter the otherwise.
Denial is the saving trait of humanity. The ability to fool ourselves. Sure, we're good at fooling each other but we're experts at fooling ourselves.
I was looking at the pages of a book recently. Not reading. Just looking at the pages, at the preciseness of the cut, at the right angle, the glue of the binding, the organization, and at the depth of the thinness of the pages, how frail and how strong, and of the permanence of the ink printed on each page, the sequence in which letters were assembled in order to speak, to speak a silent voice inside the mind, words and syllables come to life in a trained brain, imbuing grace and wisdom into the reader. How powerful, such a simple thing. How simple. How malicious and benign. How sleep leaps from the page onto a pillow-bent neck and head... Because of the silence and focus of reading, the stillness of one thought. That is the gift of reading.
I think of the massive and powerful industrial machines that make these books, these mind-bending behemoths of sound and oil and gears and blades and printing wheels and how their real power is the power of dissemination, the power of lucidity.
I cannot sleep to silence. Silent rooms are my bane. My mind is a cacophony. It is filled with a torrent of shit and laughter, a swarm of insects swirling about above a lake of fear and confusion. It is the storm on Jupiter. Perpetual. Too many unlanded thoughts. Tomato splatter. The shape of leaves in a waking tornado. A poet's sloppy orgasm.
When I was a child there was a rumor that the ink in pens was made from mosquito eggs. This discouraged us from writing on ourselves. Eventually I learned that this was not true. But if somehow it was, I'd never stop scribbling.
After a life of being lost, my dream is to die in a place I will be found.
