Wednesday, January 20, 2010

A Gate

he gate loomed before him, an ostentatious iron guardian.  Through cracks he could see the orb of the sun, and the bright light it shed carved out grass, trees, a distant lake.  The night had been sleepless, fraught with unsettling dreams—but here came the warm whisper of morning.  He dug a hand into his pocket.  The key.  Where was it?  It was a heavy, metal thing, he thought… is that what he had thought?  Did he bring the right key?  He turned his pockets inside out.  Had he brought any key at all?  Whispers from the world beyond grew louder, rushing past him with gathering force.  He realized he had never possessed a key, had only heard it described in conversations, and as he stood before the immobile reality of the gate he wondered if the conversations had been dreams after all.  The breeze bent itself into a gale.  Warm air screamed through his ears, forcing him back.  He fell to the ground a short distance away.  The air quieted, and it was night again.  Well, he thought, as he slipped into another dream…  maybe there was no key.  But he had found the gate.

Friday, January 01, 2010

To the Lighthouse

ut what after all is one night?  A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave.  Night, however, succeeds to night.  The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers.  They lengthen; they darken.  Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness.

“The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands.  The autumn trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour, and smooths the stubble, and brings the wave lapping blue to the shore.

“It seemed now as if, touched by human penitence and all its toil, divine goodness had parted the curtain and displayed behind it, single, distinct, the hare erect; the wave falling; the boat rocking; which, did we deserve them, should be ours always.  But alas, divine goodness, twitching the cord, draws the curtain; it does not please him; he covers his treasures in a drench of hail, and so breaks them, so confuses them that it seems impossible that their calm should ever return or that we should ever compose from their fragments a perfect whole or read in the littered pieces the clear words of truth.  For our penitence deserves a glimpse only; our toil respite only.

“The nights now are full of wind and destruction; the trees plunge and bend and their leaves fly helter skelter until the lawn is plastered with them and they lie packed in gutters and choke rain pipes and scatter damp paths.  Also the sea tosses itself and breaks itself, and should any sleeper fancying that he might find on the beach an answer to his doubts, a sharer of his solitude, throw off his bedclothes and go down by himself to walk on the sand, no image with semblance of serving and divine promptitude comes readily to hand bringing the night to order and making the world reflect the compass of the soul.  The hand dwindles in his hand; the voice bellows in his ear.  Almost it would appear that it is useless in such confusion to ask the night those questions as to what, and why, and wherefore, which tempt the sleeper from his bed to seek an answer.”

-Virginia Woolf

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Rhymes

t’s cold in the cafe, but when I look at the couple in question I imagine their bulky parkas and sports-team sweatshirts are all-season wear, the kind of ratty uniforms that draw judgmental stares from fellow bus riders on humid July afternoons.  I’m guilty of judging, but it’s not their clothes that catch my attention—it’s a loopy, repetitive rhyming game.

Him: “Stitch.”
Her: “Bait and switch.”
Him: “Tear at the stitch.”
Her: “Stitch?”
Him: “I said ‘tear at the stitch.’”
Her: “How about ‘bait and switch?”

And so on, endlessly, moving from rhyme to rhyme without discernible meaning.  A scrap of paper is involved, and I wonder if it’s Mad Libs or poetry or insane manifesto.  Perhaps I am too hasty to judge.

The rhyming game reaches its end.  No winner is declared.  As the couple leaves, they debate leaving their pile of food garbage on their table for the waitress to clean.  “She gave me a fuckin’ attitude,” the woman says.  Her man didn’t notice.  It’s decided: waitress will just have to deal with the mess.  They attempt to leave through the emergency exit—once, twice, thrice, fourth time’s a char… nope, door still won’t open. Embarrassment. Frustration. The normal, for-chumps exit is utilized.  From the sidewalk this woman flips the whole cafe off, and me in it.  I am delighted and offended.

I love this moment, and I want to record it.  I remember I have a blog, and briefly consider the implications of sharing something so slight in such a public forum.  Then I tell myself that the internet exists, in part, to archive memories.  I spend a lot of time obsessing about how this site might read to a stranger.  I get caught up in presentation, professionalism, and polished honesty.  This seems less useful, even in the short-term, than using the internet for what it is, right now: an infinite conversation.

I commit to writing more in the present, without knowing exactly what that means.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

The Inca Trail, Sunset on Day 3

s the sun sets behind our ruins, it hits only the highest peaks in the distance, setting them on fire.  The Eye of Sauron watches.

Monday, November 09, 2009

The Inca Trail, Day 2

Sunday, October 11, 2009

The Hills of Ollantaytambo