Writing
I didn't do nearly as much writing as I'd hoped to this summer. Truthfully, I did almost none.
But, tonight, I was thumbing through an old hand-written journal, looking for something else when I stumbled upon this. I'd forgotten all about writing it. It was a piece I did on the plane flying down to Key West back in February. I think it may have been an exercise from Now Write! At any rate, upon rereading it, I was surprised by how much I liked it. It will probably never be useful for anything else, but I'm putting it here, once again, to hang on to it.
The late dusk swathes everything in a barely luminescent, gloomy glow. It is shocking to me that objects I see every single day as I pass through the room have taken on a sudden authority in this light. New, but familiar. Familiar, but disconcerting.
It takes me a moment to realize how cold I am, blanket-less on the cramped loveseat where I appear to have passed out, still in sneakers, jeans, and a turtleneck sweater. Something about the way I am dressed feels inherently wrong. Like I'm committing some kind of cosmic sin.
I am in limbo, on every level. Somewhere between sleep and conciousness. Somewhere between day and evening. Somewhere between comfort and irritation.
Someplace close lingers a dream that does not want to leave, though I can no longer see it. Like a third-floor neighbor's music--distant enough to be unintelligable, but just loud enough that it will not be ignored.
The vase next to the television mezmorizes me. Something about it is unsettling-- ominous, even. I get up from the couch and my entire body feels heavy, clumsy, and soft. Not soft like a cozy pillow. Soft like a rotting peach.
My movements feel languid and deliberate, like passing through vaseline. I walk to the vase. To what? To see if it has suddenly taken on life and is plotting my demise? To see if someone or something is lurking behind its three-foot frame? I realize how foolishly I am behaving, but I do not stop myself. I approach the vase cautiously, as if I expect it to pounce forward and tackle me. It does not.
I get close enough to touch it--and do. The coolness is shocking to me. It feels polished and slick beneath my fingers. I run my palms down the sides, pausing to wrap my hands around the indentation near the neck-- like a lover who briefly considers what it would be like to strangle his partner in her moment of complete, naked vulnerability.
I keep moving my hands down the sides where the base gradually bevels out like two back-to-back pregnant women in the nude.
When I reach the floor, I realize I have unwittingly crouched down. I lift the vase, hands cupped around the bottom. I raise it, arms straight before me. An offering to an unknown deity. It is solid, dense. Comfortably heavy.
A memory seeps into my bloodstream, from the cool surface of the vessel, through my palms, up through my outstretched arms, and into my torso. My brain tells me the memory should disturb me--but instead, it is welcoming and soothing as an embrace.
His hands gliding over my body as I lay trembling, knowing it is wrong. His eyes, unblinking. Transfixed. Following the motion of his own fingertips as if they were those of a stranger.
Then, the memory is gone--but he is not. The memory has shifted. We are still in the living room. The haunting glow is no longer sourced by the ebbing daylight, but rather the tall floor lamp in the corner, whose sillohette is not unlike that of the vase. The rice-paper lampshade gives the light being cast a soft quality, as if the particles are merely hovering in the air around us like milkweed dander on a still day.
I can see only half of his face as he sits, his back to the lamp, studying my own face. He blinks. Slow. Pausing. Lowering of eyelids. I do not resist the urge to reach forward and place my palm on the cheek obscured in shadow. I lose sight of my hand in that same shadow. From wrist downward, like dipping my hand into a dark pool of water.
The uneasiness that accompanies this particular memory yanks me back to the present--to the cold living room floor where I still crouch. To the vase, levitating in my grasp.
The surface of the vase no longer feels flawless. I now recognize the grainy texture of blown glass. The tidbits of dust clinging defiantly to each groove. No longer is the heaviness comforting. It is, instead, overwhelming. Oppressive. Teaming up with gravity in its efforts to overcome my forearms, which have begun to tremble with the effort.
I allow my limbs to succumb. The vase smashes to the floor. It cracks, but does not shatter. The crack, rather than robbing the vase of its aesthetic value, adds a unique charm. I trace this new addition to its facade, and glimpse only a momentary hint of the retreating memory, before it is lost. Back into the shadows. Lurking. Lingering. Hidden, but not gone.
But, tonight, I was thumbing through an old hand-written journal, looking for something else when I stumbled upon this. I'd forgotten all about writing it. It was a piece I did on the plane flying down to Key West back in February. I think it may have been an exercise from Now Write! At any rate, upon rereading it, I was surprised by how much I liked it. It will probably never be useful for anything else, but I'm putting it here, once again, to hang on to it.
The late dusk swathes everything in a barely luminescent, gloomy glow. It is shocking to me that objects I see every single day as I pass through the room have taken on a sudden authority in this light. New, but familiar. Familiar, but disconcerting.
It takes me a moment to realize how cold I am, blanket-less on the cramped loveseat where I appear to have passed out, still in sneakers, jeans, and a turtleneck sweater. Something about the way I am dressed feels inherently wrong. Like I'm committing some kind of cosmic sin.
I am in limbo, on every level. Somewhere between sleep and conciousness. Somewhere between day and evening. Somewhere between comfort and irritation.
Someplace close lingers a dream that does not want to leave, though I can no longer see it. Like a third-floor neighbor's music--distant enough to be unintelligable, but just loud enough that it will not be ignored.
The vase next to the television mezmorizes me. Something about it is unsettling-- ominous, even. I get up from the couch and my entire body feels heavy, clumsy, and soft. Not soft like a cozy pillow. Soft like a rotting peach.
My movements feel languid and deliberate, like passing through vaseline. I walk to the vase. To what? To see if it has suddenly taken on life and is plotting my demise? To see if someone or something is lurking behind its three-foot frame? I realize how foolishly I am behaving, but I do not stop myself. I approach the vase cautiously, as if I expect it to pounce forward and tackle me. It does not.
I get close enough to touch it--and do. The coolness is shocking to me. It feels polished and slick beneath my fingers. I run my palms down the sides, pausing to wrap my hands around the indentation near the neck-- like a lover who briefly considers what it would be like to strangle his partner in her moment of complete, naked vulnerability.
I keep moving my hands down the sides where the base gradually bevels out like two back-to-back pregnant women in the nude.
When I reach the floor, I realize I have unwittingly crouched down. I lift the vase, hands cupped around the bottom. I raise it, arms straight before me. An offering to an unknown deity. It is solid, dense. Comfortably heavy.
A memory seeps into my bloodstream, from the cool surface of the vessel, through my palms, up through my outstretched arms, and into my torso. My brain tells me the memory should disturb me--but instead, it is welcoming and soothing as an embrace.
His hands gliding over my body as I lay trembling, knowing it is wrong. His eyes, unblinking. Transfixed. Following the motion of his own fingertips as if they were those of a stranger.
Then, the memory is gone--but he is not. The memory has shifted. We are still in the living room. The haunting glow is no longer sourced by the ebbing daylight, but rather the tall floor lamp in the corner, whose sillohette is not unlike that of the vase. The rice-paper lampshade gives the light being cast a soft quality, as if the particles are merely hovering in the air around us like milkweed dander on a still day.
I can see only half of his face as he sits, his back to the lamp, studying my own face. He blinks. Slow. Pausing. Lowering of eyelids. I do not resist the urge to reach forward and place my palm on the cheek obscured in shadow. I lose sight of my hand in that same shadow. From wrist downward, like dipping my hand into a dark pool of water.
The uneasiness that accompanies this particular memory yanks me back to the present--to the cold living room floor where I still crouch. To the vase, levitating in my grasp.
The surface of the vase no longer feels flawless. I now recognize the grainy texture of blown glass. The tidbits of dust clinging defiantly to each groove. No longer is the heaviness comforting. It is, instead, overwhelming. Oppressive. Teaming up with gravity in its efforts to overcome my forearms, which have begun to tremble with the effort.
I allow my limbs to succumb. The vase smashes to the floor. It cracks, but does not shatter. The crack, rather than robbing the vase of its aesthetic value, adds a unique charm. I trace this new addition to its facade, and glimpse only a momentary hint of the retreating memory, before it is lost. Back into the shadows. Lurking. Lingering. Hidden, but not gone.