(no subject)
The night was simple, it thrummed with promise. It swallowed him sublimely, feeling around the curves of his flesh with grateful hands. It darkened and smothered, smoothed, made whole what cracks it could. It felt more like a mother than anything he could remember. If he could not sleep, he would get drunk. It had never seemed so simple to him in his entire life - that these choices were so easy to make, that all it took was one slight tip, one simple minute at the red and suddenly he was in motion. Shouldn't this be how all choices are made? In the simple rolling instant between now? No gradations, no correspondence, no rational movement of the mind. Not even a connection between emotional states. Just the sudden start, the amazing liberation that is achieved when you skip hesitation. Like the sudden turn of a sentence, the flex of a given word; so the body could move independently, dragging the mind like a reluctant buoy to rationalize and try to fix itself in a shifting world.
He slipped into the thick German coat he had inherited from his father, feeling the comforting heaviness of the wool on the tops of his shoulders, and the bones of his hip. Somehow the coat made him feel enormous, massive, confident. He imagined it buttoned securely around the form of a brawny army officer, standing langorously in the back of a smoky tent, or parading in front of a troop of his own men. Striding a deep trench, boots pulled up securely and clacking against the duckboards. Somewhere there were shots, somewhere a lone German sniper has killed a young boy from Kelowna, but here, here in the heavy wool of this commanding coat a brawny army officer enjoyed the feeling of heaviness around the muscles in his biceps. It gave him a feeling of power and solidity while the ghost from Kelowna slipped out of a flesh cracked and splintered.
All this was imagined in the heartbeat between creaking stairs, in the space between gulps of a beer. Soon out the door, bottle in hand. Suddenly the bottle lay in a snowbank, deep and rich green against the whiteness. He stopped for a second to stare at the startling emergence, as startling as if a flower had suddenly slipped up between the frozen paving stones, and blossomed with rich pollen. Striding; the muscles in his legs gathering in bunches, flexing powerfully, pushing forward against the sodden earth. A girl with short, red hair had once commented on the power of his legs. At the time she was fresh, lovely with freckles, so fresh she smelled of earth and grass, her juices of fresh water; now she would be older taller, the skin around her eyes would have absorbed pains, pleasures, drinks, drugs. But her freckles would be intact; as would the way she turned her head after two kisses to present her neck. Some things never change. Some things he could remember with relish, avoiding the humiliation of the past entirely. Sometimes memory was as startling as anything he could imagine, suddenly providing for him a refuge, a place of stillness as sudden as a flower blossoming from broken paving stones, or a beer bottle shining beautiful against the thick, Canadian snow.
He slipped into the thick German coat he had inherited from his father, feeling the comforting heaviness of the wool on the tops of his shoulders, and the bones of his hip. Somehow the coat made him feel enormous, massive, confident. He imagined it buttoned securely around the form of a brawny army officer, standing langorously in the back of a smoky tent, or parading in front of a troop of his own men. Striding a deep trench, boots pulled up securely and clacking against the duckboards. Somewhere there were shots, somewhere a lone German sniper has killed a young boy from Kelowna, but here, here in the heavy wool of this commanding coat a brawny army officer enjoyed the feeling of heaviness around the muscles in his biceps. It gave him a feeling of power and solidity while the ghost from Kelowna slipped out of a flesh cracked and splintered.
All this was imagined in the heartbeat between creaking stairs, in the space between gulps of a beer. Soon out the door, bottle in hand. Suddenly the bottle lay in a snowbank, deep and rich green against the whiteness. He stopped for a second to stare at the startling emergence, as startling as if a flower had suddenly slipped up between the frozen paving stones, and blossomed with rich pollen. Striding; the muscles in his legs gathering in bunches, flexing powerfully, pushing forward against the sodden earth. A girl with short, red hair had once commented on the power of his legs. At the time she was fresh, lovely with freckles, so fresh she smelled of earth and grass, her juices of fresh water; now she would be older taller, the skin around her eyes would have absorbed pains, pleasures, drinks, drugs. But her freckles would be intact; as would the way she turned her head after two kisses to present her neck. Some things never change. Some things he could remember with relish, avoiding the humiliation of the past entirely. Sometimes memory was as startling as anything he could imagine, suddenly providing for him a refuge, a place of stillness as sudden as a flower blossoming from broken paving stones, or a beer bottle shining beautiful against the thick, Canadian snow.