Friday, July 11, 2008

Day one hundred and ninety one ... Lucky me.

Mattapoisett, MA 

11:10 p.m.

It's so quiet here.

I'm laying on a leather couch next to a row of windows--all open wide--with the blinds rolled up and stacked like an accordion--awkward and nervous because they know they should be working.

Their boss is in the other part of the house, watching TV. I can hear it low and mumbled. It's not just that I know it's the TV--no one else lives here, not even me--but it's the way the words come out in economical and lucrative rhythm, sometimes to the viewer, sometimes to the guest, always just shy of honest.

The news is on, but I could care less.

The happenings of the world is not going to stop for me, and it's not going to hide from me. It spins on a flatbed like an amusement park ride, letting on murderers, heros, villains and sooth sayers alike. The circus music blares from old, grey megaphones before each four minute cycle letting ticket holders and loiterers alike know that the ride is starting. The operators are always stoned and petulant: temporary, transient assholes who couldn't care less for your safety, checking each carriage with a cursory shake and glance--not at you, but not far away.

I see movement in my periphery and hear a sheet of paper fall three feet to the scratched, yellow hardwood floor.

The cat is as leery of me as I am of him. I wonder if he spends as much time picking off the signs of my proximity as I do of his.

The nicknacks love it when I come to visit. 

11:23 p.m.

The sounds from next door have stopped.

I can hear my insides making noises. What's going on in there? Why can I hear my abdomen and my arms and legs making routine sounds of activity, yet not hear inside my head whirring like an old electric clock? 





12:02 a.m.

I never did go out for the mail like I said I would, so I do. And before I can realize what is happening I'm fifteen feet tall and growing. Seconds later I can see the roof and the surrounding property and the little pond that has the frogs and the rocks and the algae and the tufts of tall grass that I left because she likes it like that, and I am twenty feet above the house on the short private road to the beach--the house that represents the natural progression of a successful life--and now I can see, for the first time, what the neighbors homes look like, with their little additions and sheds and studios and it all looks so civil and intentional. 

Our rain gutters need a lot of work. My, oh my.

And as I grow, up, out, and around, the deer frantically yell at the rabbits, who come up out of their holes--blinking. Millions of bugs crawl out from under their cold, wet, dark, rocks. The birds form gangs, readying themselves, sharpening their beaks, and, because of me, are too shaken up to take advantage of the surplus of fresh food. The cats who roam the neighborhood are stretching and looking straight up into the night sky, finally impressed. The dogs are barking. The squirrels throw nuts and rocks in the air and the high tension wires break all around me like strands of hair, sparking like static electricity and blinking like fireflies. 

12:23 a.m.

I take a deep breath and smile in amazement at it all. As I exhale, I see nighttime clouds disperse like cigarette smoke. I swat a mosquito with bright, blinking red and white eyes that has banged into my shoulder. That felt weird. I slowly crouch down on one knee, letting my hands dangle. When I stand back up I notice how they are wet and salty, so I scoop up some water in my cupped hands and splash my face because I can't believe what is going on. 

This has got to be a dream.

As the water drips from my nose and mouth and chin I hear the screams of twenty fishermen as they fall, along with their boat, back down to the sea.

I stand back up and try not to do anything, bumping my head on the moon in the process, hard enough to make me check for blood ... but it's just a bump. 

Lucky me.

Thanks for reading.



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