I can't sleep…
This book is dedicated to the voices in my head, the most remarkable of my friends.
And to my wife, who lives with us.
— Fredrik Backman, the opening dedication to his new book titled “Anxious People: A Novel” (Atria Books, September 8, 2020)
Notes:
3:50 a.m.
I’m up.
Groggy from Tylenol PM. I stare at the clock, do the math, a whopping 7 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Whaddya know! 1 day in a row!
The euphoria burns off quickly. An 8 a.m. appointment weighs heavily. I punch out a few notes for the meeting on my laptop, close the lid, needing at least a full hour to prep for the call. Unfinished. Unprepared. Anxious. I drag the three horsemen with me as I head out the door.
I’m off.
The Head is not in this game this morning. That is, my 5-mile walk around Cove Island to start the day. It’s Month 4 of day after day after consecutive day of 90-minute twilight walks. You could have passed on the morning walk, finished your prep to take a load off, but Nooooo. That’s not how you roll.
I’m rushing. I’m not Here. I’m not There. I’m a bit everywhere. I need to cut my loop short and hurry back.
I tuck the camera away, I’m half way home. I pick up the pace.
Continue reading “Walking. To Unclenched.”
He has to be in his late 70’s, maybe early 80’s, but he’s out each morning walking, in twilight. There’s a handful of us obsessives out at this hour, including me, that strange guy, always in black head to toe, The Camera Guy (as Jim calls me, grateful he’s left ‘Creepy’ out of the prefix).
He has a severe limp when he walks, his right side slumps with each step. Retired Vet, would be my bet. Large, hulking man, must have been fierce in his day. (vs. me still pretending to be fierce, a younger old dog with false teeth, literally and figuratively. At least they don’t clack, yet. Something to look forward to).
We’re on Month 4 here with the morning walks, and despite the crossing of our paths each morning, he would not lift his head to acknowledge me. Perhaps stuck in his head. Perhaps wanting to leave me stuck in mine, which was exactly where I prefer to be. We all send off our own scent don’t we, mine a ‘Black Prickly de Chanel.’
Last week, he broke the silence.
“Do you know if the other Swan is still around? My wife and I were worried.”
I paused for a minute, and not sure exactly why I lied, but I did. I did notice her partner had been absent for a week or so, but I just didn’t have it in me to tell him. Or, perhaps I didn’t want to believe he was gone. Like Gone, Gone.
“Yes, he’s down by the bridge at the end of The Cove.” Continue reading “Walking. One Short. From Wing to Wing.”
So, when it’s bad now,
when I can’t remember what’s lost
and all I have for the world to take
means nothing,
I go out back of the greenhouse
at the far end of my land
where the grasses go wild
and the arroyos come up
with cat’s-claw and giant dahlias,
where the children of my neighbors
consult with the wise heads
of sunflowers, huge against the sky,
where the rivers of weather
and the charred ghosts of old melodies
converge to flood my land
and sustain the one thicket
of memory that calls for me
to come and sit
among the tall canes
and shape full-throated songs
out of wind, out of bamboo,
out of a voice
that only whispers.
— Garrett Hongo, from ‘Something Whispered in the Shakuhachi’
Notes: Quote, thank you Beth @ Alive on All Channels. Photo of bamboo by Elisa.
With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning…
~ W. S. Merwin, from “To the New Year” from Present Company
Photo: Ian Cowe (Perthshire, Scotland)