560. Hollow

Trev stood and placed his hands on the rail, his eyes to the open sea. To the left and to the right, not a soul; his mind played with the idea--soulless, and for reasons he could not explain, and fearful he could not understand, found the idea funny, in a sardonic way. The breeze breezed and the ocean oceaned and the oats bent and waved, bobbing to and fro but for all the movement, for all the inhaling and exhaling of land and sea, for all the interminable mental chatter, for all the luxurious solitude, for everything that seemed real to the eye and hand, it all seemed a sham.

Does a beautiful sky need a beautiful heart to see it? And if it can't be seen, felt, known, is it real? And why do I (he) feel so fucking alone?

And for the first time, he wished for the company of the one he never knew. For, what could be more real than the hollowness within that echoed so loudly that the waves crashing upon the beached were silent.

559. Hot and Cold

Contradiction. To hold a thought and not hold it at the same time. Is time a function of change? Is there a smallest unit of existence that makes simultaneousness a figment? When I take a pint glass of hot tea and I place ice in the glass and then immediately take a sip, I sometimes feel the flow of both hot and cold tea, simultaneously, over my tongue. No matter how many times I do this, I am child-like delighted each and every time. Giddy, one could say. Rog would like that. I can see him laughing, the kind of laugh that truth elicits, an insight as to why I am not him and he is not me for I could be giddy and he could not ever be such.

Trev put his pen down, drew the sea into his lungs and adjusted his sunglasses in the cloudless sky to avoid the myriad reflections of his comm, which, now, lay shattered into an army of glittering winks across the sea-facing deck.

I am saved and I am ruined and all within the hour, if not the minute. Where is that point where day becomes night or night becomes day? When is one sane and when is one crazy and how can one tell which is which, when, like the tea, it flows, simultaneously, hot and cold? I'm not writing this note to be read, as a leave behind piece, which might inflict guilt or offered inexcusable excuses otherwise known as rational lies. I'm going to be honest, which is my way of saying I have not always been honest, not by my design, but by some other wicked hand, but this time, I am my own hynerian. I write this note, I say what I am saying, because it brings me pleasure.

Trev paused to wipe away a trickle of sweat from his eye, the act, which required taking off his sunglasses, by necessity, required putting down his pen. Eye wiped, sunglasses back in place, pen was held again in hand, a lance ready to battle vellum, the neighing of nib upon what once was living, seeking sun, spreading branch and leaf, bothering no one.

Today, in this hour, within the same breath, not two breaths, but within a singular breath, I thought of suicide and, I shiott you not, in the same exact moment, I thought of running the beach, not to run away, not to run to exhaustion, but to exercise, to keep my stomach flat, to remain fit. Hot and cold. How does a sane person hold these two thoughts, death and life, hold them simultaneously, in all unconscious seriousness, as if to do so was as logical as a sandwich? This thought occurred, for the record, before I smashed the comm into tiny bits. And for the record, there were no messages, no blinking light, no nothing.

558. Swallowed by the Sea

He showered in steam and shaved hot, strokes deliberate. Upon hunger, he ate, washing the dishes and putting them up, fork upon fork and plate upon plate. The cottage held the quiet of the night which turned into the quiet of the dawn as he sat the deck as he had sat it before. The silence hovered, as if other, when before he had breathed it in, held it without sin and returned the essence back as gently as one handing over a newborn.

His comm sat as silent as the calm; and although he would have denied looking, he did care, only for whom or for what seemed a little muddy. Full his belly was, still, it felt hollow, and what was convex to the eye, gutted concave to the mind; involuted he would say, to impress, smiling at the thought as he sat alone. He smiled again, heat lightning in the distance illuminating his grin, the air as dry as his humor, the mauve dawn shimmering into pink and whey before unblinking eyes.

The day would come, with or without his blessing, punctual sun, a choir of gulls, of life in the morn that would not see the dusk. His heart beat and by thought alone he could not deter the course of its rivers, and by such tributaries he lived, like the day, with or without his consent. He held forth his hand, his hand but not him. The thought seemed both natural and strange. If he were to cut it off, right now, would he be less of himself? Yet, he called it his, this hand. And as if an accountant auditing, he took inventory from toe to hair, posing the question in each and every case, the voice in his mind growing louder as evidence built until such time he could stand it no longer and bolting upright yelled, "I know not what I am."

The words were expelled as if evil, a dry heave of plea, absorbed into the surf, swallowed by the sea.

557. Glints of Gold

Von stood facing the tree. Slowly, from the bottom upward, he buttoned his black cloak. A breeze rustled the leaves in the tree and a few more took flight, glints of gold in the blue sky.

The interrogator stood before Von and read from his dossier. Finishing one document, he took the page and tossed it over his shoulder and read from the next. Then tossed it likewise, charge after charge, accusation after accusation until the floor was littered as the ground in autumn. As the heavens itself takes pause between breath of wind, the javalina breathed in before expelling, in words matter of fact, "You abandoned your son."

Decadent Reflections

For those who might like to peak behind the curtain

Decadent Reflections

556. Clinquant: Stagecraft

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As Stay plays (soundtrack to Clinquant), the camera focuses on Von sitting on the bench, from a distance. The volume increases, the camera zooms in for a close up, his deep blue eyes are tear filled, staring straight ahead, his head not moving. The lyrics, the female voice, bring visions of Zoe to his mind and it seems as if she is reaching out to him, that it is she who is singing. The camera lifts and whirls around him as the leaves around the tree, his black cloak upon the bed of golden leaves, the stone chapel in the background. The screen fades to black with the lyrics growing louder, cutting, stay with me.

555. Clinquant

Outside the chapel stood a single large grandfather of a tree and, as if planted for reflection or adoration, a slatted wooden bench. From a cloudless blue sky, a light breeze coaxed medallion leaves, golden and brown, into the air and, in their lazy childlike way, flitting and twirling to the deep fescue below; a treasure hard to dismiss or miss. Yet, sitting, watching, listening, breathing, the choice echoed, each wave more surreal as the leaves appeared as memories, falling, inevitably, one by one. The cruel cycle forever clear to the rustic eye.

Upon the ethereal lightness of confession offered and absolution given, from what seemed like hours if not days instead of mere minutes, dispassionate words hung heavy as damp decaying soil. Back curved to bench, another breeze, more medallions took flight, each a child, each a choice, each as free as will. Zoe was dying he had said. Why, he did not know, would not know in time. The baby was healthy. He, he said he, the baby, would survive a premature birth. Permission was needed. Zoe would not survive the operation. The baby, the boy, would not survive without it.

Another leaf corkscrewed downward. The ground a treasure of nature's gold gathered around his leaden feet, expectant, looking up. A performance anticipated, action desired.