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partial eclipses
September 29, 2006
ok, so, I have to make some decisions about the website - pay $99 for another year, or try to move everything to blogger, which is free, or just ditch this altogether.
someone also just asked what i write, and not liking what i've written recently, i went back through the blog looking for samples.
i also discovered that there's some stuff that hasn't ever been posted. so, there will be some more regular posts, a mix of the recycled and the new.
unless they shut me down for non-payment.
partial eclipses
Closed his eyes, pressed them with his fingers, watching the colors dance. He opened them, and the colors resolved into the bustle of students hurrying to and from class, some stopping to chat and squint at the skies. It was the day of a partial solar eclipse, and people of all sorts gathered around the industrious few who had bothered to make a wide variety of devices with which to view the event. His own was a simple device he remembered first seeing in some children’s magazine long ago -- a pinhole through a piece of cardboard (specifically one of the dozens of pieces of religious literature stuffed into his hands daily) and a white sheet of paper.
The shadow creeped, unsuccessfully trying to edge out the sun. He glanced up, and in the eerie midday almost-twilight he saw her, crouched herself before a white piece of paper, watching the shadow move across the light. And in that moment, he did not know, but only felt; did not think, but only saw.
Past the hand that held the hair from her eyes, he saw her smile slightly, smiling alone in recognition of this odd combat in the heavens. The smile was knowing, of genuine appreciation awash in an undoubtable sadness. She hefted her bag higher on her shoulder, stood, and began to walk away.
Something spoke in him. He shoved the paper and pinholed word of God in his pack, glanced quickly up at the waning sun, and followed her.
He fell into the mass of students crossing the street, wary eyes kept to the skies as if something primitive in their hearts prodded at them to do so. He himself did not look, but saw the shadows soften as he watched her, felt the growing coolness in the air, and remembered the first time he had felt this pull, the first time he had had the vision and was frightened that it would disappear forever.
Years ago, before Her, he was unanchored on a vast expanse of loneliness, the confusion of late youth and early adulthood compounded and exaggerated by emptiness, the apparent isolation. He took solace in the music he listened to so intently and in the only talent he felt he really had -- he could write. It always came easy, the paper soaking the pain from him, holding it in its fibers so that someday someone else might understand, might know what he felt. And then, at least, he would not be so alone.
A love that only his soul knew, a miracle yet to be, found a voice and a ready, if uncertain prophet in his pen on those days. For when his eyes closed and the world fell silent and destiny spoke, it was waves of dark hair he saw, a warm, soft darkness that he did not fear. She was never the tawdry, tawny-skinned idols of beer-commercial adolescence, not a woman beautiful by the reflected radiance of the day, but a woman that glowed from within, all things to him even as he watched her sleep in the hours of a more significant dawn -- the dawn of happiness, of love, of dreams realised, of a newfound communion with God.
When he opened his eyes, he would look at what he had written. Even through awkward lines, it still held a strange power, the eloquence and realism of unknowing certainty.
It was not until years later that that dawn had come, casting light across Her dark hair and sleeping face, across his heart. In a world that seemed filled with so much meaninglessness, Her eyes held the promise of at least one truth strong enough to rise above it all. And in love, he finally found faith in himself and the world.
And there was something more. He remembered his grandmother’s last days, after the stroke, eyes staring sadly without recognition, fear the only other emotion fighting its way to expression. Sitting beside her, he could not help but wonder if he, too, would one day feel so alone, and it was in those times that he realized what She meant to him. When all the things that weighed so heavily on him now finally revealed themselves to be so trivial, when the cold began to creep into his mind, he wanted to know that at some time, somewhere, his soul had not gone to waste. That even for a split second of his life, another soul had brushed against his, had recognized him, understood and knew who he was. It was the only way he knew of not to die alone.
They were blocks from campus now, moving to the heart of the city. Stopped at a corner, they waited, awash in the music, the dull throbs and the chorus of voices from the cars that creeped before them, a few resolving themselves more clearly as the procession was halted by the traffic light. Whether in his mind or through the air, one found its way through all the others, and he heard the guitar and voice once again, the notes subtly bent, the words a simple declaration of love and appreciation, cutting through all the noise as if nothing could silence it. He looked at her, and though her eyes were closed, he could see the music moving through her as well, and then she smiled.
Clapton played, and She smiled. Sometimes, with the car full of people, with Her so far away from him in the back seat, he would pop the tape in, play “Wonderful Tonight,” and She would be there in the rear view mirror, smiling at him, smiling “Yes, I know; yes I remember; yes, I do, too.”
Sometimes he would play it when he drove Her home at night, and they would ride in silence, letting this man they did not know and his guitar speak volumes of their love as he spoke of his own. He could always feel Her there next to him, could sometimes hear Her voice singing faintly, weaving gently through the music. He could remember driving home late at night, with Her curled up in the seat beside him, how he would drive so slowly and carefully, afraid to disturb Her, wishing that he could drive through every light and intersection, down some smoother highway to some place where they could fall asleep together and never awake.
They never got there. There was an ever after, unhappily, bringing a new and harsher emptiness, the universe seemingly uncreated around him, despite his efforts to deny it with other women and nights he couldn’t quite remember.
And all that time, he was conscious that failure was taking over his life, like a man falling from thousands of feet up, hearing the growing roar of wind, wondering if he would hear the thud when he hit, if he would feel his bones pulverize, if he would, in that final nanosecond, be able to reach out and feel the cool comforting familiarity of the earth before it crushed the life out of him.
Time had not healed, only numbed. No rage anymore, no longing, no bitterness, no more of the self-inflicted desire to be, finally, alone. Just a waiting. And the hint of resignation tugging at the corners of his pride, quietly mocking the voice that had always said he would never change, that he would hold tight to those visions no matter what he had to face. But the four years had been so much. Rage and fear and sorrow had torn at his heart, pounded at his soul so that now, he staggered dazed like an aging prize fighter, not ready to fall, not trapped on the ropes, but becoming less and less able to fend off the blows. He just waited, either for his second wind, or maybe just for the bell.
A clock flashed the time, and he realized he had followed her for the better part of an hour, watching the way she moved, wondering what she saw in the world around her. The crowd had thickened, and he realized the distance between them had grown. He tried at first to be polite, but found himself becoming frantic as she slipped further away, people flowing in between them, and this he seemed to remember. He could not call to her, and this he seemed to remember. He felt the fear, and this, too, he seemed to remember.
And suddenly, he became aware that perhaps it was not Her that he had always seen, but something else. But just as quickly as the seeming revelation returned the doubt -- how many times can the love of a lifetime come along? How many matches for a single soul? He had wanted so badly to feel it all again, to feel something in his world beyond simple cause and effect -- was it just resignation prodding him to desperation, to be with anyone in the fear of simply being alone?. Suddenly, the faith in his vision, his feelings for Her, and his intuition all changed inflections, becoming questions. His beliefs shattered, he could trust nothing anymore.
He felt the pressure of the present and future demanding he try, demanding release, but felt also the pressure of the past telling him, No, this cannot be.
But if not this, then what? If not now, then when?
She reached the corner just as the bus did, and he stepped out of the last of the crowd into the opening between them. He hesitated.
To live, to sleep, to dream, to love. The choices were so simple, but so clouded by logic and voices and doubt, that it was too hard to know what was right anymore, so hard to trust his heart, or, for that matter, his mind.
She turned, as if hearing him. Vague recollection seemed to sweep across her, and she shifted her weight uneasily, still gripping the door of the bus.
He heard the driver, polite, cutting across the brief, insistent current, the connection that seemed to hum in his mind, louder than all else; the cars, a distant siren, the rhythm of leather-soled purposeful steps around him, all fading out one by one.
She waited. Somewhere she knew, but in this world, she wasn't sure. Here there was only that curious twinge that sometimes drives us to step across a crowded room, to clear our throats with uncertainty, to reach out timidly to touch a shoulder, driven by souls that know, not wanting to waste this now, to say Here I am.
He began to move, to call out. His hand moved uselessly, his lips sought to mouth a name he did not know. His soul was straining against its bonds, straining to exist in this time, in this life, for him, for her.
He needed her.
He wanted her.
He wanted....
He wanted Her.
The bus driver again, more insistent. She shook her head as if to clear it, and whatever it was that had passed between them fell away as she turned and stepped aboard the bus.
A hiss and a groan, and the bus rolled on, carrying her away.
He swallowed, thought for a moment he felt once again the warm intrusion of tears. He watched the bus fade over the next hill. He looked down at the sidewalk, his eyes closed. He saw the faint afterimage of the bus rolling away, revealing the impression of Her that lingered yet. Then, She, too, was gone, and he felt himself pulling away, his soul spiraling upward, towards no heaven, but rather towards the hell of perspective, seeing himself, and ten more people, and a hundred, a thousand, a city, a land, a world, teeming with life that winked on and off, some blessed with flames that ever burned, bright even in the full strength of the noonday light.
But in himself, there was only the cold, and the darkness of the deepest shadow from an unforgiving, unobscured sun.
Posted by Rob at September 29, 2006 10:07 AM
Comments
Wow, this is really good. I am so glad you are writing again. I am addicted to reading your blog so please don't give it up. It doesn't matter if it is here or the free one, just keep writing.
Posted by: Tricia at September 29, 2006 06:33 PM