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bid my blood to run
May. 13th, 2008 09:33 pmI am trying to sting myself back into life. It keeps going foggy round the corners, or foggy all around, and I am tired of being unable to touch anything, of being able to taste, to feel.
Last week I lit all of the candles in my room (only three; I'm running low), threw open the windows, wrapped myself tight in my green knit shawl, and played Sarah Slean's new album straight through, watching the candles flicker and gutter. I haven't got deep into an album in some time, and it took a few songs before my thoughts stopped running hither and thither like a lot of lost sheep, but though the curtain never quite parted I felt the breeze that might someday lift it.
Yesterday evening, I looked out of the window: the sun was just beginning to dip down below the trees, and everything was that vivid, desperate green that comes with rain and early spring and the dimming of the light, and suddenly I had to be out in it. I had Moony in my pocket, and I walked out of the house and wandered a while, not knowing exactly where I meant to go until I got there -- the pond, a block or so away, with the Methodist church on the other side flickering its stained-glass shadow on the water, the sun just low enough to make everything quiet, and I stood by the water, and then on the dock, walking back and forth across the boards and becoming inside the music, inside of my skin, inside of my head; more solid, a compass needle that does not waver quite so much. I sang aloud, because there was no-one around to hear me, and a bird flew down and skimmed the surface of the water, and as the sun went down the church glimmered ever more brightly over the water, the world got quieter and smaller and larger in the strange intimacy of evening: little bats flittered over the water singing to one another, geese rippled its surface, the chill in the air felt sharp and green and awake. I sat on a bench beneath a tree and wrapped my arms around my knees and sang and thought, and didn't think at all.
My shuffle produced an Abigail Washburn reel and so I had to dance, on the grass, which was too wet, and then on the boards, until I was out of breath but alive, with a certain clarity of feeling.
I stood over the water and I sang, because it was quiet, and no-one but the bats and the geese could hear me (and anyway I've just got over a cold and have missed most awfully being able to sing), and then I walked home in the dark.
I am tired of walking dead, but at the same time the world seems so exhausting, and I wonder how much energy I can expend to keep the sting in my blood before it wears me down and I go back.
Last week I lit all of the candles in my room (only three; I'm running low), threw open the windows, wrapped myself tight in my green knit shawl, and played Sarah Slean's new album straight through, watching the candles flicker and gutter. I haven't got deep into an album in some time, and it took a few songs before my thoughts stopped running hither and thither like a lot of lost sheep, but though the curtain never quite parted I felt the breeze that might someday lift it.
Yesterday evening, I looked out of the window: the sun was just beginning to dip down below the trees, and everything was that vivid, desperate green that comes with rain and early spring and the dimming of the light, and suddenly I had to be out in it. I had Moony in my pocket, and I walked out of the house and wandered a while, not knowing exactly where I meant to go until I got there -- the pond, a block or so away, with the Methodist church on the other side flickering its stained-glass shadow on the water, the sun just low enough to make everything quiet, and I stood by the water, and then on the dock, walking back and forth across the boards and becoming inside the music, inside of my skin, inside of my head; more solid, a compass needle that does not waver quite so much. I sang aloud, because there was no-one around to hear me, and a bird flew down and skimmed the surface of the water, and as the sun went down the church glimmered ever more brightly over the water, the world got quieter and smaller and larger in the strange intimacy of evening: little bats flittered over the water singing to one another, geese rippled its surface, the chill in the air felt sharp and green and awake. I sat on a bench beneath a tree and wrapped my arms around my knees and sang and thought, and didn't think at all.
My shuffle produced an Abigail Washburn reel and so I had to dance, on the grass, which was too wet, and then on the boards, until I was out of breath but alive, with a certain clarity of feeling.
I stood over the water and I sang, because it was quiet, and no-one but the bats and the geese could hear me (and anyway I've just got over a cold and have missed most awfully being able to sing), and then I walked home in the dark.
I am tired of walking dead, but at the same time the world seems so exhausting, and I wonder how much energy I can expend to keep the sting in my blood before it wears me down and I go back.
(i want to lie in the sand and let the sun shine on me;
is that way too much to ask?)
is that way too much to ask?)
