Sleeplessness

 In the passing days of the last month of 2022 I find myself-- and i'm sure I'm not alone in this reflection-- a man sitting alone on a starless, windy night thinking of the past year. And thoughts of the past days and years of my life bound in right behind. it's only natural. I mean they are connected like links in a chain. It's all connected. Time is the thread and I'm like the puff of wind brushing along its length.

My mind tends to wander at these times and at night it's the worst. I lie awake, eyes wide open taking in the darkness of our bedroom and running the memories of what has been and continues to be my life. I watch the occasional dance of headlights over our ceiling as random late night voyagers pass by our home. I listen to the wind pound and whoosh and whisper. The flag on the front of our house flaps against those winds, helpless against it. The rings holding it to the pole rattled and work to keep it flowing. Always flowing.

In Sleeplessness, my mind shuffles a million little codes and bits of memories into nothing coherent. Just blips in time, pieces of memories of me in the life I've lived-- the life I continue to live. Perhaps, the mind needs to catch up sometimes. Maybe sometimes the memories are too many and the mind just stays awake to catch up. I mean, it's a pretty amazing piece of machinery, the brain. We know zilch about it's potential. But, we're only human and humans can only live one moment at a time. We're not time-travelers just yet. Unless, we can consider that our memories are windows into a past we are still living; an always constant and always moving line of time. It never ends and it's all connected along that thread.

The wind is dying down. The night is calm again.

Just like life on that thread. Always changing and always moving forward.

The end of another year is only days away but it's also the start of a new year. A new length of thread unwinds and stretches out for us to travel along.

It comes no matter what. Past, Present and all.

I'm not sure where exactly I was going with any of this but there it is. A peek into a sleepless night. A wandering mind tapped into random moments of the past while keeping a fine-tuned ear to what is here and what is coming. So much noise most times. So much silence in others.

I suppose I'll try to close my eyes. The night has quieted and the time may be right. Time doesn't stop but at least we can shut down and recharge when we need to. Staying awake wouldn't change anything anyway. You'd still get to where you're going at the exact time you get there anyway. Not sure that made sense but I'm keeping it there. Time will tell.

I suppose I'll try to close my eyes. I can feel them getting heavy. Not quite burning with exhaustion but definitely gaining a few pounds. I suppose I'll finish this up. I'll head upstairs and crawl on top of my heating blanket, lay my swaying head into my pillow and the, I suppose I'll try to close my eyes.

Sleeplessness will pave a way to sleep. Memories will be files away back into the folders and cabinets from whence they came and I will continue along the thread... one breath at a time.

I suppose I'll try to close my eyes.

Seeking The Wild

 

I consider myself an avid reader. Maybe not to the standards of those who have the gift of getting lost to every available moment to read more than a hundred (or more) books a year, no, not that many. Not even close. I like to devour books but need to take the time to think on them and mull over their ideas and their structure, their characters and how they made me feel. I like to think of it as an equivalent to eating. Some readers devour stories like vampires with only the stack of finished corpses to satisfy them but I like to chew on them awhile and enjoy the taste. 

Usually, the type of books I like to ready are mostly fiction and if it's Stephen King (whether you like him or not) everything goes to the back of the line. A good horror/ thriller is top notch for me but the really good ones are few and far between in my humble opinion. There are a good handful of course but those stories take a good amount of time to cultivate.

While I'm waiting for the next good one, I decided to try something different. An autobiography of sorts called The Lonely Land by Sigurd F. Olson and I have to say it's wonderful.

So a little back story here. Lately, I've been watching a plethora of Youtube videos of bushcraft channels and just can't get enough. If you're not familiar with what Bushcraft is here's a simple idea: it is self reliance and survival in the depths of nature. But, there's something deeper to it I think. There's a connection to Creation that I believe society as a whole has become blinded to; a beauty that we cannot see anymore because of all the distractions of phones and Netfilx and working paycheck to paycheck. There's a simplicity to this that shows what we really need and what is truly "necessary" to live and live happily.

While watching one of my favorite channels (sorry I don't remember which one) I have noticed several books that these guys are reading as they spend their quiet nights alone. The Lonely Land was one of them so I ordered a copy of ebay and am already about half through it. What a wonderful change of pace. And, although the book was written in the sixties, there is an absolute simplistic beauty in the journey that one can both see and feel. It causes the heart to yearn for such things. Deep down a man wants to journey in search of such beauty and adventure. He wants to see all that was put before him and be a part of it all.

Perhaps, some day, I will answer that calling. Perhaps that adventure awaits for me to see the sun set and rise with only the distant horizon to stand in my way.

Seek the wild.

I remember that day...

    I received an early morning phone call, like so many other people that day. It was not normal and I knew as soon as I heard that something was not right. The voice on the other end was calm and gentle and I could tell it was also very cautious. She told me that something was happening in New York and that the Pentagon had a similar event just happen. She knew that my mother worked there and she very calmly said that she and several other friends and co-workers would be at her place watching for information on the news. She did not say it, but I knew they didn't want me to be alone. The invitation was caring.

    After I hung up, I knew deep down in my gut that this day would end for me one of two ways- with or without my mother. I had never been in a situation like this and had never lost any of my immediate family. My feelings were new. I calmly collected myself, said a little prayer while I gathered some cloths, grabbed something small to eat on the way, and headed over to her house where she and several other of my friends were already.
    I could see the caution in their eyes as I watched the footage of the second plane flying into the second tower. It was completely surreal and utterly unbelievable. My emotions were in check and buried deep. I had no idea what was going on or why something like that would be happening.
    I stood in front of that TV for what seemed an hour before hearing anything about what happened at the pentagon and when I did, the information was not clear. I quickly stepped outside and tried to call my mom, just to try it (you never know if something will work unless you try it) and got her voicemail. I left a message and hung up.

    The sky was empty and quiet. I had never seen that before and it was dreadful silence. I stood there only for a moment and just watched the emptiness, like the whole world was in a moment of silence and mourning for the loss of so many.

    I went back inside after maybe 15 or 20 minutes and watched for any updated information. I watched the events of September 11th over and over and over again, like I was stuck in some hell of repetitions that I would wish on no one. But, not much new on information. Hours and hours passed. It felt like time was frozen and we couldn't do anything about it. We just had to wait. I just had to wait.
    I finally got to the point where I couldn't watch the reports anymore so I went outside again and walked around a little bit, still waiting.

    My phone rings at about 5:30 pm or 6:00 pm and I looked at it to see if it was my mom. The screen said "Unknown Caller". It was either my mom calling from wherever she could, or it was someone else with nothing but bad news. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and pushed the button to answer the call.

    "Brice? It's your mother."
    I sighed relief and took another deep breath.
    "Mom, I'm glad you're all right... Are you all right?"
    "Yes. I'm fine. I'm sorry I couldn't call you before now, but we had to evacuate and I've been stuck in masses of people trying to walk home. It's been a horrible. I just wanted to call and let you know i'm all right.
    "OK. I'm glad you're OK."
    "I'm going to let someone else use my phone to call some of their people, so i'll call you later tonight, all right?"
    "Ya, that's fine mom."
    "I love you, Brice."

    Deep breath.

    "I love you, too, mom. Be safe."

    She hung up and I listened to the dial tone for a moment. I hung up and looked back up to that silent sky and as the sun began to set, I cried. I cried for everyone who would not get the phone call I just did, I cried for those who were lost, and I cried for that sunset.

    I will always remember that day...

Silence

Without a word I walk to the edge of the field and stop to take in its solitude. I close my eyes, I breath in the passing wind and smell the slight aroma of burning wood and the dust of the long grass. The trees sway in the distance that surrounds me with a high pitched whisper that only God can understand but I feel like it's an invitation-- a small calling of my name perhaps-- to stand among them.

I open my eyes and step past the edge of the field and enter into it, walking slowly into the wealth of the world. The long grasses tickle my calves with their blessing and reach up for the tips of my fingers. Without knowing I do so, I reach down to meet them.

As I come to the center of the field, I slow myself and slowly lower my self to the ground. I sit in the long grasses. I hear the trees beckoning me to come. The smell of the earth closer now, so vibrant and alive. I can feel it around me and when I close my eyes again and listen-- really listen-- I hear the voice of God. I can hear it through the entirety of my body and soul. The voice speaks but I can't understand it. I can only hear it pass through me like fire.

I get lost in that voice. I get lost in the silence of the world it created around me. 

I get lost and I know I am whole.

I am a child again.

Birds fly over me. Smaller critters play and forage through the grass and along the tree tops. Deer watch the child get lost in the field with hardly an interest. The sky burns bright blue and slowly sleeps as the day wears on, turning dim as the hours pass away and the time for night takes its place.

Still I sit in silence. Still, I hear that voice.

Still a child.

The Year We Went Without

 

Of all the things we've lost the privilege of doing over the debacle of the last year, I just want to take a few minutes to focus on one-- going to the movies.

Man, I miss it. 

I miss the excitement of seeing a trailer for something really good and when the text of "Coming Soon to a Theater near you" or better yet a date of its release showed up on that massive silver screen I just wanted to transport myself right then and there. 

I would count down the days.

I'd find me a movie buddy who wanted to see a particular movie and we would make the plan. We would stake our claim to which theater, what day we wanted to go see it and whether or not we wanted to do two movies.

The day would come and I'd make my way there. I'd park my car and walk up to the huge building that played out all the magic Hollywood could muster. I'd pay for my ticket and walk through those glass doors with a little bit of pep in my step. The excitement would fester and grow.

Sometimes I'd grab a drink. Sometimes I wouldn't. That wasn't were the magic was. The magic started at what came next.

The first magical moment for me was always that initial step through the doors to the specific theater for the movie. I'd walk out of the crowds, out of the concessions, and into the darkness of another coming world. The long hallway would lead me into the theater and it would open up to an ocean of seats, all facing the huge silver screen. 

That was where other worlds began.

That was where we would be taken to for ninety to a hundred and forty or so minutes. It could be shorter or longer bits of time but none of that mattered. It was the places we would go. The people we would become and the lives we would live. 

For me, Movies would remind me of what it was to be human. They would remind me that Good does overcome Evil. They would tell me again and again that there are things so beautiful and large in this world that I would ache to see them.

It was the story that always lifted me out of that seat at the end of the movie. It was the story that rolled around through my mind for hours or days or even weeks after. It was the stories that saved me so many years ago. All the stories that came to me at the right place and time.

This year was different. Something changed and so many things were suddenly taken from us. 

I can only hope that change is temporary. 

Someday soon I hope I can have that same excitement of going to the movies with no fear and no mandate. I just want to be free again. Free to watch movies.

We've been without so many things for so long now. I miss this one. 

I hope the world that we knew returns. 

We are better together as a part of of the world rather than separated from it.

I'm looking forward to being in the theater again. I'm ready to watch me some movies again.

 

A Short Story: Gone

"I've looked everywhere!" he screamed into the empty room-- talking solely to himself, as he always did when he was flustered and confused.  The room was mostly dark except for a desk lamp and the flames licking and cracking along in the fireplace, making the shadows in the room dance against the cold gray walls.

He tossed aside paperwork from his simple sized desk, pushed a second small silver desk lamp dispassionately to the floor-- the dim light bulb burst with a sick pop and flash of light-- and pulled out drawer after drawer until the last one was overturned, contents spilled onto the dark brown shag carpet; papers, pens, notepads, everything lay across the thick fibers.  It wasn't there.

Where is it?! Think!  

His faded blue eyes, glazed over in confusion, darted around the room; up and through every bookshelf, every nook, and every dark little cranny.  His breathing stuttered with worry and his chest was tight.  He ran his hands back over his head, pulling his long graying hair from his eyes and then back to a pointed peak under his nose and over his mouth. His eyes were closed, trying to walk himself through where he last had it or at the very least where he had last seen it. 

His heart thumped hard inside of him. A realization washed through him with deep anxiety and he knew that the thing he was looking for was another thing he could not remember. My god, what is it? What am I looking for? It was right here... and right on the tip of my tongue. DAMMIT! His eyes wondered over the room and recognized nothing. The books on the shelves with titles he could read but could not place. Had he read them? Were they even his?

Where am I?  God help me!  WHERE IS IT?! I must find it. 

A feeling of some great importance had been attached to the thing he was looking for but he could not remember what it was. The anxious ball in his gut grew and his fingers and limbs trembled. He could not control himself and suddenly, tears filled his eyelids and ran over them, down his gaunt cheekbones.

A door to the room swing open in a rush and the shadow of a person stood before him. Who they were to him, he did not know. There was nothing recognizable to their features. They looked on him with what seemed a great sadness and pity but he did not know if they knew him. He could not place the face or a name. They spoke out but he did not recognize the voice or even the words. He did not understand what they were saying to him. 

He recognized nothing. He fell to the floor and squeezed his knees tight into his chest. Everything was nothing. He cried there, alone in the dark. Everything was swallowed into the darkness.

He was lost.

Gone.

A Short Story: DUST AND PERSEVERANCE

It was the message that compelled them in their mission. The message was the one thing they knew and it was the one thing-- the one Truth-- they were set upon the earth to tell.

They walked now, having set their horses to travel back to their now abandoned home. They were alone and had nothing but each other to hold fast upon. The storm raged around them, throwing strong and ravage tufts of bright white dust and earth hard against them. It was as if something dark within the dying earth was trying to stop them, something wicked, knowing the danger of the Truth they would bring. That darkness threw wave after wave against them-- the brothers from the north. In that storm of sand and dust, they found only perseverance, and in that perseverance they were intent on moving forward, on toward what was now called "Old Salem". This was the place where they had been born. This was the place where their family was destroyed and this was also the place where they had fled to the north from to hide away from... for a time.

The dust storm continued for days, slapping upon them a harsh, hard wall of white hate. It almost looked like snow, but the heat and the hard grit proved the white sands were the harsh truth. Their hats held tight upon their heads and the long coats tied tight around them fluttered in quick snaps behind them. Each step was methodical and set deep into the earth before taking the next one. They walked against the onslaught, message and mission in mind.

Suddenly, something stopped them. They straightened, braced against the wind and cocked their heads against it as if listening beyond the wail of it. The shadow of something large briefly broke through the shifting dust-filled winds. They moved closer and that form slowly came into view. A half-buried chunk of what was once a wagon peeked out from the under the dust and there, propped up against the remains of one of its wheels was the form of a man-- whether he was dead or alive, they could not tell. One of the two stepped closer and leaned down. He reached out and pressed two fingers into the curve of his throat and felt a little life left in him. He took his hands and gently shook the man. A cloud of white and gray dust came off of him in puffs and settled quickly into the prevailing winds. The man stirred. His mouth moved slightly but no words came out. They were dry and cracked and, like his nostrils and eyes, they were caked with white dust.

The man leaning in to him reached back and took a canteen from his brother behind him. He popped the top and poured an amount of water into his hand and splashed it into the dying man's face and began wiping away the dust from his eyes and face. The man leaning in then pressed the canteen to the dying man's lips and gently tilted a small amount of water over them and into his mouth. The man immediately stirred and choked on the first gulp. He then swallowed the next with great effort but did not stop. He kept drinking and before he could drink too much, the leaning man pulled it away from his lips. If he drank too much too fast, his body would spasm and that would do him no good at all. A little at a time was always best.

The dying man slowly opened his eyes and looked at the two men around him. What he saw convinced him that he was either dead or dreaming in the short moments before his death. These two men were covered from head to toe; wrapped tightly in their long coats, gloves over their hands, but what was most strange was they had an odd length of cloth wrapped not only around their noses and mouths but also over their eyes. They looked strange to him and had never seen such strangeness. How could they see anything?

"Are you real?" the dying man asking in a quiet, rasping voice.

There was no answer from the two strange men. They did not move. The leaning man then simply held out the canteen and the dying man took it, thankful for another drink of the cool water within.

"Angels maybe?" he asked, half choking back the coolness at the back of his throat.

"We have a mission," the one standing in back said through his face cloth.

"A message," the one leaning in said.

The dying man looked at them strangely. "Messengers, then." He took another drink and thought he must be dead.

"You are not going to die." This came from the one leaning next to him as if he had heard his thoughts. Then he said, "You are coming with us. You have something to see."

It was the message that compelled them in their mission. And, this once dying man was now a part of that mission. He would see a great many things. It took him some time, but he eventually was able to stand and walk. He followed them on a hard, long walk and before long, he came to see himself standing before the town called "Old Salem".

The message was about to be told.