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October 11, 2004 ~ Starts and Stops
Monday.
Written this past Saturday:
This morning, I left the house early, for my co-op shift. As I passed in front of the house next-door, I heard the rushing whoosh of huge wings, taking off for flight, and I felt their breeze against my cheek. Whirling around, I found myself facing a giant vulture, just a few feet away, huge wings straining to lift his weight into the sky. He landed on the telephone pole to my right and stared down at me, cocking his head, then flew off. A terrified squirrel (from both the human and the shadow of the gigantic bird, I suspect), clung to the base of a tree, motionless, wide-eyed. I walked on to the end of the street, down the one that connected to it, then down Haywood Road, the main thoroughfare.
Three rough men worked on the storefront of the old furniture store, ladders propped along it. One, seeing me coming and knowing that I would have to step into the busy street to avoid their mess, stepped out ahead of me, causing the cars to give him a wide berth, leaving me a safe path between him and the ladders. I nodded my thanks, and he grinned, his thoughts plain on his face--a slight hint of flirting, but mostly just pride to be an every-day hero for a moment, keeping the lady in the purple skirt safe from the cars. Me, pondering, If I, a woman, were to do that for a man, it could never come off the same, not in our culture. A little saddened by the thought. Why can't I be a protector of men? I could do so just as well as they.
I arrived at the co-op, five minutes after opening, as usual, but the front doors were locked, and, peeking in, I could tell that the store had not been opened--covers were still over the coolers and the registers were not on. I went around back. The door was unlocked. Odd.
Walking in through the stockroom, I came around the corner and felt an instant chill in my heart. The manager was slumped over the desk, eyes closed, pale and unmoving. "David! David? Are you okay?"
He stirred. Opened his eyes, raised his head. "I rode here. On my bike," he mumbled. Not quite seeing how the words connected to the situation, I began to wonder if some sort of concussion were involved. But then he continued, "And when I got here, I just felt awful. Really sick. I've called Billy to fill in. He should be here."
He looked awful, but at least he was speaking coherently. "You okay? Can I help you?"
"No. I'm okay, I think, just need to rest."
"I'll go open the store, then..."
An unsettling start to the day.
I set that entry down, though, and never finished it. Later in the afternoon on Saturday, I tried to start again.
Written this past Saturday afternoon:
I'd sat all afternoon in the dim, overcast light falling through the windows of this back room, curled in this round cushioned chair, reading. A melancholy quiet was over the house. As I set aside my book and opened the laptop to write this entry, far off in the house an eerie whistling started up, thin and breezy. The tune, slightly off key, was one I did not know, but it carried with it a great lingering sadness, as if it were a mourner's lament. Every once in a while, the whistler would falter, then start anew, but still softly. The clouds must have grown thicker, for the room darkened. Then, heavy footfalls, from the living room to the kitchen. The whistle followed them. Shuffling. Something heavy thudded to the floor. More footfalls. Then, the sound of a knife slicing through something and thudding dully against a surface at the end. Again. Again. All the while, the whistling. Suddenly, the whole room began to shake.
I felt like I was in a horror movie, except that I wasn't at all scared, for I knew the explanation to each sound, each occurrence. Morgan, after a long period of silence moving about, whistling something from either the depths of his memory or imagination, I know not which. Deciding it was time to add the vegetables to tonight's chili. Pulling vegetables out, dropping one (probably an onion). Chopping them. And right then, the washer started its spin cycle, and it must have been off-balance, for when it is, the whole house shakes. What an odd soundtrack it was, however!
I never finished that entry, either. And that was just one day. One day from a week. A handful of unfinished entries, words slipping through my fingers, no resting places.
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.
Self-doubt. Impatience (impermanence?). Beyond introversion, this is selfishness. A downward spiral that only makes things worse. I see the mirrored image. Don't recognize her. She makes a mess of things, hurts herself, but worst of all hurts those she loves (though she doesn't see it until it's too late). Really, it all boils down to fear, insecurity. Changes, everywhere, can't keep up. Those changes make me doubt the people I (believe I can) trust, doubt the foundation I walk on, doubt the world. Most of all, though, doubt myself.
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
I've been trying to break free of that self-confirmed (self-constructed?) prison. Some days are good. Some days are very, very bad. Today was one of the very, very, very bad days. A beautiful autumn day outside, blue sky, changing leaves, crisp air, and all I wanted to do was sit in the basement and stare mindlessly at a blank screen. So I did. For a half an hour.
Then that self-loathing voice started talking. "You're a waste of space. Sitting there, accomplishing nothing, using up air and nothing to show for it. You haven't hiked all month, when you used to go every day, and it shows. You've gained at least five pounds, you know. That blank screen is just proof you can't write, so why the hell sit there staring at it? Oh, right, because you have absolutely no will power and no self-respect. The one thing you have written in the last few days probably hurt a friend. And Morgan needs your support right now, but all you can do is wallow in your own head."
I turned off the computer, picked up my water bottle, and cut across the woods to the pond. The turning trees reflected in the rippled water, every breeze sending new leaves to float on the mirrored surface. Beautiful. Bright green grass, golden leaves scattered across it. Beautiful. Sun slanting through the leaves, squirrels burying acorns, water trickling down the creek. Beautiful.
When I came to Christmas Tree Hill, the pine scent smelled stronger than ever before, and I was glad I had come. I started up into that young forest with its bed of whispery slippery needles. Heart feeling a little lighter. Perhaps today would be one of the good days after all.
And then I stopped short. So that's why the pine smells so strong.
Another clear-cut. A pretty small one, comparatively, but still a clear-cut. The young pines now a dead heap to one side. The long winding trail where all I could see were young pines, thick around me--well. Not any more. A dark forest all its own--not any more. The illusion was broken, and those trees are gone for good.
And the dead tree gives no shelter
Heart heavy again, I turned back up the hill, came out on top, where the old forest used to be but isn't anymore (clear-cut last year). I noticed that yet another new clear-cut flanked it. Room for more housing development.
Angry and morning and wondering if, in a few years, I'll have anywhere left to hike out of all my favorite haunts, I started down the trail to the river, which now follows alongside the old forest clear-cut.
And came to downed tree, after downed tree, after downed tree, after downed tree. Many of them very, very, old. Climbing over and under and around trunk after trunk after trunk. The hurricanes. I hadn't been on this trail since well before the hurricanes. Why were the downed trees so much worse than all the other forests nearby? Because of the clear-cut on the ridge and its other side--these trees no longer had a windbreak.
The trail was nearly impossible to navigate, with trees across it every ten to twenty feet. It took me a half hour longer than it should have. Sweaty and breathing hard, covered in cobwebs and leaves, and dirt in my mouth (from falling), a twisted ankle, and a defeated attitude.
Thinking, "Great. I finally get over myself and get out here, try to climb out of my hole, and this, world, is how you repay me?"
But after a moment, "Right, Melissa. The clear-cuts, the hurricanes, the fallen trees, the grit between your teeth, and the turned ankle--those are all direct retribution on the part of the world to you for daring to step outside this afternoon. For, after all, the world revolves around you, and everything is an answer to your personal predicament."
You know, sometimes that sarcastic, loathing, and self-depreciating critic has a pretty good point.
Note: Poetry quotes from The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot.
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