why so many many many many many violins?

20060930
23:44
this is the beginning of something, I don't know if i'm satisfied yet.
The house I lived in when I was a child sat about ten yards from the edge of a cliff looking over a small lake. In those days, my friends and I were attracted to that edge. The boundaries that were often given to us, like the time my mother told me that I couldn’t cross the street or climb too high in trees, didn’t have any obvious physical consequences. The cliff gave us an analogy for life.

In maps and aerial photographs it looks like any other lake, a body of water with land around it. Up close, to my small eyes, the land seemed to cut off and fall just about forever, finally stopping abruptly with an abrupt crash at a set of water-worn, mountain-like, rocks. It was a stop that frightened us, drew us closer.

We would play a game by that cliff. Taking turns, we would each run for five seconds with our backs facing the edge. Closing our eyes, we turned around and walked towards the end of the land. We jeered and yelled as someone was playing, taking the test. Whoever got closest before opening their eyes would win. No one got closer than three feet with their eyes closed. The thought of falling, while distant, was there.
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Now, wake up in a room with three windows and two doors. One of the windows faces east and the others north. I wake up with the sun every day – other than the cold winter days that make you feel as though your heart is pumping dry ice, the sun rises later then - although sometimes I oversleep if my alarm clock doesn’t work. Normally I don’t need piercing noise slicing into my skull through my ears to lose sleep.

I walk on wooden floors into the bathroom. I like these floors: old and filled with experience. The feeling of worn wood under my feet, creaking with every movement, reminds me that I moved on, I’m no longer at home. The floors tell me that change is the only thing with staying power.

I shower, dress, and make breakfast. I place bread in the toaster oven, crank the dial to the sixth setting – nice and burned, every time – flip the switch to “on” and wait. I look around the apartment, trying to find some sign of life. My room mate is home, visiting his parents and fiancé. Any room seems expansive when you’re alone. I go back to watching my bread cook. The ticking of the toaster oven feels like drops of water in an empty cup.

I creak back to my room with my toast, eating with small bites. I turn my computer on. It’s noisy. Eight fans working at the same time, some in disrepair. The noise follows me through every room, every hallway, every building I walk into.

I check the news, browsing a few sites. The migration of news outlets to computers has brought an unforeseen flood of information to people. It feels like I’m wading in a sea of events, people, and dates. Almost all news today is bad news. I just close my eyes to it and try to keep my head above the water.

I put my shoes on and walk downstairs, to the porch. With a grinding click, the lock comes off my bike and I ride towards my class, somehow sticking to the road, the trees and houses turning to clouds in my small eyes.

My class is filled with people I don’t know. I no longer meet anyone I know. Since the summer faces have started to look the same, everyone a wax doll modeled after someone I knew before. When I look at the faces, I can feel the whine of my computer pressing against my lungs. I try to stay as quiet as I can; I try not to breathe too hard, worried that my lungs will collapse. The lectures are made up of words. I just take notes till my hand hurts. Then I leave. Left foot and right foot, alternating, I move through the clouds towards home.

In my room, I think about doing homework. I kick the thought under the bed, with my books, and check the news again. The waves of misery and failure tear through my screen again. I feel like my head might go under these waves, I might sink. I remember that this is how it felt near that cliff.

I stand up and look at the windows. Thinking that I might find something good, I look through them. Outside there’s a quiet street, a family neighborhood. I close the blinds, the floor creaking under my feet. I have three windows, but it’s no wonder I don’t look through them often. I don’t want to see it when the change catches up.

I creak back to my bed. I nap, dreaming of creaking waves.
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The house when I was young was near a cliff. Once, at night, I went outside alone. I walked slowly away from the edge of the cliff, close my eyes, and turned around. I held my breath and walk forward. I could feel wind on my face and arms and rocks under my feet. A howling noise reached my ears.
I opened my eyes. Standing on the edge of the cliff, I looked down at the rocks in the water below. I thought about the fall to them. You would probably make a whistling noise on the way down, and then stop at those rocks. I wanted to feel what it was like. When you hit the rocks, I thought, it would feel like being grabbed by strong hands and hugged. Then the water would come; caress your hair and body with soothing hands. A sort of jagged kind and loving set of hands holding you. Hands like my mother and father had in my memories.
I always wanted to test the feeling of the fall from that cliff. I never got the chance; my eyes always opened at the edge.

1 something something somethings

1 Comments:

Anonymous said...: you're so fucking hot; 4:38 PM, October 27, 2006