Last night after not being able to for many days, I got back out and ran. Seven miles in whipping storm winds and the sting of drizzling rain. My muscles complained and my legs were tight but I pushed on anyways, knowing that in the end the distance had to be doing me some good.
When I came home you were there. We watched the last half of a documentary about Kahlo, finding ourselves driven to words by her paintings and moved to all too familiar silences by her physical and emotional struggles.
Unfortunately the miles had taken their toll and before the show came to a close I was long gone, fallen to a deep slumber under velvet-blue waters filled with questioning mermaids and strange color coral.
In the dream I sank towards bottom, but never truly found purchase. Deep water rivers wrapped around my body the way an old comforter might if you cocooned the corners around your feet before pulling the remaining fabric tight against your shoulder. The blanket became a second skin, a torso without limbs or extensions -- built not to move; but to sink slowly into couch cushions until that secret place is revealed, the one that holds you in it's arms all night without disappearing suddenly so that you have to break the sleepspell and find it again.
After so many sleepless nights, the crash should have seemed unavoidable -- but even as my head began to nod away from the paintings and the sketches on the television screen, I found myself surprised by the weight of my eyelids, even resisting their pull.
Meanings escaped, but at the same time I can't be sure how hard I really searched at all. It seemed enough perhaps just to be there at that particular time and place without worrying about the approach of the coming day or fearing the challenges that surely lie off in the distance.
When I came home you were there. We watched the last half of a documentary about Kahlo, finding ourselves driven to words by her paintings and moved to all too familiar silences by her physical and emotional struggles.
Unfortunately the miles had taken their toll and before the show came to a close I was long gone, fallen to a deep slumber under velvet-blue waters filled with questioning mermaids and strange color coral.
In the dream I sank towards bottom, but never truly found purchase. Deep water rivers wrapped around my body the way an old comforter might if you cocooned the corners around your feet before pulling the remaining fabric tight against your shoulder. The blanket became a second skin, a torso without limbs or extensions -- built not to move; but to sink slowly into couch cushions until that secret place is revealed, the one that holds you in it's arms all night without disappearing suddenly so that you have to break the sleepspell and find it again.
After so many sleepless nights, the crash should have seemed unavoidable -- but even as my head began to nod away from the paintings and the sketches on the television screen, I found myself surprised by the weight of my eyelids, even resisting their pull.
Why not surrender myself to the inevitable?Through the clouds of the darkness I imagined melting waves of sand crashing against water and then slowly rolling back. I envisioned cactus inside coffecups. I felt the heat of red-heeled shoes and the sympathy for nails driven into skin as eyebrow-shaped birds that only gave the impression of movement soared in place above our heads.
Why not just fall asleep, let the muscles relax?
Meanings escaped, but at the same time I can't be sure how hard I really searched at all. It seemed enough perhaps just to be there at that particular time and place without worrying about the approach of the coming day or fearing the challenges that surely lie off in the distance.
[Listening to: Arturo Sandoval, "Tanga"]
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