Indulge my idle fancies if you will. Take the time to listen to
silence, while I while away some hours for you. Sleep, even, while
you listen, but don't dream, not yet. Yes, sleep. Sleep; let it
wash over you. You, doubly exposed, vulnerable, cocooned in
noiseless air. An empty breeze. A brass shelled hourglass.
Disparate. But now that we know it's coming, I am happy to wait.
Knowing. A pair, or more, of us, wrapped in wool, waiting and
knowing. Let us dream.
I recall we once talked of net curtain ghosts; different light
reflects from the window of these days. A light less harsh. A light
where old cameras stand resolute, though distant; collecting dust;
and a sun I hardly recognise shines for the pair of us. Always
brighter than I remember, despite its polluted diffusion, always
brighter. The things here are pleasant, but of course, they are
forced to be, having seen so much and survived pristine. Their
neat, un-chipped edges reminding us of the times we try desperately
not to forget. Items forged of mindfulness. Little pieces of
captured time. Wood. Porcelain. Lace. Paper.
There, the boy prince from long ago awaits. Put to work again,
opposite the praying child. The darkness between them, this
darkness, is not empty. The word empty is too full. Yet, each knows
the other to be there. Always to be there. He is always there. He
warms every shadowed memory, and holds your hand at dusk when we're
scared. Perhaps he isn't praying after all, perhaps he never was,
but merely kneeling, there, on the woolen carpet, to ask you, to
ask your child: Are you alright?
And the words come: Join me here. I have been striving for
nothing for a while now. Tirelessly pursuing timelessness.
Searching and waiting simultaneously. Reaching. Frozen. By the sun.
Frozen by the increasingly pleasant sun. I'll hold here. Right
here. I'll hold here and be weathered with you. No longer wrapped
in wool, but bearing our skin to the sky; protected by our
preoccupation with nothing. Just you and I, here, together, the
three of us, together. Perhaps.
Standing at the beginning of the endless, listening to other
tongues; where sheer papers edge reflection. There, and beyond, I
see my journey, ongoing. Past solid metamorphics, licked so gently
into shape. Still, I will not speak of time. The word time, too
finite. Too many visible ends. Ends. Ends like meeting death,
momentous and still. A caged bird sings its last. Singing to death.
Sighing. Becoming a sigh. These are the ends we see. This is time.
And, finally, when our own time comes, perhaps we will know then,
that the end is always gentle, and the endless always ends.
Disquiet consumes the moment. Three prongs have pierced our
Luddite's sunset. That perfect antiquated sunset; projected on
paper and viewed through glass. And yet, in spite of the intrusion,
these moments are moments we can touch. We are touched by these
moments. Were we together then? In that particular moment?
Ensconced in the space between solitude and isolation? Perhaps. The
warmth here reminds me of you. The warmth tells me: yes. We were
together. Yet I don't see you here. Only what is left of our
sunset, or sunrise was it, burnt into the wall, exhaling through
those tri-part punctures, breathing out its own shadow, painting us
into a corner. Waiting for us to pass.
Alone in the room where a king once sat. He faces us still,
staring out from dry, warm, shadows. Absorbed in his own imagery,
he waits still, for our adoration. But we are not here for worship,
nor to relive his glory, but simply to be, here, together, to
inhabit this space, his space. A space so often seen through
artificial eyes, but not today, not by us, here, today. A dry,
warm, breeze, a kindly breeze, moves sheer curtains, and only dust
dances in the stillness. Dust made glow by an amicable sun, as they
waltz serenely through shadowed bars over wool-covered floor. Dance
on dust dance on.
I saw the echo of my eyelashes to begin with. Filling the lens
with their closeness. Beyond them I saw you. Cornered, but not
uncomfortable. Hung out to dry, but not abandoned. Waiting. For the
slow returning sun. Imperfect, but beautiful. Motion-free. Caught
in the boundless energy of inertia. Waiting. Watching. Wanting. But
what? Thoughts interrupted. Images reflected. A mirror in
need of silvering. Incomplete, and alone, and yet…This blurred
image of mind, of mine, is always most clear. Not wanting, but
needing nothing. Not waiting, but willing nothing. Not watching; as
you close your eyes to sleep. To sleep and dream alone.
The cold surface before me transposes my sense, of I, to the
lulling waves below. Tenderly they kiss the glass, delicately
threatening to break the barrier between I, the entity I, and the
eternal outside. Threatening to shatter the pane and let us merge.
Allowing a break into freedom, where only our limits hold us
together. I watch as you slowly submerge yourself, braced against
the chill indifference which floats below the surface. The trees
all around bare themselves to us and demonstrate an age we can but
contemplate. We are only here. You release the rails and float
away, drawing me nearer, with every stroke, as you put distance
between us. These are the times we are truly one. The times I know
we are one. When we cannot feel the cold. I am the sheet that
unravels as I enfold you. You are the pillow that supports my head
as I sleep; that supports my dreams. The pillow from which I draw
the stuffing. Slowly. Steadily. Woolgathering.