Magnitude of Depth

It's dark
save for the light of the moon.
And a batch of stars.

You are alone.
It's nearly midnight
you are in the middle
of the ocean.

Two birds- chirping. dancing. playing
in the cool milky light.
The sea a mirror of constellations and melted silver.

You think about a camera and preserving this moment.
Your hat tight on your head.
Your finger tips curled into tender fists.
Your mind dripping from your eyes. Out. Into the melting sky.

Where did these birds come from?
Boasting of their freedom. Exalting in life. Rubbing your face in it.

There are no cameras,
but some of these words, like "You are alone," begin to imprint on your psyche.
You hope you will remember them.
Does life happen alone in your mind?
The moon lower now.
Bigger.
Heavier.

It's hard to tell the magnitude of depth when the ocean reflects the sky.
So much above. So much below.
And you here with those birds and that moon and this shimmering.

You breathe deep. Your nose red and cold. Alive. Salt in the air. On your lips.
You are made of this. You are everywhere.
In the darkness and the light.
The heavy sickle moon on the horizon, yawns and disappears.

There will be no photographs, unless you count these words,
this memory,
fading as soon as it was hatched.
Never to be as bright as when it began.

Somewhere in the darkness,
you can still hear the birds,
they are nowhere.

Casual Cliches

There it is silence. And then her voice, a piano, and that is all for now. Everyday, I look forward to this time of the day. Tonight it took a bit longer than usual, but the kids are finally asleep. I am alone with this screen again. The click clack of keys and now a drum, a bass, the lift. I am flying. Are you coming?

This is this time of the day when you realize that you have lived another good day. A series of play dates. A diaper change. A meal. Adequate awareness to churn a few thoughts in your mouth. Some to swallow, some to spit out, and a few to savior and save for later. All day words crowd your soul, your brain, your fingertips waiting to be freed. Entire paragraphs, passages hover in and out of car windows. Traffic trudges by. Old woman begs with dirty child, yours sits in the back in a car seat. The words justice and equality are flimsy at best. The car rolls passed another red. Now green. Another paragraph will soon begin. Another day ends.

image by Audrey Michael

In the blank night, you unload thoughts, releasing each like errant butterflies, embarrassed by so many casual clichés, but there is no need for control during episodes like these. Another good day, in a good week, a good month. Is this how meaningful lives are built? You think back a year, five, ten, twenty; you are six again and pleased with the future laid out in front of you.

Loneliness, isolation, lonesomeness, seclusion, shelter a thesaurus full of possibilities. No longer afraid of this gentle calm. Surrounded by love and family. Friendships and social networks. A tiny voice echoing in the darkness. Content. No matter how connected, you are best alone. In the end, before she turns out the lights you will be all that you will hear. What will you say ? When no one will be listening?

I am writing my final soliloquy one day at a time…

Appendage

I am a thirty six year old man in a small hotel room in Jakarta Indonesia. Outside a hive of motorbikes make tremendous noise as they rev their engines and honk their horns jockeying for position in their never ending race to nowhere. Where I am is not even the heart of the city, only a quiet suburb. Even the appendage of a city of eleven million pulses uncontrollably.

Beside me, curled up like a tiny planet is my exhausted nine month old daughter and across the hall my other little girl and wife are sleeping. I spent the night lost in The Great Gatsby. Swishing the words through my teeth and spitting them into a spittoon like a fine mahogany tinted tawny port.

image by bigux

And, now as my eyes grow heavy, I get ready for a long and comfortable sleep. I am not sure why or for whom this night needed to be documented and shared, but the way I see it- if our lives are any more meaningful than the awareness we have of them at their most mundane, I would be surprised.