Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Silas Marner's No Hero, Slinky Vagabond, And There Are No Attics In Hotels.

In my head the staircase is creaking, and it's a long climb but I know there's a window in that attic and a mattress on the floor. There I shall lie and sleep, and I will wake, gaze out the window, and nod when I know the world is good, and I can sleep again. I'll throw myself back on that mattress, and wake every so often to repeat the process until this world is done and we can all go home again to wherever we belong: Heaven or Nothingness, Hell or Valhalla. I know it has to be just one of these things, and can't be any combination, because that's too much like life itself.
If we all have our own private destroying angels (and why shouldn't we?) mine will be ripped from my back to loom over me in judgment, and I imagine we'll meet in that attic, by the window. I can only assume the view outside will be blocked by my apocalyptic harbinger. Will we talk? Does he use the scale, or is it just a good prop?
     But all that's just a dizzy little vision for those naps in the attic- which I guess is all any of this amounts to, anyway. It's night terrors or idyllic poesy. But again, you wake, you see the sun just beginning to set, and you go back to bed. And in those dreams, well, then what? God only knows.
     And of course somewhere in that attic there's a cat, prowling and exploring. The cat's me, too. I think it's probable that if you're with me thus far that's no shock. The cat's a little less trustworthy than others I've known, perhaps he's a bit more feral, certainly less affectionate. He mainly comes along to watch me with silent, deep eyes, and stretch as a means of saying "I told you so". I can't help but look at him at such times and know the only reason we have trouble forgiving anyone who says "I told you so" is because they're right.
     So there it is. Sometimes you just find yourself laying in that bed on the floor, by the window in the attic. You're watching the cat prowling for the rats in the walls. You can not sleep, nor can you bring yourself to get up and look out the damn window. You know you left your record player on downstairs, but can't hear up here.
     Tomorrow, though, tomorrow will be different. Just, please, God, don't let tomorrow be a freeway day. The days when you wake up behind the wheel of a car that can't slow down...they're worse.

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