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Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Seemingly like a scene out of a movie about the end of the world. That was today. It was unreal. I loved it. They wind is still going. Watching it from the comfort within a school hall, through the glass doors, seeing the branches bend and almost feeling them creek from yards away; seeing the dust and sand dance their waltz in the schoolyard; watching the magpies stranded and confused; seeing the branches and leaves strewn across the ground, being swept away and countless more replacing their positions on the ground. If there ever was a scene of beautiful utter desolation retaining that bit of hope in it, this was it.A whole village without power for hours. And driving home with the lights all not working. Seeing the lampposts and traffic lights shiver ever so vehemently in the wind. Firemen restoring fallen fly-away boards. Mountains of sand found eons away from the sea in people's porches. Driving to the beach, watching the sky and hearing the wind against the body of my car. The sky wasn't even an overcast grey. It was the colour of sludgy mud. It was beautifully poetic. That sense of decay and desolation in the sky, looming overhead, all over and around me, inescapable, was strangely liberating. Regardless of where you go and where you look, it's all over you like a black rotting carcass in the desert covered with flies, til you go nearer and the flies flit away, and you realise the carcass is fresh and red, and all the black you saw was the blanket of flies. It almost seemed like the heavens were saying 'We're angry and we're disgusting and it's all your fault, and it's payback time.' Made me feel more excusable for being a shitty human being. I feel as if there, amongst that muddy sky, lurking somewhere in those airy depths, there lay the hidden connection between the larger cosmos and me. Being caught in the middle of the petulant sultry gale made me feel safe and strangely excitably on the edge of my seat, like my hand was being held by an old trusted friend and we were about to embark on the world's scariest ride. The element of danger in the air, the chaos surrounding me gave me a sense of security. Because I know, in spite of it all, we are all part of the elements, and sometimes, humans cause more harm unwittingly than the elements do. And maybe, just maybe, it's that thrill of living on the edge, among the danger, that keeps that flame burning. That fans it and feeds it ever so rarely. Danger. That's what it is. In life, and in theatre as well. That's what keeps us on our toes and on the edge of our seats. This dance with danger, the unknown, the risk, the stakes.Air. My element.Water. My sign.And a walk down memory lane.I couldn't resist it. I just had to. There would never have been a better time than today, amidst the turbulent winds and inhuman amount of sand blown into my eye. Tramonto. Ah beautiful memories. Things change. Circumstances change. People change. Feelings change. But the history, that stays. Within these buildings of change. The ghost of us continues to live within the walls. And no one will ever know. Except us, and those silent creaking walls. To be able to look in, when I used to always only be able to gaze out through the impaired glass. My heart aches a thousand times through. But I feel it no longer. I feel it yet at the same time I don't. This paradox haunts me.I'm feeling strangely settled and unsettled at the same time by the natural disturbances occurring round me. This tingling in the air; under my skin. The air around me, whirling. The water that is me, churning. And the fire within me, burning. Feeding the passion within me, yearning.These talks don't do me any good. They merely stir up the embers within me, creating yet another spark and crackle or two. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say. Tonight, my bedmate will be the whistling of sweet rustles and innumerable ghost whisperers in my ear. While I lay alone in bed, snug, yet cold at the same time. Protected, yet vulnerable. Wise, yet childlike. Dejected, yet hopeful.Oh my heart cracks. But what is another lash of the whip on a bloody back that has been torn to shreds?The cracks on the vase are so numerous that another one makes no difference. Besides, it has been stuck back and glued together, no amount of cracks will make it fall apart. Unless it is dropped. But this vase has been locked in a glass cabinet, and the key lost. A hole has been cut into the side of the cabinet; you may reach in and grab the vase, stroke it, caress it, flick it, even squeeze it. But it stays firm. And the hole is big enough for your hand to go in, but too small for the vase to be taken out.I will not be a Philip Larkin.I will not live the toadwork.I will not be the Charge of the Light Brigade.I may not be the Ship Song.I don't believe in Instant Pleasure.I refuse to be my own quicksand.I will not let you be my quicksand.I do not set your soul alight. No. Not anymore. I am a stag:of seven tines,
I am a flood:across a plain,
I am a wind:on a deep lake,
I am a tear:the Sun lets fall,
I am a hawk:above the cliff,
I am a thorn:beneath the nail,
I am a wonder:among flowers,
I am a wizard:who but I
Sets the cool head aflame with smoke? I am a spear:that roars for blood,
I am a salmon:in a pool,
I am a lure:from paradise,
I am a hill:where poets walk,
I am a boar:ruthless and red,
I am a breaker:threatening doom,
I am a tide:that drags to death,
I am an infant:who but I
Peeps from the unhewn dolmen arch? I am the womb:of every holt,
I am the blaze:on every hill,
I am the queen:of every hive,
I am the shield:for every head,
I am the tomb:of every hope. ~ Robert Graves
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