Last Updated on October 28, 2010 by James Dziezynski
For your regularly scheduled programming, check in soon! If you are so inclined, I needed to write some things out – so if you’d like to see them, read on.
It’s a cool autumn night and from my east-facing window, a white, waning, misshapen moon is hovering through a web of branchy shadows. A fierce wind has torn limbs festooned with yellow, living leaves from the trees but it’s calm now. The only two beings on this Earth that truly need and depend on me are stretched out on my poorly made bed. My tired border collie is pressed up against pillows, so still and beautiful that he seems a child’s plush toy. A few inches away, my calico cat gracefully preens her multi-colored coat, peaceful as a summer sunset.
The townhouse I rent is large, empty and waiting to be filled but after nearly 10 months I’ve yet to hang a single picture or map. The place is ripe for comfort and yet, it remains sparse and soulless. Were it not for the smattering of colorful pet toys haphazardly strewn about, there is little indication of the importance of those who fill this space. Just two furry outcasts and their guardian.
I am compelled to write. It is a rare alignment of a tired heart and mental filters turned off. As the intricate gears of a clock momentarily synch resulting in the tolling of bells, so have the tangible calories of my body and intangible fuel of the heart brought about this semi-mystical state.
I am taking stock of this life, this one precious and wild life, in the confines of a quiet room. I internally strain to resist the caustic sting of those who have given unto me the most pain, those who have abandoned, ignored and dismissed me. I am equally hounded by echoes of those whom I have brought sorrow, confusion and heartache. I have been moved in a similar vein in nights past. In those rare and unexpected alignments, I vividly recall the divine peacefulness of a lover, quietly asleep, close but worlds away. Opting to slide next to her and sooth this emotional exposure, I would stretch my arm over hers, tangling our fingers and pressing her sleepy, still warmth close to me as a faint flicker of wakefulness offered a life-assuring squeeze of the hand before she returned to sleep. The sweet, organic scent of her hair rushes inside me, as if to cool some kind of near-ignition and then, warm against her, sleep comes to me as well.
Tonight there is no such reprieve, and the vision of a woman is no longer an individual but a composite, a mosaic of memory and hope. With no shield to remedy the onslaught of emotion, no gentle body to curl into, the ferocity of long-contained resistance bleeds out, giving frustrating alertness to a weary body. And only these two animals, these two beautiful and elaborate worlds, suspend me over a maelstrom of doubt and something like despair.
I say that because despair is not hardwired in me. This stands not as a boast, just a truth discovered through the perennial hardships that have blunted so much determination. Like waves, jobs disappeared and reappeared and the stress of simply living manifested itself in a steely determination that at times, mutated into a narcissistic engine. Those who had loved and supported me were never properly embraced, another devastatingly apparent truth in hindsight. When finally that stubborn doggedness to be kind, love and be loved prevailed, it resulted in an elevated awareness but did little to buck the patterns of disappointments. A dog I had loved wildly and freely was struck down with a fatal illness and the last beat of his heart reverberated through my trembling hand as I held his frail body against mine under sterile, florescent lights and a chlorine-infused hospital floor. A woman whom I had opened every part of my soul with an eager approach of embracing our differences proved a dangerous investment and walked out of my life as confidently and coldly as an assassin. And here, now, the litter of deadline accoutrements – empty Gatorade bottles, candy wrappers, unopened mail – validate only the successful submission of the latest article. Little to show for a life so constantly immersed in passion, frustration and ambition.
My guitar has some dust between the pickups but is used in small sessions, symbolic of so much potential newness I can bring into the world and yet, do not. I am as D.H. Lawrence put it, dog-tired. In my life I have delved into passions of all sorts: climbing mountains, philosophy, animal rights, baseball, writing, skateboarding, video games, great literature, relationships, good food, loud music. And the amounts of those passions reads like an uneven pie chart – large slices of writing, mountains and increasingly lesser samples of equally important passions.
It would be too simple to diagnose these ramblings as mere loneliness. Rather, there is an acknowledgment of the enervated self, which at this time seems impossible to cultivate back to wholeness. I suppose it is the curse of any mind or soul that has artistic merit (regardless if that influence has an outlet or not). And as the powerful mind can drive the body to great things, sometimes it is the quiet presence of a body that can melt away a strained and overactive mind with a simple touch. Because there is no antidote on this night and because I am not immune to the outbursts of recollection that have led me to this point, there is nothing more to do than to gaze upon those two cozy animals dreaming on my bed and hope that despite my lack of value to the people who have stumbled into the deepest part of my heart, that each of those animals drifts to a peaceful place in slumber. The hope that they are safe to have exciting and fearless dreams stands as the only objective triumph in the museum of memories and foundations in this restless and underdeveloped life.
