Insomniac : Abstract II

The honk of a goose, miles above;

The first snowflake, slowly falling to the ground;

The first bud of spring;

The scent of dust, stirred by drops of rain;

Slender smoke ascending;

The chatter of a squirrel;

The laughter of a child in the arms of his father;

The the sigh of an infant, asleep in her grandfather's arms;

Eyes locked, in joy or sorrow;

A hug, a salve for the deepest wounds;

Even the quietest word, whispered in comfort;

An apology;

The caress of a dear one;

"I love you;"

Captured in colour, in shapes and lines and shadow.

The simplest things are monumental.

Meandering feet and mind.

     I wrap my scarf another time 'round my neck, and turn my collar up and lower the brim of my hat against the wind; "Should'a worn a beanie. Dummy." I stuff my gloves into one of my larger pockets; I like to feel my fingers rather than stifling fabric between them. As I trudge through the snow and it packs onto my boots and jeans, making each step heavier and heavier, I smile at the crunch that meets my ears.

     A group of birds – I think they're shrike. I'm not really sure – whips startlingly close to my right ear. One perches on a heavily iced branch close to me, and plays in the snow that settled there; he reminds me of a dog, pushing his head into a pile of the fluff, shaking it off and jumping around. He lets out a shrill call; it's incredible how different that voice sounds through frozen air. I notice his family and friends doing the same on other branches of the tree, jumping around and shrieking, like children in a snowball fight. They all lift off of their various perches simultaneously, as though operating on command. Their undulating, inconsistent flight pattern reminds me of the enormous flocks of black, shrieking birds that lived in the giant cottonwoods surrounding the field where my high school soccer team practiced. I always think of birds as flying in well organized patterns, "V" mostly, but these move in fluid patterns, like giant, black waves in the air. It always inspired awe how random their flight seemed to be, but they always flew together, taking off and landing as one, flying as a unit, never alone, never solitary. They alight on a neighboring tree, and begin their frolicking again.

     As I watch them, a contrasting, well formed "V" flies above, higher in the sky than I ever remember seeing geese. They are eerily silent. I wonder what they could be, flying so high and so silently; as the point disappears, the distinct honk of the goose finally reaches my ears, and I can hear them for several seconds after they vanish. As I glance back at the bird perched near me, I smile and continue on my way.

     My fingers wander over the items in my pockets – a movie ticket stub, keys, chap-stick, and some loose change. Each holds a story, a memory. The change is what's left over of my last dollars 'til payday, spent on a roll of 400ASA 120 film for the twin lens camera slung over my shoulder. I slide it off and aim it at a group of icicles hanging from a dead vine, twisting its way through a white picket fence; the metal on the focus knob is bitterly cold to my bare fingers... <snap!> ... I love that snap. No battery, no electricity, no fuel besides the power of a spring I load manually before each shot, yet the sound is so formidable, almost intimidating. I laugh at the thought of the young, high powered electronic devices cowering before the weight and might of this that is fifty years older, this that never runs out of juice, never runs out of energy.

     Slipping my hands into my pockets, I find my keys again. Images of the various doors they unlock flash through my mind, and images of the keys that used to dangle next to them. My feet continue straight ahead, trudging through the deep snow, but my mind wanders aimlessly down paths to the doors I've held keys to, and back into events and conversations that happened beyond them. I halt at one to which access was never granted to me; I open it a crack and smile, and the smile is returned – a bright smile, one of the brightest you'll ever see, a smile that shines through honey eyes – but the door slams in my face, that smile never to be seen by me again. A frigid sigh escapes my lips, and my thoughts return to my steps, and the tattered paper between my fingers.

     A joyous memory. Three friends laughing uncontrollably at the back of the theatre. I pull the stub out and inspect it closely. "I still haven't paid her back. Rude." The laughter rings in my mind and I begin to join in, when I catch another pedestrian – enjoying the weather far less than I – eying me curiously. I nod with a smirk on my face.

     Screams of glee catch my ear. They sound strangely loud, yet strangely distant through this thin air. I look to see children sledding down the street, stirring great clouds of ice behind them. At first I am startled by their stupid bravery, but I remember doing the same on this very street with my best friend when I was likely the same age. Sledding with my best friend: we found the steepest, longest point of any given hill, and built a massive ramp at the point we thought we would be at top speed, and made it as smooth and slick as possible. "Ha, it's a wonder we were never hurt!" It was some of the most fun I've ever had. I shake my head and laugh again.

     Branches stretch above me, coated in ice, like crystal fingers trying to warm themselves in the heat of the sun. The terrifying beauty of an ice storm give me chills beyond that of the air surrounding me. Images of the storm I experienced in St. Louis on my Exodus to the South fill my mind: A smooth, shimmering highway; the vehicles ahead of and beside me, coated in ice, glistening like the roads; glass looking road signs with icy dreadlocks. The scene looked more like a spirit highway, haunted by spectres travelling along side me, and spirits pointing the way to my destination.

     I reach my door and enter. I stamp the caked snow from my boots and pant legs, then turn the kettle on for tea. As I hold my favourite mug – made by a friend – to my lips, letting the steam fill my nostrils and fog my glasses, I meditate on the tangibility of the stinging cold of winter, of the comforting heat of my tea, of the memories, both comforting and stinging; the tangibility of holding a moment in your mind like a photograph in you hand; the tangibility of feeling the pain of a moment like the pain of frostbite, I feel alive.

     So absolutely alive.