Sunday, August 21, 2011

Da Boom Na Da Noom Na Namena

(The Bridge to America, from That Bike Trip to Montreal, 2010)

A static. No. A lack of sound. No. I can hear the buzz of the fridge, I can smell myself, and myself alone. All is quiet, it is now too quiet. I can hear a child playfully yelling at something from the house across the way, I can hear the wind of cars passing by from a distance, the geckos chipping, and what may be a bird but I'm not quite sure it is dark outside calling.
A wave has hit me, crushed me, pushed me aside, over and over, the ocean has run through my body, leaving me sea-salty and wet, and most of all tired. As if the ocean's current absorbed a certain type of energy from me, and though I can walk and talk fine, I can even run if I needed to run, I feel tired. Something hit me hard, harder than the wave, and the surge has left me with a feeling that is too complex, too new, for my brain to start unravelling. I want to keep it collected, organized in its current form, but I know it will come undone, and expose a light that is from many bright and enduring moments. For now I hold this crumbled up map of experience in my pocket, I feel its warmth entice me, I feel light in the head, I feel like something is there but isn't, watching me but as I turn the corner it is not there, I feel it, and yet I cannot place a name to this feeling.
A blind man approaches me, he is guided by two young fencers, they look about twelve, the blind man somewhere in his forties, he is handsome, and at first I don't realize he is blind, just looking down (I think it's because I'm used to the Ray Charles sunglass-wearing blind). In the air of this moment, and in their presence, I feel a static, it strikes my flesh with an impulse of manliness. I rip my shirt off, I roar at the top of my lungs, I look down to see the three in fear, I get on all fours and start to chase. The two fencers run and the blind man remains, his face unchanged, he is aware of my hasty approach and yet he decides to stay. I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to do when I reach him, nor do I know why my legs and arms are in such a rush, all I have is a feeling that is unmarked by experience nor classification. I am now moments before meeting this man head on when I look up from his knee-height and see his pupils. The thought races through my head that perhaps I am the first to have ever seen his eyes, and in this current moment, sitting on my laptop on my couch at my parent's place at 9.20pm, I cannot remember the color of his eyes, nor if they were strange looking either, all I remember is a large flash, followed by a cloud of gray smoke, and once all the chaos cleared he was gone.

When I got home I put on a new shirt, and started yelling all types of curse words. I am bad at goodbyes, I am bad at goodbyes. Mainly because when they are needed, when they have a build-up to them, and you know something is about to end, like a really good book that takes you on this epic adventure full of beautiful landscapes and a flurry of emotions, or a movie that does the same but with visuals, and sounds, and special effects, well you don't want it to end, you want time to freeze in place. Just before, just before it ends, and to have one more day, then tell yourself the same the next day, just one more day. Until infinity is achieved, and the world ends, the world which surrounds you, but a bubble remains, that's for you and whoever you want that moment to continue with. This is a moment. This is a feeling you share. This is a to-be-continued, and you're now holding the arms of your armchair firmly with your hands, your mind is in a fuzz, and you are cliffhanging on a cliffhanger.

The curtains fall, the truth is revealed, and that moment that carried into another moment, upon another moment ends. It ends. It stops. It ceases to exist. And true it has stopped in its tracks, that the gravy train is now cooling off somewhere behind us now, it is growing skin, and crystalizing. Eventually it will start up again, it will no longer be gravy, nor will it be a moldy mess, but it has taken on a new form, it is something completely new, and when it arrives into town, it surprises you with how familiar it is, and yet how new it feels. Refreshing, yes, refreshing with an "ahhhhhhh", yes, "ahhhhhhh I know this, and yet it is refreshing, emphasis on the fresh".

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