It’s Loud, But Not Loud Enough
I don’t know what time I woke up, but now it’s just past two am. This sort of thing happens when I’m excited about whatever fiction I’m drafting, especially after a day of hyper fixation.
The window a/c unit hums its continual tune as the chain hanging from the ceiling fan jingles softly. The harsh, blue ring of my computer charger slices through the night, softened by the dim glow leaking through the cracks of the door to the living room.
The din is present and loud, but not loud enough.
Thoughts crash together and tumble through my mind like so much car wreckage. I’ve just finished the turn into Act 2 and ideas want to spill onto the page. They come without asking. I need to sleep if I want them in English.
I turn on a podcast and let the bubbly voices battle with my brain. Still not loud enough, it seemed.
With a harsh click, the power goes out.
Over a few long seconds, the blue of the computer charger fades into darkness and the podcast becomes deafening. I turn it off.
It’s dark. Pitch-black, save for the half-moon window set in the front door, covered in painters’ tape to block the blinding security light. Its particular blue glow has been reduced significantly, reflecting only some dim, solar powered LEDs left alive on the porch.
You read about not being able to see your hand in front of your face. It’s almost unbelievable to experience outside a basement.
I hold my hand up. Invisible. I close it to my face until it’s touching my nose and reflecting my warm breath. Darkness, same as the rest of the room.
Quiet shuffling and the harsh white of a cellphone flashlight slice through the crack of my door. This is the power outage ritual. Assess and distress. Dog cages rattle under murmuring voices as the light bounces about. Moments later, the tromp of weight crosses the porch, the creak and slam of the screen door, followed by a cranking car and the blue tape on my window being lit briefly.
Elonore has left to call the electric department.
It’s 2:40am.
Dog nails click onto the porch. Whether for security or a convenient time to let them out, I’m unsure. Petunia, our big dumb brute, sends booming barks into the dark tree line. Her voice leaves indentations in absence like teeth in skin.
Should I have gotten up? I was already awake.
I snug my comforter.
Petunia continues her verse. I toss on a robe and walk onto the porch, and I’m blinded by the LEDs, like tiny light snipers. Turning from them I see the overcast sky. Bummer. I comfort Petunia to silence and return to my bed.
I’m tempted to turn on my podcast, but this sort of quiet is rare. I steep in it. The crickets are sleeping tonight. Each shift of Copper on her dog bed is as loud as a shout, as are my breaths. I want to sink into this darkness, embrace it.
My eyes strain to see what they can’t. My ears catch every rustle, breath, and click. An energy, soothing yet electric, fills my chest.
Petunia barks.
I know it’s safe.
Still, the darkness speaks to other parts of my brain. I consider, briefly, standing vigil, but let the paranoia pass.
Three more barks bring it back.
Would someone take advantage of this camouflage?
Don’t be silly.
Another bark.
The energy in my chest shifts. I take a loud breath, nearly stand.
The front doorknob jingles. Dog nails click. Crates rattle. I let Adam’s logic calm my lizard brain, and an exhale returns me to my communion with silence.
I think about nothing. What it is. How I have longed to be nothing, too.
And how it doesn’t exist.
I start writing about the experience, lining out prose purple as a bruised plum. My mouth is dry. A new energy blooms as I realize the stanzas fade like distant memories.
My computer is charged, am I sacrificing words by laying here? Is this sloth? Am I even a writer?
Wiser thoughts swaddle the hunger. Let the words burn or drown. They’re still inside.
Just live.
I choose to believe it.
The darkness is deep and hungry. I breathe on my hand to remind myself.
It’s 2:48am.
I should try and meditate or something. I begin to box breathe, but rasping air only separates me from the absence. It feels wrong, like a steel nail between your teeth.
Thoughts pour into my mind, crashing like a waterfall on jagged rocks then joining the river’s flow.
I recall glimmering green cherry tomatoes on the vine.
People I admire, courageously living their values.
My failure to live up to the standard.
Who I blame for it.
How I don’t blame them at all because it’s my fault.
That time I drove on a whim to Big Bend with Chanel.
I look forward to a tomato harvest, imagining the feel when I twist one from the vine.
I’m tired.
I need to go grocery shopping tomorrow.
I want to write.
Copper shifts. I ask her to jump onto the bed. It takes convincing, but she does.
Her rough, short fur is smooth against my thigh. I rest a hand on her and pulse soft scratches. She huffs, settled.
I wonder how far Elenore will have to drive to get service.
Copper will be gone some day.
Fear of my budget clings to my heart a moment longer than I’d like.
I wonder if being nothing and being dead are the same thing.
I wonder if I should ask my therapist.
Copper shifts, kicking a leg. Her abrasive pads rub against my forearm, and it grounds me.
I don’t know what time it is.
Thoughts roll into my mind like fog coating a roadway until it’s as invisible as the hand before my face.
They’re softer at the edges now, like stress balls.
You can test your soil with water and soap.
The chickens are finally getting grubs from the compost.
I love May. The blueberries will be ready soon.
The crickets seem to wake. Maybe I just hadn’t heard them before.
I’m just atoms.
Petunia barks from her crate in the living room.
With a click, the power returns.
Harsh blue light assaults me from my computer charger and the window unit coming back to life. I grab the remote for the unit and turn it to night mode.
It’s 3:02am.
The window unit hums and rattles, the fan chain jingles, and a dozen more sounds I hadn’t recognized before sing in chorus.
It’s loud, but not loud enough.
I turn on my podcast.
I don’t know what time I fell asleep.
From the Rift,
If you enjoy ordinary moments like this and think they deserve more attention, check out the article below for a similar idea from another vantage.
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