I woke at two thirty this morning. Nothing too out of the ordinary these days. Seems to be something that my body requires me to do. Wake and think. Get a feel for the world. Start the day before the rest of the neighborhood stirs. Watch for the false dawn, listen to the birds in the trees and the blackberry hedges wake along with the first grey light of morning.
This morning I woke up and knew that I had to go downstairs, make sure that I didn't leave food out on the counter all night long. I fell asleep watching some Korean actioner, but the covers and the cat and clocks made it all too easy to knock out early. It wasn't as if the movie was bad or boring, but it was more a case of fatique, of overload, of more of the same thing, of being tired from the previous night's broken sleep.
I don't think that I suffered through this kind of sleeplessness when the Estranged One was here. Those nights were filled with a different kind of white noise. In those days the world was packed with responsibilities and children and household duties. I went to sleep in those days exhausted and slept the sleep of the just. Now I just wake up and listen, listen for the sound of breathing that isn't there, or, at the very least, listen for the sounds of my cat purring and know that that cat, gawd bless his furry hide, is the sum total of all my efforts over the last three years to do my best to live down the impact of you in my life.
I woke to a full bed, one half covered with books and coverlets and pillows thrust aside to make room for me and the cat. I woke to a house half filled with ambient light, thrown into my upstairs room from streetlights and municipal buildings and distant shipyards. I woke to clocks ticking, to many different sounds of machinery unwinding and dozing and standing by. I woke and thought of many people, of my children, of my Estranged One, of Mi Novia, of My Colleague and especially of you. I know that I woke to those quiet sounds and soft light and that purring cat because of that misguided sense of of honor I courted when we parted. Of honoring that love we shared. But I have no regrets, for whatever it is that I have going on in my life right now is what I bought and paid for. I brought this honor of mine to the dance. Yeah, I brought it and I have to live with it and dance with it until dawn.
I woke to the words "Pyrrhic victory" and had to come down to make sure that the spelling was correct, to make sure I had the definition down. I found out that to suffer a Pyrrhic victory is to win but to do so only by suffering staggering losses. I woke knowing that I was able to "keep" the house, but that the house, that victory, would be one filled with silence, a sort of silence that can't be filled with the sound of records, or movies, or the turning pages of cookbooks. I found that the silence that I heard at two thirty this morning was the kind paid for at a very high cost.
I know that you couldn't pay that price, but, instead, you went on to pay an even higher price to shut down the jealousy of a suppressive man and to silence the needs of your heart. I wonder what it is that you hear when you stir in the middle of the night. What is it that wakes you, that drives you to get up and check on your children, to pad down to the kitchen, rattle the doors, peek out the window into the darkness of your cul-de-sac? Is your restlessness a sort of universal sighing of the heart? Or is it something that runs much deeper, something that binds the love of your children and your form of staunch self sacrifice along with your blind religious convictions?
I need to go to bed here in a moment and think about the upcoming day, figure out what it is that I want to do with it besides strap on my work clothes and head off to the branch. What do I want from here on out beside a tidy house, a close cropped yard and a clean conscience? I do know that I woke to an empty bed and that's for reasons bigger than any martial problems I might have or from girlfriends that don't fit the bill or the fact that even after all this time and after all this fuss I'm still married to a woman who hasn't lived with me for almost four years. It's a much bigger thing, more a visitation of the sins of my father than a true reflection of my surroundings or my needs or who I really am. I woke this morning to a beating heart, an empty bed and a purring cat and for now, along with distant ticking clocks and the hiss of tires on the road, that is enough.
For now the weight of your memory is enough to fill that side of my bed, the side that is supposedly empty. That memory...cherished, impractical, beautiful, relentless, disturbing... helps to keep me restless, helps to keep me warm.
That and the cat, clocks and cookbooks.
Buenos noches, mujuer. Tu quiero.
Your WHMB
This morning I woke up and knew that I had to go downstairs, make sure that I didn't leave food out on the counter all night long. I fell asleep watching some Korean actioner, but the covers and the cat and clocks made it all too easy to knock out early. It wasn't as if the movie was bad or boring, but it was more a case of fatique, of overload, of more of the same thing, of being tired from the previous night's broken sleep.
I don't think that I suffered through this kind of sleeplessness when the Estranged One was here. Those nights were filled with a different kind of white noise. In those days the world was packed with responsibilities and children and household duties. I went to sleep in those days exhausted and slept the sleep of the just. Now I just wake up and listen, listen for the sound of breathing that isn't there, or, at the very least, listen for the sounds of my cat purring and know that that cat, gawd bless his furry hide, is the sum total of all my efforts over the last three years to do my best to live down the impact of you in my life.
I woke to a full bed, one half covered with books and coverlets and pillows thrust aside to make room for me and the cat. I woke to a house half filled with ambient light, thrown into my upstairs room from streetlights and municipal buildings and distant shipyards. I woke to clocks ticking, to many different sounds of machinery unwinding and dozing and standing by. I woke and thought of many people, of my children, of my Estranged One, of Mi Novia, of My Colleague and especially of you. I know that I woke to those quiet sounds and soft light and that purring cat because of that misguided sense of of honor I courted when we parted. Of honoring that love we shared. But I have no regrets, for whatever it is that I have going on in my life right now is what I bought and paid for. I brought this honor of mine to the dance. Yeah, I brought it and I have to live with it and dance with it until dawn.
I woke to the words "Pyrrhic victory" and had to come down to make sure that the spelling was correct, to make sure I had the definition down. I found out that to suffer a Pyrrhic victory is to win but to do so only by suffering staggering losses. I woke knowing that I was able to "keep" the house, but that the house, that victory, would be one filled with silence, a sort of silence that can't be filled with the sound of records, or movies, or the turning pages of cookbooks. I found that the silence that I heard at two thirty this morning was the kind paid for at a very high cost.
I know that you couldn't pay that price, but, instead, you went on to pay an even higher price to shut down the jealousy of a suppressive man and to silence the needs of your heart. I wonder what it is that you hear when you stir in the middle of the night. What is it that wakes you, that drives you to get up and check on your children, to pad down to the kitchen, rattle the doors, peek out the window into the darkness of your cul-de-sac? Is your restlessness a sort of universal sighing of the heart? Or is it something that runs much deeper, something that binds the love of your children and your form of staunch self sacrifice along with your blind religious convictions?
I need to go to bed here in a moment and think about the upcoming day, figure out what it is that I want to do with it besides strap on my work clothes and head off to the branch. What do I want from here on out beside a tidy house, a close cropped yard and a clean conscience? I do know that I woke to an empty bed and that's for reasons bigger than any martial problems I might have or from girlfriends that don't fit the bill or the fact that even after all this time and after all this fuss I'm still married to a woman who hasn't lived with me for almost four years. It's a much bigger thing, more a visitation of the sins of my father than a true reflection of my surroundings or my needs or who I really am. I woke this morning to a beating heart, an empty bed and a purring cat and for now, along with distant ticking clocks and the hiss of tires on the road, that is enough.
For now the weight of your memory is enough to fill that side of my bed, the side that is supposedly empty. That memory...cherished, impractical, beautiful, relentless, disturbing... helps to keep me restless, helps to keep me warm.
That and the cat, clocks and cookbooks.
Buenos noches, mujuer. Tu quiero.
Your WHMB
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