Mending storms.

Some nights are empty. Like a bottle that’s been wasting away at a bookshelf for far too long, gathering dust, watching silently to be filled up. With anything, anything at all, it can be that rather sweet pink syrup for all it cares; just not this space, this space representing everything that’s not, everything that it could be.  My dog sleeps on my blanket, dreaming. He twitches his face from time to time, jumping in a dreamy garden, chasing cars, fetching frisbees. The fish seem to be holding an intervention in their little corner. Diving around the bubble man in their aquarium, they are going to get through the night just fine.

But my mind is cooking up a storm. It’s heading towards this nice little cottage, with a rather plaid windmill accompanying it. Imagine a photograph if you may, a swirling hurricane in a wide meadow, filled with wooden desks and ties and bills, all going round and round in circles, heading towards the cottage. If the rule of fifths is to be considered, I might be standing at the crosshairs on the bottom-left of the photograph, looking straight ahead. There’s a face peeking out of the only window in the cottage. A face that looks violently familiar, but I can’t remember who it belongs to. Every once in a while she looks at the approaching hurricane with the same, calm expression and looks away. I imagine she’s brewing her last cup of coffee- a good cup was to die for. But looking at the spinning windmill was making me feel queasy. Although it would make a good mixer about right now, the way it was chopping up everything that flew into it, branches, beds, books.  Soon, that beast of a storm is going to hit the tiny cottage and break it like a pack of cards. Already, the tin roof has started to slide away. She comes out of the door now, munching on a little cracker and looks at the roof with quenched eyes. I imagine the dust particles are hitting her like needles. Our eyes meet when she turns. She’s got angry eyes. I turn away.

Yes, I had no right to be taking up my storm everywhere. So I took off my tie and wore it around my head. As the night grew colder, I burned the college grade sheets to keep myself warm. And sometime around midnight, I planted some flowers in that bottle.


( A painting by the famous American landscape painter, George Innesse)