as i sleep

 As I sleep

As I sleep

I hear the creep of footsteps 

Distant past, close at heart.

No shadows cast.

Something just ahead 

Calls and calls again

The weight of my body

Holds me slack

My tongue knots

Screaming back

No consolation 

From the gathering crowd

Familiar yet not.

Then

Silence.

I stare into the space above

Drowning 

Light pushes me deeper

To waking.

Who am I to walk in such places?

Old faces, strange spaces.

To which there is no return.

 

GARY.

From the window adjacent to my drawing table I can watch the lizards doing what lizards do. I can’t imagine what it would be to be a lizard (not that I haven’t tried). What I do recognise is some sense of awareness; of me when I approach too closely, of other lizards who occupy a similar territory, of what is food and what is not, of temperature, of light, and of things I could not imagine. Each lizard seems to have a simple life. Eat, rest, drink, move, shelter, reproduce, fight and retreat. The territory is held by one dominant male. Garry (my name for him) is near ten years old. He has fathered many, eaten some, competed with ambitious males, fought off intruders, shows no affection to his offspring, shares nothing: he is as independent a specimen as I could imagine. And yes, I do imagine.

Garry demonstrates no emotional qualities. His feelings are limited to that which are necessary for his survival. His are the basic senses we all have: thermal, olfactory, taste, auditory, visual, pressure, proprioseptivity.

I don’t know whether Garry cares, loves, hates, feels loss, pleasure, even fear. In his typical non-descript  pose he gives nothing away. Among his kind he is understood. Yet there seems to be a prescribed course of action predetermined or reactionary, standardised in evolution, aimed at survival.

I might attach some human feelings and emotions to him by his actions and circumstances but since I have no idea what’s going on in his brain I can only assume I am hypothercising.

Peculiarly enough, we do the same with other humans, cats, dogs, most furry animals, and a few odd creatures we might admire or keep as pets. Adopting another species as a human substitute is characteristically human. It’s more likely we are behaving more like the other species than they us. Have you seen the way people behave around their dogs? Ech! One might wonder who is in charge with pets and people.

All this watching and pondering as led me to request that I come back as a lizard. That should suit me nicely for my next round at living.

 Not drowning, just waving.

In a dream, or a memory

Floating prone, in the ocean off the coast,

A familiar place, a rhythmic pace not lost.

The water balances my body midway 

Between sinking and surviving. 

To the left I can see the sand dunes rising

In unison with the incoming swell. 

To the right, a line dividing air from water.

Below, I can feel the shifting tide 

 Sensing the sharks, waiting for a meal. 

Above, the blue sky, home for drifting puffs of cloud 

and a stray gull, squawking at nothing.

There’s a call from the shore.

“Are you drowning or waving?”

How thoughtful, how profound.

Neither. Just caught between sea and sky.

It’s the way it’s always been.

 Where I live

Where do I live? You ask? Why would you? Can’t you see from there?

I am here. Always here. Never fear. No favours asked. At last

I can tell you. The road has cast its path far enough. Just.

Then, from where I stand, where my feet did land from flight,

From fright, from cautious contemplation. Knowing only

What I know is true, some more of what is not, and less, for sure.

I can hear the gospels calling from the given and the fallen

Who claim to know what stands behind the doors and walls

Of this house. They are welcome. There are no rules to bare.

No potentate to stare down while I wake or sleep.

What is here is fare, not fear. What is worn is fixed

 Without the perquisite of service due, respect and grace 

Of those who patch and plough with blows from a blunt axe.

Here, where I live, the carpets feel the pace of treading mills

And grinding tills, showing threadbare to the floor beneath

A flake of paint floats on ponds of tears. Wretched smears

Of battle grime exposes bones and blood I fear is mine.

And to be sure I know I am home, the hinges creak and stick

Against the youthful glare of imagined times, all mine.

Oh, how such reflections bare the scars of learning, 

Of yearning, of vacant pages in desperate ages, never sure

Of what to find, who to ask, walking blind before the mirrors

Of what is real, then holding still to its infinite uncertainty.

Now, I see the cracks and feel the sharpness of the ragged edges

And know they are mine and mine alone. For me to stare and share.

To value as the Kintsugi jar. Know not the gold that makes the mark

But all the damage done, the mistakes made, the battles lost.

The ground beneath is still intact and the vessel still holds blooded clots.

This has always been where I can be found. Right here, alone.

Living outwards from my home. Ruminating the grains of knowledge

Wondering, waiting, watching for that which I don’t understand.

Where I can chose to know or let it glow in its own light.

What aches me is the giving in, resolving to a noisy din of others

Who claim to know who made this home, that which it has become.

For some the answers are it’s all. Then comes the failure of the fall.

To repair, the angst of despair, the need to be forgiven for what they are.

Mistake me not. My dwelling is as close to the worms caste 

As I am to any other. And treasure just the same. For it is here

That everything exists that I own. There is nothing broken here

That cannot be repaired by me alone, reaching within, then holding On to others while repair is done. All that remains is the stoic’s bow.

To know, as anyone need know. Which question to ask: not last, First. 

The sceptic knows one lifeline thoughts are built upon.

We are reasoning mammals, the builders kit on which

We all build our home. Any visitor who claims to know more than that

Never to know the beauty of finding the cellar filled with unwavering doubt.

You have found me. At last. Drink well from the doubters cup, drink up.

Feel the freedom it provides, no longer answering to the stalkers deride.

Even in the darkest hour, when distances are not within my power

There is the memoirs of others in other places, still there, staring,

Baring witness to my presence in their dominion. Tasting

The tang of their lives, fragments of what they chose to hide.

Walking the path of many lives, hearing the cries of welcome.

I view the garden of their home and smell the roses just the same

Then feed on the culture of what they are. Designed by nature

No less, nothing greater. Home to the odours in the heat of day

Reminding me of what I was; no longer in that home. Growing

From the soils of spoils and boast, lost in the remote suburban fame.

Fair game for others, wealth for stone banks, suits of destine.

Epicurean delights. Not mine. Someone else’s Devine.

So, next when you ask. “Are you at home?” Know well

I am always here. Straightening the frames, polishing the bell

Shining the shelves, sorting the books, sweep and cook

Listening, sipping on the pleasures I find, in words of mine and others

Fluffing the covers, making teas for me and others, view

The world from open windows, wondering which way

The wind blows. Counting friends on one hand, holding out

The other so I can understand what comes. It is the sum

Of all things. From nothing to nothing comes a small glimpse

Of something we call real. Our home, for a while. 

Welcome. I am home.