It is late!
2:15 AM according to my computer clock.
I came home after work and after settling the dogs, sought sleep - which tonight eluded me. It has been awhile that I have felt sleep-ness . . . from emotion. There is no reason that I can articulate. The heart speaks its own language sometimes. And sometimes it is expressed through tears that no one sees. Though tired, my only thought was to walk. So I took my two boys with me, and did just that.
The night can be very beautiful, if you get out and go experience it. It is a new moon phase, so the night's primary lamplight has set long ago. The sky is dark, except for the wash of the Sagittarious arm of the Milky Way. Jupiter is brilliant in the Southern sky. I walk in the dark, not really able to see my way, but knowing the way. As in my life, my feet keep pace on a path. I cannot see the details of it . . . only a shadowy outline, but each footfall finds solid ground. The air is still, and a little cold.
I have given up long ago trying to write poetry. I've samples from my youth that are frightening to pull out from time to time. I find prose more useful. I post to several locations for those few who come and read these things . . .and maybe even for some face-less audience that stumbles across here. But mostly I write for myself. Many times these postings are snapshots of time . . . for my own remembrance.
Fireflies echoed the starlight as I walked. Resonant frogs boomed in the distance. There is the ever present song of the crickets . . . like the one coming from my kitchen right now . . . somewhere behind the stove I think. At one point, some small songbird stirred in the night, and complained with a line of sweet notes . . . then realizing his error, quickly silenced himself. A barred owl hooted in the distance. The moist earthy plant smell is everywhere. At one point the sharp smell of decay, of something off the side of the road. Hopefully the dogs will not mess with it . . . whatever it is. I don't keep track of them. I have no worries. It's 1 in the morning!! Who but idiots and insomniacs are out walking the streets in "middle of nowhere" Camp Douglas?
I have returned full circle to the days of my youth . . . when I walked for many hours in the desert wilderness . . . by myself. Sometimes the family dog would come along. I currently have on my reading list a book called "Women Who Run With The Wolves". For me . . . it is a single woman, walking with shaggy dogs, in a very dark Wisconsin night. I walk to silence my inner critic. I walk to induce exhaustion to bring on sleep. I walk to dry the tears that have moistened my pillow. I walk to remember . . . and to forget.
The night surrounds me . . . like a great cloak of some old and wise woman. This is the best I can hope for right now. Though I long for other arms to surround me . . .to want me . . .
I drink tea as I type, and eat cinnamon toast. Comfort Food! I feel now a deep exhaustion that can wing me to unconsciousness.
I think of the words of a song my art teacher so many years ago played for us . . . inspired by a famous painting by Van Gogh.
The singer and author is Don McLean.
Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.
Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.
Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.
Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.
For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.
Starry, starry night.
Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will.
This last weekend I (and Nina) were given the singular honor to be the subject of a private professional photo shoot. The photographer, Terry Allin, was in the area for the Tomah tractor pull. He focuses his lenses primarily on sporting events, capturing the machines and the drivers. However, he also enjoys nature photography. Knowing he would be in the area, he found me through my MySpace page. A few e-mails back and forth, and we set up to demonstrate a summertime viewing of falconry with him capuring the action on his (very nice!) digital cameras. I absolutely love this picture above best of all the ones he took. He was also quite generous to give me copies of the pictures.
