He can spend hours on the wooden bench in the small square in the center of the village. There he is but a statue, staring up at the giant clock face that looms over the square from the turret of the Village Hall. He likes to watch the long hand, arrowlike, make its slow, but inevitable movement, circling the blank outward gaze of the numerals. He does not care much for time, has too much of it some say, too little left, he knows. But here, as he stares fixedly, it stops. There is no motion in that instant, there is only the instant of time. It is no longer real, it is a thought lost or forgotten, and there is only the single moment in which he sits on the wooden bench in the center of the village.
She tells me I should rest, that I need convalescent time, but I want to tell her, “why, it isn’t like they stuck a needle in my eye, so why rest?” but it actually is just that, but the rest of my body is none the worse for the wear on my face, and it hurts less when I am doing something other than thinking about it.
The eye will feel better in a day or two, they say, and I have great faith in them, why else would I let them stick a needle into my eye, and anyway, I have a spare and that is the one that still works like new, well, almost new normal wear and tear excepted.
It is all well and good to believe that you will know it when you find it, that it will be so obvious you could not miss it.
You’ve been down that road before, and on several occasions were certain that you’d found it in her face, or hers, in her smile, or her laugh, or one of their soft touches and caresses.
You were wrong each time, a facsimile at best, an avatar if you wish, so you are determined to be prepared this time, for there must be a this time you are certain.
You have read all the best books, consulted on the internet, careful to sort the wheat from the chaff, skimmed the cream of the offerings, and have practiced reading the tea leaves.
You dare not miss it so you maintain a high level of vigilance and a focus that is not easily interrupted, ready to spring, but know that it defies logic, that the mind is useless in its presence, and that it is the heart not the head that feels true love.
On the razor edge of dreams the periphery of consciousness a face appears, and I am left to wonder who this person is, who he might be. At first he is a child with a pixie cut, a bowl placed over the head, the bangs cut without considering the face peering out and others peering in. But, as sleep washing the last sands of consciousness out to the sea of Morpheus, the face morphs and it is Science Officer Spock who is peering back at me, his ears pointed to the heavens reminding me, as I slip into Morpheus’ orbit that I can yet live long and prosper.
The most interesting thing about visiting websites from foreign news services is that so many offer content in English and how deaths that occur locally seem to invoke the same sadness, horror, belated honor, and that local disasters take precedence over our own disasters not merely because it happened there and not here, but because the losses are greater, the damage far worse, the faces far less white. We hold the world up to the mirror often, but is only our face we see, and those like us standing behind, and we are blind to so much of what goes on around us, because this color blindness is of the sort that disables seeing at all rather than seeing all in monochrome.
It was the other evening, the first of two this month, they say This only happens once in a blue moon or a couple times every two or three years and often twice in the same year, So once in a blue moon isn’t that long but she said she could feel its pull, everything threatening to topple over and she moved very cautiously. I have to admit I didn’t feel very much, but I come from the people for who the lunar cycle is the norm, so the moon really proceeds as it should, it’s face having little to do with my time or tide. The moon will be full again later this month and I will pay careful attention to what I’m certain I will not feel then but will affect me in so very many ways.
He often comes to me in dreams. In most he is faceless, but intently present, speaking in a voice I instantly know, nothing like mine and totally mine. On occasion his face appears, blurred, as if seen through a scrim, back-lit, vague, an actor in some film I have seen, but yet not that person, that character. For a while I saw my own face, but I knew that was just my wishful mind filling in a gap which has yet to be filled, knowing that it likely never will.
Once, not long ago, a river meandered through our town. Actually, there was never a river here, and our town is really a small and shrinking city. But the wistful look on your face when I mentioned the river is reason enough to have one. So now I have to move somewhere in Connecticut or Massachusetts, or start digging a large channel through downtown. Hand me a shovel, I hate New England.