| Senior Member
Join Date: May 2001
Posts: 698
| Catharsi
First Catharsis:
It was the soft gray light of midday; it spoke to him of heat and rain, memories past. The light and music combined, bringing suddenly back the last summer. The possibilities, the potential. The joy. The memories and the music and the light eradicated his awareness of the cold and the snow, moving him back nearly nine months. He remembered then all that had happened in the between times, the strange and unpredictable spectrum of events which had brought him here, now. He thought of where he was, as he had before. He had come a long way, nearly full circle, experiencing and doing things he never would have expected. And where he was, was mostly good. The music swelled momentarily, and he filled with peace, the peace of God, and hope for the future. And then the music died, and he was left in the warm, blank gray, with fragments of memories.
So he picked up pen and paper.
Second Catharsis:
Late at night, the CD plays, getting use again after months of neglect.
The songs are familiar, but different. The promise and hope they used to hold is hollow, the sadness or regret somehow truer, while the music seems richer and more full than before.
The music brings back memories of the summer; hot days, happiness, hope, optimism, cool nights and early mornings. The songs used to bring joy; exhilarating, inflating, energizing. But now that is merely an echo, painful as a picture of a deceased loved one might be, a reminder of what once was and could have been.
And then wasn't.
The room is lit with long shadows barely etched from the soft light areas. The music plays, the pen scratches paper, the feet shift position in the comfortable chair. Nothing exists outside.
The surroundings are artifacts of times gone by, but players in the current drama all the same, ready to be uprooted and transplanted.
Fatigue meets weariness, and the two synergize to slow the mind. The pen scratches on, the pen sliding back and forth hypnotically. The owner desires an end, sleep, and yet, not. The sounds and motion and sensation of the pen and the memories of the music are as powerful as the weariness for now, but not for much longer.
The pen moves on, the hand working autonomously as the mind rests, meditates, heals. Thoughts fall into place, folded and put away for long storage, to be unpacked much later, when the planets of circumstance again align. The mind probes deeper, beginning the deeper cleaning, thoughts evolving into prayer.
Eventually, the pen slows...stops.
Third Catharsis:
The music is slow, the time late. A haunting melody drifts out, bringing back past failures, lonely melancholy nights and days. The intense foundation of the piece underlines the isolation of the dead, cold night. Desolation hides just beyond the fatigue and pain, coming farther forward with each powerful note. The symptoms of the seemingly incurable social paranoia are not currently evident, given the absence of people, but its scars are too easily memorable, if not readily visible. The pain is a long way from being forgotten, and in fact revived by the music seeping through the mind and soul.
There remains one spot which God cannot adequately sate.
Fourth Catharsis:
The cool night air of spring drifts in the window, leaving a comfortable chill to offset the warm chair. Sleep beckons, and only a few questions remain.
The music is again that of last summer, and fits well again. Stronger, happier, the song once more serves the purpose of uplifting, encouraging. The hand and mind work feverishly; the hand dares not rest and slow the mind; the mind dares not slow and admit extraneous thoughts for fear of losing momentum, and so no specific memories come up. Instead, the music acts as a memory in and of itself, providing and insulation layer to the mind, helping to isolate it by filtering out background noise.
Suddenly, the last equation ends as the song does the same; the sounds of night enter through open windows. The ever-present whisper of wind, a small rustling of light rain, a distant highway, the hiss of tires on wet pavement and an engine approaching and passing.
A peaceful feeling of sleepy satisfaction overwhelms all others. A new pen and notebook are picked up with the decision that the best way to thank God for this feeling is to share it with others.
Fifth Catharsis:
Peace. The night is late, the air warm. The first rain of true spring falls, a reminder of the world outside.
The music is slow and easy, a drifting, flowing piano solo. It quietly permeates the room, softening and padding the glowing cell of light in the near-summer night. Two black squares are the portals for entering sound, the connection to the greater silence and peace.
With it all comes a sense of belonging, of being perfectly synchronized and fit to the set. The rain slows and stops, and silence flows in through the black portals. There is a feeling of the end being in sight, of anticipation and apprehension. A knowing that the crazed pace will soon slow to normal, and looking forward to the respite, but regretting that the only break will be the end, after which the old familiar cannot be regained, but a new one must be made. Looking forward to what lies ahead, but having to leave behind what is already had.
Anticipation of much good to be gained, apprehension of some bad. Anticipation of some bad to be left behind, regret that so much more good will.
Wanting it to change, and yet stay the same. Knowing that the two are mutually exclusive.
Again, hoping that as much good is left behind, as much or more will be gained. Again, knowing that, as much bad will be left behind, just as much can be gained, hoping for less.
Sixth Catharsis:
Five years. . .what is five years? Half a decade? A little more than high school? A decent college stay? Long enough to get a raise?
For five years, this was my world. For five long years, this is what I knew. And now I must leave this world for another I have barely glimpsed.
What is five years? One fifteenth of an average lifetime, or nearly a full third of mine? Right now, I care only that the latter is true.
For a third of my life have I lived here, learning every angle of my small world. For three years I wearied the base, pounding the same trails, finding the last refuge, exploring, probing, finding the small jewels it had to offer. Wandering for hours in the summer heat, the ubiquitous wind blowing sweat away before it could stick. Treks through snow deeper than I was tall, not a square inch of flesh showing, breath frozen to masked cheeks by the same wind.
When I had all this, I went outside, fifteen empty, beautiful miles away to the city. I was afraid at first, pulled in, but became bolder, and rapidly reached out. Probing the back trails of the city, I learned times and distances, pounding the way with countless strides, breathing the city's hard breath, sweating its blood. On perfectly beautiful days, on warm evenings and in frozen morning and at scorched noon, the paths were pounded into submission beneath my feet. When I was alone, or surrounded by laughing, joking comrades; when it was one hundred degrees and dry, or thirty degrees and driving rain, or thirty degrees below and not snow, but jagged ice crystals, blowing into my face, melting and freezing to my hair and eyebrows. I rolled and meandered through the city, two, three, seven, eight miles at a time. The base was mine, and the city now too.
For the latter three years was the evening combat; the high ceiling of the armory; the ritualistic stretching; the sound and flash of blades; the instructor's sardonic wit. Sweat and adrenalin flowing freely, legs and eyes burning. The joy of feeling the weapon not as an object in my hand, but as an extension of it. Letting go the mind and fighting with my whole being. Shaking only after the fight.
All this was mine for nearly a third of my life, and now I leave it all behind. The experience is something close to death at the beginning: Leaving friends, saying tear-filled goodbyes, knowing you very well may never see them again.
The reality of the situation has not yet sunk in; perhaps I am like a ghost unwilling to admit I am dead.
I know logically that I have gone now for good. I know that I have left my world, never to return. I know that even if I can go back to the location, things will never be the same. I know that my friends will have changed, or will be gone. But I don't know it. The day that I truly realize that I am right now friendless, homeless, alone, will be one dark day.
Seventh Catharsis:
A blank page. And what to fill it with?
A soft white, ruled by red margins and light blue lines. But what to fill it with? A pen can dispense only ink; it cannot bleed the hatred out onto the paper. Words may release, if the right ones are found, with appropriate target. But there is neither. A vague, inescapable darkness. Anger more comforting than pain - anger brings power. Pain brings only a hard shell, the inside softer than before. But pain can be general. Anger must have a reason, a direction, a target. The target exists. But reason and direction do not.
Anger is more readily defeated by reason, more quickly evaporated under logic. But it leaves its mark on the way out. Pain, while it may stay longer, and is more difficult to evict, leaves no claw marks.
And from these come a discussion of the goods (if they can be called that) and bads of anger and pain. But anger has already been chosen. The discussion puts both in better perspective, shows the damage done by both. Shows that there are no "goods" to either. But what good without a willingness to release? Which leads to the next inevitable question:
Why is there no willingness to release? Even as the words fall, the emotions bleed out. Why then, should anything be held onto?
A guard against apathy.
Because she must see what was done, what she did. She must see that a relationship means more than one person is involved. She must see the anger and the pain and the betrayal so that she will remember it. Remember it for later, and remember it from before.
Why?
Because when she can see the pain, and possibly understand the anger, she can see what she did. And when she sees that, then and only then can there be remorse.
And now appears the reason and the direction and the target.
Eighth Catharsis:
Darkness. And in that darkness, dreams of darkness. Black night for an attack. On the defensive. Night vision goggles, and a powerful rifle. Watch the invaders fall.
More darkness. And in that darkness, dreams of light and friends.
Darkness. And in that darkness, hours and hours of dreams. Wake to dim light; ignore it, bury the head, sleep. Finally, wake of own choice, look up.
Light, glittering light. The room dim, grey in the morning. In one corner of the ceiling, a light spot, cast by some unseen window. Directly in view, curtains pulled back to reveal Venetian blinds. Dark on the inside, but light glitters on the outside. Waves, too, suggesting a tree and a breeze. Outside it is winter, cold. But the memories argue otherwise.
Two memories. Deceptive, vivid, and bittersweet. Glittering light of morning.
Laying in bed, the sun is well-risen. Only a sheet is on him, and the windows are open. A patch of sunlight stretches across the upper half of the bed and onto the lampshade beside. The lampshade casts a brazen ring of light around a corner of the ceiling. He lays in place, head propped up on hands, listening. Occasional cars. Birds, lawnmowers, and a breeze. The breeze reaches in through the screens, finds him, graces the bare skin with its touch. The clock reads late morning. Half reluctant to leave his solitary peace, he rouses to join the world of the wakeful.
Dead asleep on a couch. Once again, only a sheet pulled over in the unfamiliar place. Roused quickly by a knocking at the front door, a call of “Housekeeping!” He rolls over to his feet, stands, searches briefly. Spies the tattered old SpecOps t-shirt from the previous evening, yanks it on. Stumbles blinking to the bright door, explains confusedly that no cleaning is necessary. Returns to the couch, sits. The place is familiar, yet unfamiliar. He’s been in a dozen identical buildings, sat on a dozen couches in the same place. Yet here it is only him. And the place is not his, but only borrowed. The location is familiar too, yet he’s never had this angle on this particular area. Passed through, but never been an inhabitant.
A day awaits. A day with little that must be done, and only some more that can be done. He is in leaving as he was in coming. A breeze reaches in through the door, searching to leave through the window just to his left. On the way it again brushes his skin, the exposed legs and arms, ruffling the thin, cool fabric of the old shirt. He stands then, enjoying the movement of the air, and runs a hand through his short, fuzzed hair. He pulls the hand the rest of the way over the back of his head, then down his neck, resting it for a moment at the base of his neck. Bringing the other hand up, he rubs his face for a minute, then shakes the remaining sleep violently form his head and looks for his clothes. He dresses quickly, then moves out to seek the living.
He was in leaving as he was in coming.
[ 05-16-2002: Message edited by: Swordsman ]</p>
__________________
It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to burn the flag. - Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
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