i was awakened by the sound of rustling in the outside through my pane. my eyes, determined not to open, struggle to keep light out. disoriented, i win the battle with the curtains just in time for my eyes to make out forms. the black-hole i was starring into was just dark enough to make out the four figures. these figures were darker than anything i'd ever seen before. so dark that it seemed as though if there were a source of illumination nearby, it would have been swallowed up by these figures. the four figures moved quickly, so fast the naked eye could never pin them down. by this time i had collected my wits and crept toward the door. gently pressing my ear tightly against it i could hear whispers. just audible enough to make out what was being spoken; however the language was not recognizable. silence came quickly. and i soon decided to enter the outside. my trembling arm extending outward toward the door. my hand clenched tightly around the handle, white knuckles, sweaty palms. the door mechanism had never sounded so intimidating. the hinges wailed as i eased the massive door open just enough to peer outside. once assured that the figures had all dispersed, i slowly opened the door and stepped into the outside. though my eyes had adjusted minutes ago they struggled to fixate on objects in the outside world. it was as if i could only visually perceive things that i had been familiar with on the inside. in my little box of walls that i had filled with memories and regrets. as i started to walk forward i stumbled over something.....
January 21, 2009
i had a dream that i wrote a book about the story of my life. took years to finish, maybe because i don't consider myself much of an author. the front cover of the book is amazing. it is wooden with millions of tiny intricate carvings that intertwine in and out of each other. while looking at it up close you can appreciate its details, and yet when you look at it from afar it paints a picture of a tree within all four seasons of the year. the corners of the cover are plated with brass and the clasp on the edge is engraved ever so delicately. i was so intrigued by the appearance of the exterior i almost forgot to even read it. i flipped up the clasp and slowly began to open the book. i couldn't help but be amazed as i thumbed through page after page. they were empty. every single page was blank. no preface, no chapters, not even a single picture. confused, i continued to check every page right to the end. disgusted, i flipped over the back of the book and my mouth dropped. the image carved into the wooden cover was almost exactly like the one found on the front, however the tree was on fire. the beautiful seasons depicted on the front were replaced with flames and smoke, the flowers replaced with ash, the birds with embers. dropping to my knees, my eyes poured, drenching the pages with salty tears.
Posted by Mike Parit at 10:22 PM
January 18, 2009
here i am, sitting in my small condo; alone. the blinds in the southern-most window raised just enough to reveal the frigid outside. the sun had disappeared about an hour ago and huge snowflakes were falling like elephants tied to anchors. through my bookshelf speaker flows an ominous organ chord layered with the jingling notes from a telecaster. the past month or so i have sunk into this 'counting crows' moment. not because i met a guy named mr. jones or because it was a long december with january close behind, no no.. its because of the high i get from the comparison of the lyrics and my life.
i've got a bookshelf filled with my autobiographies and yet i've never read them. a few are painted with photos that i've never seen, and the pages are out of order. atop of my bookshelf sits a bonsai tree that i never got to know. i water it everyday and scold it for growing bigger. there is a candle i bought because i thought it smelled amazing. but once lit, its that much closer to no longer having a purpose. i looked into the mirror this morning, leaning forward to get a better view of the stranger i saw. it was me, looking at me. how long have i been gone? how long have i been asleep? this dizzy life is a dreamers delight, where nightmares take flight, and wrong becomes right. the pillow held under my thoughts as i wondered what wakes me. running down streets, with pavement pounding feet, arms held out to reach for things that can't save me.
Posted by Mike Parit at 12:37 PM