Nocturnals
Page 33
the paper darkens into
giving the dark its due: a young aspirant was
delighted by the light of the page;
loved in particular poems of wide margins and sparse lines
whose words gloomed darkly
against a brightness of paper/possibility; the brightness
always already there. Once he tried
to write in white ink on black paper—could not
overcome the dark, the completed
whole a condition of the night.
Birdsong in the night is a perpetual puzzle: it is dangerous
to wake from certain dreams
into the forces of nightbird and cloudveiled moon.
The Greeks counted their days by mornings,
the Germans by the nights before. Many
have a common word for night, but not for day.
Nightlife began in 1852. How does “birthday” differ from “birthnight”?
To adjourn is to set a day, not night, for
continuing—a life, let us say, is unadjournable.
I make clay houses for the small fishes
who might otherwise dissolve at night
I make of clay a light to lighten
the daytime path, the path of night
I make a kind of clay of light and dark
a mix like dry and wet, a fantasy
I make of clay and light a dark
a cup to drink the night from
I make a child of dark and dark
to keep him warm to keep him safe.
The night hero the night heron lifts
a leg and holds then places with extremest
care in mud the foot
the lifts the other holds the place
holds then places with extremest care
the other foot in clay beneath the water
the night heron hunts at the line between
light and dark the night heron hunts
at the line between land and
lake, mud and miracle.
Them
William Hicks
We are patient. It does not matter if any one of us is not. Together we wait in the dark in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds all other darkness, and so long as we are together we are patient, we are brave, we can do the things that must be done within the darkness without fear without hatred without worry without anything to divide us from ourselves. We are strong together. We do not bring out the best in each other. We bring out the best in ourselves and offer it up to one another, because that is what we owe one another and that is what we need to take care of those who need it, those we love, even those who do not love us.
We wait in the dark in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds all other darkness not because any one of us wants to be here but because together we want to be here. We want to figure out what we have missed, where our best was not good enough, what we were blind to (in spite of all our eyes) before it is too late. No one of us thinks these thoughts. If any one of us did, maybe it would be strange, maybe it would be frightening, but these are just the thoughts of the decisions we make together. Each of us is nervous, distracted, worried about the one who is missing and what has been lost, but together we are always watching, calm, ready. There is always an eye that remains open no matter which of us blinks. And that is how we care for one another. That is how we care for those who need it. That is how everyone lives.
We wait in the dark in the room of the silent house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds all other darkness, and now you are here. You are not surprised to see us. No one of us realizes this, but together we know it and when we talk it all over later, we all will realize it. But for now, each of us has a part to play. Each of us can be proud of what each of us does. Together we do not have to be proud, we do not have to be humble, we can just be correct. We do this together each for our own reasons, but together we will satisfy all of those reasons. Together we have a single purpose. The one who stands now, the one who steps forward, the one who speaks up first does this because she likes you and feels bad for you. We send her forward first because someone who likes you and feels bad for you will keep us from being cruel to you. We know this is necessary. Each of us has our own reasons for working together, and the single purpose we build together cannot cross any of those reasons. Otherwise we fall apart. Otherwise we lose ourselves. Otherwise each of us loses the others in the dark in the rooms of the houses in the woods in the nights of the dark that enfolds all other darkness, and then we can do nothing but what each of us can do. That is why we are here tonight. We leave none of us behind.
We wait in the dark in the room of your house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds all other darkness for you to come forward and sit with us at the table. One of us walks beside you, holding your arm, apologizing for frightening you. You are not frightened. You have been expecting us, but no one of us realizes this either. Each of us has been taught to wait, to withhold judgment, to observe—each from our separate position—and together we will realize things when the time has come for coming together, when the time has come for realization. The one who walks with you is nervous because she does not know what we will find in the words of this person whom she likes and feels bad for. We are not nervous. One of us is nervous so the rest of us do not have to be. If one of us is nervous, we are still (each of us) human; we are still (each of us) kind. But one of us is nervous, and the rest do not have to be.
We wait in the dark in the familiar room of your house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds all other darkness, and the one who is nervous seats you at the table. The one who is nervous apologizes again and sits next to you. She looks at the rest of us (all but one) to remind us that we cannot be cruel, that we do not know if you work against us and the purpose that brings us all here to the dark in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds all other darkness or if you are just as worried and lost as all the rest of us wandering in the dark, enfolded in the darkness, trying to figure out what we missed with all of us watching, all of us offering the best of ourselves, each to the other but still not enough to keep us all together, enfolded in the darkness just beyond the sight of anyone with a purpose that could come between us, break us apart, one from the other from the other from the other from the purpose that brings us together, enfolded in the darkness, safe from the light, safe from exposure to a world of other purposes, other people, other interests that might consume our own and leave us alone for the first time since we found our place here in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds all other darkness.
We wait in the dark in the room in the house in the woods in the night of our dark that enfolds all other darkness, and another of us begins to speak. He is not nervous. He is tired. He is worried that it is his fault. He is worried that he missed something. He does not want to miss anything, but he should not worry. Together, we are not tired. Together, we know it is our fault. Together, it is not the fault of any one of us. Together, we missed something. Together, we will not miss anything tonight. Together, we watch you. Together, we listen to your words. Together, we will discover what we missed. Together, we will make things right. Together, we are better, kinder, calmer, sharper, quicker than anyone alone. Together, we can afford to do good. Together, we can afford to be good.
We wait in the dark in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the endless dark that enfolds all other darkness for you to finish speaking. It does not matter much what you say right now. Now is not the time for answers. Now is the time for observation. You do not look around the room. You do not look at any one of us except the one who asked the question. You move like us. Your expressions are like ours. We do not realize this right now, but later one of us will think about this and then we will know something we did not know before. Something will emerge from the dark. Something always does when there are so many eyes tryin
g to pierce it together. We have known this for as long as we have been here in the dark in the rooms of the houses in the woods in the nights of the dark that enfolds all other darkness, and that is how we know that darkness is not enough. You know this too, and you show us what you know, and you know that you show us.
We wait in the dark in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds all other darkness, and you tell us to turn on the lights. You do not demand that we do this. You do not do it yourself. You say it simply, as you go from one sentence to the next. You say it so simply and so casually that one of us moves to obey before we realize what you have said and what is about to happen, and then the light is on and there is no more dark in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds all other darkness and there is never any point in turning off a light once it has been turned on chasing away the dark from a room in the houses of the woods in the nights of the dark that enfolds all other darkness, so we must not regret that the light is on in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that we hope still enfolds our darkness, and we trust that the one who turned on the light saw something that no other among us saw or realized something that no other among us realized, and that is why he turned on the light and that is the best of himself that he has offered up to each of us so that together we are stronger, better, calmer, clearer than any of us would be without him.
We sit in the light in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds our darkness and you speak without pause or hesitation. You are bitter that we did not speak to you sooner, and you tell us this without ever saying so. You tell us this by asking no questions. We hear and we know, and those ones among us who do not understand will be told later when the time has come to share what we heard and saw one with the other until each understands what we all observed. You speak and each of us (all but one) listen, and finally you stop and tell us to bring the one who is missing home. You do not demand this. You tell us to do it as simply and directly as telling us to turn on the lights, but no one stands up this time.
We sit in the light in the room in the house in the empty woods in the night in the dark that enfolds our darkness, and we wait. It is necessary that each of us wait for silence to grow, because silence is a flower that all of us together must tend. We wait while the silence grows up from the soil of our waiting. We wait until the bud of silence has grown on a silent stalk that each of us watches, each of us measures. One of us must move at just the right moment and snatch up the bloom of silence just after it opens, just before it falls, and we know which one of us it must be, but all of us must help her to find the right moment. We look away and watch the silence out of the corner of our eyes, for silence cannot stand the touch of eye against eye and will wilt if we meet your gaze. We watch (each of us out of the corners of our eyes) the bud of silence grow. We watch the gaps begin to open between each petal of silence. We watch each petal curl out and out and out until it strains with the force of its opening and finally you look away and one of us snatches up the silence before the first petal falls.
We sit in the light in the room in the house in the woods in the longawaited night of the dark that enfolds our darkness, and one of us speaks. She is frank and direct and unflinching. She does not trust you. We let her be the one to snatch away the silence and put questions in its place because only someone who does not trust you can be so frank and direct and unflinching. We ask questions by having her ask them and you answer the questions that she asks. Now is the time for answers, and you give them, frankly, directly, unflinchingly. We know that you lie sometimes and sometimes you tell the truth, but no one among us realizes when you are lying or when you are telling the truth until later when each of us realizes what all of us know.
We sit in the light in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that unfolds from our darkness while answers are given to questions that one of us asks. Now the answers matter, and now we all (each of us) listen carefully to each word you speak. We will realize later that you are a clever liar and that we were wise to listen so carefully. We will realize later that you speak just like we do when you lie, that you move just like we do when you lie, that you hold yourself just like we do when you lie. We will realize later that that is the only way we know what was true and what was false and what hung between the two just at the point where we would least suspect a lie and least believe the truth. But because each of us heard and saw and waited and spoke and offered the best of ourselves each to the other and all together we will discover it point by point, lie by lie, until we see it like a constellation suddenly coming into focus, blazing out of the night in the dark that enfolds our darkness, tracing out the pattern that will lead us to what we need to know, to what we should have known back when we should have known it back when there was still time to know it before it was too late.
We sit in the light in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the soothing dark that enfolds our darkness while answers are given to questions that none of us ask. You know that you give us these answers, but you are bitter and you do not care. You lean back in your chair at your own dining table with your arms crossed staring at each of us, one by one, who have come into your home uninvited and pulled up chairs to your dining table uninvited and ask you questions uninvited. Some of us feel guilt and some of us do not, but you want all of us gone and each of us gone, even the ones who like you and feel bad for you. You will not tell us to leave, and so we press on in the light in the room in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds our darkness, hoping to stumble in the darkness across the thing that we should have known and know it for what it is, pressing on and on, stepping more and more boldly, thinking surely this time we will find something new underfoot, something we have not seen lurking in the dark that enfolds our darkness.
We rise in the light in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds our darkness. We have asked our questions. We have heard your answers. We have found all that can be found in the room in the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds our darkness and now we leave as each of us must for all of us to remain correct and kind, thorough and thoughtful, driven and decent. The one who does not trust you leaves first and then the one who is tired and then the rest of us one by one until only the one who likes you and feels bad for you is left, and once she is the only one left, she asks the final question of the night.
We wait in the light from the window of the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds our darkness. At last, the last of us joins us, and we are (all but one) together once more. We do not speak. It is not yet time for each of us to know what we (all of us) know. It is enough that we know and there will come a time for realizing and understanding and acting, but now is the time for silence, now is the time for darkness.
We walk out of the light from the window of the house in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds our darkness. We walk one by one and separately so that anyone watching would not suspect that it was us and not each of us walking in the woods in the night in the dark, spreading out away from the house, disappearing like water into fabric. We are (each of us) alone but we know that the others (all but one) are out there in the woods in the night in the dark that enfolds our darkness, offering the best of themselves to all of us so that we can do the thing that all of us have decided to do in the dark that enfolds our darkness. And when the time comes, we will do it.
A Scribe from the Double House of Life
Heather Altfeld
In the darkness of the inscrutable, a dream becomes an imperious vision invested with supernatural authority by its mysterious origins.
—Roger Caillois, Logical and Philosophical
Problems of the Dream
On the second day of the Camp Fire, the ash snowed so hard that the light outside changed entirely; the November noon turned a terrible purpled glow, four o’clock brought twinned plague
s of darkness and hail-spitting shrapnel from the lives of Paradise onto our cars and into our hair: armchairs and antimacassars, blenders and sofa cushions, Dan Brown novels and cords of pine, all sizzled to invisible bits and drifting down into the valley on the black wind. From the windows, in a California where it never snows, one could try to imagine. One could imagine one was shivering from a northerly wind. One could imagine the silent and lovely ambitions of each dendritic flake, each flocked bit accumulating on the sidewalks and in the streets until we were wholly insulated from the noise of fire engines and helicopters. One could put on a pot of tea or stir a cup of cocoa, waiting for the chill to pass enough to trudge outside and make an ash angel.
In the little town that was, the burnt-sugar glass of bakeware caramelized the floors, then the subfloors, boiling down to candy the dirt. The photographs of grandfathers and grandmothers, uncles and aunts, pilgrims and immigrants mixed with the air of the scorched and the dead and the bad breath of the living, floating up to find the dust of stars and specks of light and the molecules of meteors, so that, as we walked outside in the masks we wore to distinguish ourselves as earth’s newest children, we took it all in, folding and unfolding the molecules that had quite literally moments ago been the mnemonics of a whole people. And the cloud that had become us, photographed by satellite, by helicopter, by drone, looked not unlike Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the souls of trees crying loud as the Japanese.
This is the night on which the dreams began, the nightmares—borne in a toxic soup and infused with the grease of all that had melted—think butter, lard, think oils, think petrol, plastics, think skin.
And these dreams—these nightmares—they aren’t mine. They don’t belong to me, nor do they concern anyone or anywhere I know. They are, it would seem, part of the volcanic lava and gas that descended from the mountains, down through our creeks, between the toes of each tributary, the oxidation of time and memory that rendered me its intimate, if only for a little while. On the first night, I entered the shoes of a man who tried to outrun the blaze after his car caught fire and then exploded. I turned around when I heard the sputter and gurgle of it, one fine moment of green and orange and gold you could mistake for a bonfire, then it was gone, the key still pressed in my bony hand. Now when I say that I had entered his shoes, I mean this quite literally; instead of dropping into sleep as one does, it is as though I awakened to find myself in these Big Five specials, feet foreign to me, impossibly long and thin, yet within the mechanics of my control, as though I were my own marionette. The rubber on the bottom of these strange feet was melting against the asphalt after being so close to the infernos that had spouted everywhere around me, a contagion of flame. So now when I ran downhill, they made a gummy, flabby noise. Every footfall, every piercing breath in, I could see in my mind’s eye one pine beam of my house crashing in. Worth more burned, the voice in my head—a man’s voice, Marlboro in its grit—I will tell the insurance guy tomorrow, before the phone goes dead.