“I’m not sure what I want to do, but – well, I want to go
places and see people. I want my mind to grow. I want to live where things
happen on a big scale.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald
A few weeks ago I spent the weekend in a house by the lake
that was the color of sage and murky skies. With white shuttered windows that
lined the walls; that with the sunrise – tinted the room a dusty rose. It had a
feel of a cottage, yet with its gentle nautical décor, you could almost taste
the salt of the sea.
Each morning I woke
early in the sleeping house, wrapped myself snugly in my blanket with only my
eyes and nose peeking out and walked with stealth out the back door, sitting
comfortably on the stairs of the porch to watch as each star was blown out by a
somnolent wind. I am but an invisible cloak, lucid drifting like warm waters
dancing along the coastline, salt kissing washed pebbles without romance,
transparency burning into the core of my vacuum.
I caught myself
sighing as I gazed longingly across the landscape, and found that I had indeed
fallen in love with the hazy fog that settled stagnant on the grassy fields, as
well as the wild lavender that grew – compelled – into the cracks of unkempt
asphalt of a forgotten time.
As the house would slowly shake itself from the cobwebs of
the night to greet the rainy days, I watched settled at a contentedly
comfortable distance. The entire adventure had ultimately been a new experience
for me. It had been quite some time since I had allowed myself to spend time in
a curiously large group of individuals. Large groups had a tendency to
intimidating me. There was always too much to look at, too much to take in, too
much to experience; not to mention that I never quite knew what my role was in
them. But I spent those few precious days sitting blissfully on the beach, draped
in a damp towel; my wet hair trickling cold water down my skin, and my feet buried
in warm piles of sun-soaked sand.
Now I sit hunched over my notebook, hiding huddled under my
bright yellow covers; to create a camouflage from the evasive sunlight, which
peeks uncertainly through the crack between my curtains to see if I’m awake yet.
One night a few weeks ago I drove around the city with a
friend. I sat in the passenger seat, pushing myself against the door and
nervously biting my nails as I always do. The night was warm and the windows
were down; and I wanted to stick my head out into the rushing air like dog but
was afraid of losing my self-controlled demeanor. I chattered about nothing in
particular, my mind all too self-aware as I tried to decide how to position my
legs to keep me from looking uncomfortable. The music was loud and kept causing
me to lose my sentences, and then panicking as I tried to find where I had left
off once again.
Suddenly I found familiarity in the landscape and the turns
of the road and told him quickly to stop here.
We sat idling on the outskirts of the small town I grew up
in, where the highway winds off into a dirt path with not quite enough gravel
to cover its dusty canvas. There isn’t anything past this point but the dying
wind combed fields, besides the muted colors and the near purity of the atmosphere.
The headlights of the car beamed across a field, as if in a scrutinizing
fashion. I unbuckled my seatbelt to step out of the discomfited air of the car
and into the cooling breeze of the night. I ran my fingers over the skateboard
decal that had been slapped onto the face of a no trespassing sign hanging on a
splintered fence that read: “stop here.” It’s bold and hard. It hasn’t been
worn down with the weather like everything else here seems to have been.
Stop here.
An angry black X had
been spray-painted onto the back of a fallen lawn chair, and someone had
scribbled permanent marker faces all with dull flat eyes.
I knew this place. I had a story here. I walked out into the
beams of the lights and into the field without as much as a glance behind me. I
pushed through the tall grass; remembering it being much taller than this. I
heard my friend call after me, and paused to ask myself why I was so impossibly
head-strong and willful before continuing forward without a sound; feeling the
warmth of the lights slowly melt into the darkness. When I reached the clearing
I smiled. Because although it was not exactly as I recalled it to be, I knew it
was the same place.
I dug the toe of my shoe into the dirt and scraped it around
– waiting patiently for my frantic friend to find me – my eyes drifting along
the edges of the clearing, the corners of my mouth twitching. My eyes settled
on an old shirt, and I allowed my mind to wonder who the owner was. How old
they were, why they left it lying somberly in the dirt, whose name was written
on their heart, how their tears tasted, if their mother was kind, whether they
belonged under the sunrise or the sunset, or if they were more alive in the
lake or the ocean.
Noisy rustling from behind announced my friend, and pushing
through the grass started loudly spouting frustrated questions.
I wanted to put my
hand over his mouth and tell him to be of a more respectful of nature, that
this was a happy place.
I ignored him, and started pointing excitedly, and talking animatedly.
I told him about my pink unicorn kite, and how my older sister had a dragon
kite that I was jealous of. I told him about how years ago after church my Dad
would drive us over here and fly kites all afternoon to keep us from going home
and waking my sickly mother. I told him that my Dad used to tell us over a mouthful
of tuna fish sandwich that the wind was magic here. And I realized when I said
it, that I still believed it. I told him of the time when my little sister’s
kite blew away and we split up to find it, but spent the day playing marco-polo
instead.
When I was finished I looked at him expectedly, waiting for
him to say something – although I didn’t know what would be the ideal response –
instead he seemed annoyed about my running off, and commented how we should probably
be heading back to the car now.
I felt a little disappointed, but I don’t know as to what I
was expecting. I walked formally behind him, and with a nostalgic glance behind
me, I wished for that different, happier time so long ago.
I shut my eyes tight. Pulled in a hard breath; fast.
Stop here.
