The light and the heat

And so we sleep and sleep and blissful sleep.

You ever had one of those dreams, where the plot is REALLY good? You’re really into it — the story, the characters, the music, the sex, the everything is just so riveting. And you sleep and you sleep and, inevitably, you always wake up right before the end. And you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering why you don’t have a ceiling fan, and beating yourself up for not closing the blinds at night, as the sun streaking onto your face can burn. And there is no sleep.

And you never find out how the dream ends.

It’s November 2001, I’m driving home from work and so is everyone else in town. Traffic is lined up down Speers Road and nobody is moving. I sing along with the radio until I see that the people in the car next to me are looking at me funny. Sun comes off the rear bumper of the car in front of me. It hurts my eyes. I don’t wear sunglasses because I worry people will mistake me for Ray Charles. Not really.

It’s March 2001. Silly Truth or Dare games in a chatroom and long nights that stretch beyond moons and I wonder what the hell I’m doing tiptoeing up to bed at 6 a.m. I wonder again when I’ll get to do it again. The stairs creak when I don’t want them to. Where did the time go? She laughs a lot. She’s smart. I sleep.

November 2001 again, the cars are moving so slowly down the two-lane road. I hear honking. I’m of the opinion that no one should have a horn but me. I see the blinking hazard lights on a car up ahead. Stalled? stopped? It’s really hot outside, despite being November. Time ticks away and nothing moves.

March, April, May, June, onward. Time ticks. Her voice sounds like soft light and sometimes she sings. The intangible mystery of where we are going plagues. She really missed me when I was in Florida. Now we only talk to each other. I said I wouldn’t do this again, but god, I can’t stop. I dream a lot; they never end. Time ticks away and nothing moves — but god, that smile. Mine and hers.

The man with the stopped car is standing on the road in November. A wounded bird with wings that won’t fly. The man chases him around and around, lunging at that bird in the crowded streets as people honk their damned horns at him. It’s not even his bird. It’s some pigeon or crow or something, with its broken wing sitting in the middle of a busy street. And you wonder what the hell possessed this guy to get out of his car and try to save it.

We talked a lot about getting together in the summertime. How many miles was it? I used to know the number off by heart. I don’t remember now. Sometimes it seemed like a million. Sometimes it seemed like none at all. Always always always there was something in the way, grounding us, holding us back. Traffic whizzed and it was so hard to dodge. We’d be better to just let things go, probably. Smarter. What could I possibly be thinking; she lived so far away. I can’t stop. I need to go.

The man has finally managed to grab the bird in his hands. I think he was bitten a few times. It really is a sight to see — this guy, middle aged, obviously without much bird-handling experience, is lifting this wild wounded bird up, and the bird is going nuts, flapping its wings and pecking at him. I think he pissed off about half of Oakville with the stunt, and I sit there in my car and wonder why the hell he’s doing it. Maybe he has to.

There’s so much dreaming as summer turns to fall. She has long dark hair. Messy, she says. She hates it, she says. She’s beautiful, though. I can’t stop thinking that. Still nothing moves and still we can’t get off the ground. Soon I’ll be on a backed up street going home and see a man get out of his car and save a wounded bird’s life for no reason I can fathom. Soon I’ll wonder what it all meant. And then, later, I’ll know.

The man in November is able to get the bird off the road. It took him four tries by my count. The bird would glide out of his hands and circle down and land back on the road again. The man held his finger up to the backed-up traffic and tried again. They honk at him; he doesn’t care. He needs to do this. Maybe he’s crazy. Maybe this is beautiful. The bird finally stays off the road and the man gets back into his car without a glance, and everything goes on as it has before. I drive home and talk to her, without face, as it has been for so long. And then we dream without end, as it has been for so long.

And it’s March 2002 and I’m flying to Vancouver in seven days. Maybe it’s crazy. Maybe it’s beautiful. Maybe it shouldn’t be done, and maybe it should. I need to do this. It’s been a year of strange nights and lonely nights and amazing nights and nights that could have gone forever. Smiles and laughter and tears and that strange feeling as suddenly everything is beyond control and life is spinning you around by the feet. A year; a year. 365 days of everything and nothing and now it’s time for rushed packing, cross-country flights and nervous fears mingling with frenzied excitement. I wonder what her eyes will do when I see her.

This dream this dream this dream — I’ll find out how the rest of it goes.