Draumskrok.
There are no routines to rely on these days. No comforting green valleys worn into the wooden floors between the living room and kitchen. These days it’s a constant feverish push forward, a self-inflicted chaos. A murky dream about abandoning the book on the beach, a flailing run into the tumultuous surf, dragged under, pressing each limb against an invisible resistance, pushing out to find the bubbles, to follow to the surface.
In soft darkness, the mind’s struggles are pitted against the search for pure, simple sounds. At the dawn’s early light, it’s all ears.
That clang of metal and heaving hydraulic system must be my waste management friends. I am anxious in my cotton chrysalis, wondering whether I’ve forgotten the recycling. I wonder if they ever see the care I take in securely tying the bags. Each week, making sure to spray the sticky scum out from within the can. I wonder if they ever find treasures to bring home to their lovers, sets of gold-plated knives, cases of vintage wine, unboxed encyclopedias.
Further away, the trains of midtown yawn in long, bleating wails. Ambling and creaking through overgrown city fields and streets. Everyone feels bad for their hobo ways, their graffiti disarray. But the cars are filled with rum, helium and pizza boxes. They’re just waiting for the right moment to say, “Surprise! Life is nuts!”™ Overflowing containers of macadamia nuts are near the caboose.
A house alarm shrieks. What could be an attack of perfectly orchestrated locusts is actually the outcome of a couple chubby squirrels wrestling too close to an array of protective lasers. As Catherine Zeta Jones faintly smiles, all the way from the coast of Wales.
Cops only sound their sirens as a sign of riotous, friendly laughter. Cars pass by below, each passenger woven heavily into their favorite heartbreaking song.