Broken glass
Aug. 16th, 2010 09:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lhexaI wonder what remains in me of friends who are now absent. Kevin, an amazing first friend, left something like a steady golden light, a sort of beacon, fitting for two child explorers of the nighttime. Casey, I suppose, would be an old leaf pressed into a book. Devin is a note tucked away in a place I won't forget, saying some such as, "Remember: you, though honest, deceive." A.J. met me with passion, with an anger greater than my thoroughly controlled own, and I imagine left behind a pair of brass knuckles. Raki, unwitting recipient of a neurotic's unhealthy friendship, remains as a shard of glass, sharp, embedded, what remains when the thin, transparent boundary between inside and out is shattered.
I had much cause to think of glass last night and tonight, after I broke into the apartment of my upstairs neighbor around three in the morning. The facts of the night do not cohere, at least not yet, so pardon me for giving little better than a list. The smoke alarm had sounded for twenty or more minutes, the apartment had filled with smoke from the oven, the lights were on, I tried knocking, my neighbor claimed to have been sleeping with ears plugged, though she was fully dressed when I poked my head through the broken window, the police were called anyway, so I should have done that anyway (though their response would have matched mine), and in the insomniac hours to follow I heard crying, then after a friend arrived laughing, from upstairs. As that friend arrived my neighbor knocked on my door to thank me, and told the friend that I had saved her life. That was an exaggeration.
What I remember most doggedly is the sensation of my foot going through the window, and a little moment of awe at my apprehension of its fragility. Even leaving the aforementioned exaggeration aside, I am confident that I did a good thing. But I feel something akin to panic when I realize that I do not know what it is, this good thing that I have done. I walked downstairs last night over a layer of broken glass, I laid awake thinking, among other things, of broken glass, and when I finally slept I dreamed of broken glass.
I had much cause to think of glass last night and tonight, after I broke into the apartment of my upstairs neighbor around three in the morning. The facts of the night do not cohere, at least not yet, so pardon me for giving little better than a list. The smoke alarm had sounded for twenty or more minutes, the apartment had filled with smoke from the oven, the lights were on, I tried knocking, my neighbor claimed to have been sleeping with ears plugged, though she was fully dressed when I poked my head through the broken window, the police were called anyway, so I should have done that anyway (though their response would have matched mine), and in the insomniac hours to follow I heard crying, then after a friend arrived laughing, from upstairs. As that friend arrived my neighbor knocked on my door to thank me, and told the friend that I had saved her life. That was an exaggeration.
What I remember most doggedly is the sensation of my foot going through the window, and a little moment of awe at my apprehension of its fragility. Even leaving the aforementioned exaggeration aside, I am confident that I did a good thing. But I feel something akin to panic when I realize that I do not know what it is, this good thing that I have done. I walked downstairs last night over a layer of broken glass, I laid awake thinking, among other things, of broken glass, and when I finally slept I dreamed of broken glass.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-18 12:57 am (UTC)I rather suspect, given how the subject has long been treated in mythology and given how the courses of various people's lives who are and aren't skilled with this technique tend to go, that whatever force guides and watches over us is especially fond of weavers. They are, after all, exhibiting perhaps humankind's greatest gift, that which is closest to the gods' own power: creativity, making sense out of the void, light out of the shadows.
I particularly liked your description of your first childhood friend. I've had moments like that, if not the exact same experiences; they were usually conducted alone, but they had that feel. There's something that I recognise, in any case, in your words.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-23 03:21 am (UTC)I did wonder for some time how it was that Feynman had so many interesting experiences in his life, thinking that he became a great storyteller because he had great stories to tell. But I'm recently finding that it is as you say... Feynman had experiences that he could tell interesting stories about because he was the kind of person who could make his experiences into interesting stories. It seems less profound when put that way, though. :P
I rather miss my childhood ability to trespass with impunity. That was the source of many adventures, enough of them to make the beacon I mentioned. *grins* I'm glad you had the same.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 11:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-07 04:32 am (UTC)