Sensory Stones

You find yourself sitting by a dying fire under a clear and starry night sky. In your hands is a mug, still slightly warm but empty, the faint taste of peppermint tea lingering on your tongue. The taste is familiar and comforting. You look up and marvel at the pin-pricks of light, pretending that the sparks from the fire that cross your vision are shooting stars. The thought amuses you. You think about the fire, how you can feel the smoke in your skin, the smell of it in your hair and clothes, the dryness in your eyes and lips. Your hands feel rough from handling the wood that built the fire. Small nicks and cuts from sharp edges and brambles sting but are not painful. You begin to think of times past, a dozen occasions sitting out with friends, past lovers, relatives, enjoying a beer, music, laughter, gentle chatter, a comforting arm around you against a chill breeze, your own arms around another and the smell of her hair. You remember these things, but they are far away, your friends are elsewhere, unreachable, and you know they're together, laughing and talking, comforted by each others' company. The lover is even further away, has forgotten you or does not care for you any longer, you know not which. That you are alone, becomes strikingly clear. No laughter, no chatter, no arms around you, just the crackle of the fire and the pale light of the stars. A cool breeze chills you and the feeling hits you like a blow to the chest, so intense it's painful. You feel small and far away, loved but remote. You've never felt quite so...lonesome.

Scream? No. Maybe if I let out all the snorts, subvocal mutterings, fist-striking-palm incidents, flying hands into the bannister, gasps when the nose can't supply enough air, all those at once, it would add up to one scream--but not today. Today was a silent day.

Everyone had a silent day today, clearing the brickwork when one man lunged at another in the shadow of the fancy-dress shop window--kicked him in the head without warning or finesse, while the crowd diverted itself in a loose circle five meters broad. They were at the center, I a bit more than halfway out, glaring inward at the unprotected back of the kicker. Defending oneself with bare hands? Forgotten. Keys and pressure points? Forgotten. A kick in the crotch? Forgotten. That shoe I threw at a boy back in first grade? Forgotten. My head was as silent as the other onlookers.

The attacker got tired of assaulting the fetal position and backed away, rasping a word or three, not English, likely not Gaelic. Silence broke, and the ring dissipated like fog. My mind disposed of the details before I'd left that street, but it wasn't quick enough to stop connections. Rage under the N20 overpass, a man in the dusk hammering on the plexiglass windows of a self-contained street sweeper--what loud drunken language had that been? Why was the victim's face the familiar one? Had I passed him before, clutching a can of lager at the Lady's Well, or munching on chips in the cold angle of a concrete stairway? Am I certain that it's nothing I can make a witness statement about? Yes.

VPS: Violent Passion Surrogate.

I feel fine.

I rise to the sound of guttural swearing And protests of a mower or chainsaw too old For efficient work in cold winter mornings.

I have lain in my bed for an hour or more, Until the sound of machinery’s roar Has told me my father has gone downstairs And into the yard to work.

I make cornflakes and tea, Both sweetened with honey, As the mower downstairs Begins its work.

I cannot see my father Anywhere except my mind, But the picture formed there is Perfect as any taken with a camera.

Hunched over, too tall for the lawnmower. His shirt is probably off, His barrel body showing The biggest scar I have ever seen before or since.

His hands and bulging arms red with Perpetual sunburn and raw-rubbing From working the railway For too many years,

His face just as red With heat and with swearing, Grizzled full-beard Seems almost too dark for his golden-brown hair.

I step out to the balcony and the mower has stopped Replaced steady and steady by wood being chopped By huge bulging arms with an axe held aloft As effortless and natural as a baby with its rattle.

My mother’s at work and My brother is hiding in his room Much as I was moments before. I stare at my father.

While my own breath is frosting in the air, The man glows red and sweats as he splits More wood than is seemingly possible, As if he projects his own heat.

This morning I will not fear. Today I will have his approval, so I go down to my father and start Hauling wood from the pile Up to the house for the fire.

He smiles briefly and messes my hair, Which I know he despises for nearly reaching My chin. We work in silence until The end, when he says ‘we’re done’ and nods.

I notice the ‘we’ that I desperately sought And I am king of my world, for today.

You have had a bad day. You feel tired and your mind feels dull. You have a hard time thinking straight, but even then you hold on to a single idea: you can feel better, if it is what you truly wish for.

You go into your room, close the door and open the window. A soft summer breeze comes through, bringing with it the smell of trees and flowers. You sit on the ground, your back straight as an arrow, close your eyes, and concentrate. You turn all your thoughts inwards, becoming aware of your anxious breath and heartbeat. You listen to them, feel them, become them. You let them fill your mind and start visualising a beach, with the water coming and going rythmically. You focus on the air which comes and goes from your lungs. In and out. In and out. In and out. Little by little, patiently, you become one with this flow, then slow it down until it is gently rocking you back and forth, the worries and difficulties of your life forgotten for the moment. You are at peace.

Then, turning outwards, still one with the flow, you start stretching your perceptions towards the room, then the house, then outside. On the other side of the door, you hear a comforting purr -- your cat is sleeping and you can hear its calm breath. Downstairs, there is a series of clicks with no particular rythm -- your mother is typing something on her computer, and you can hear her wonder aloud what will be the title of her next book. Outside, there is the wind, birds in the trees, and some cars are going down the street. How many, you wonder? One. Two. Three. Yes, that's it. For a time, you know that, despite all the obstacles you encountered, all is well in the world and in yourself.

Eventually, it is time for you to wake up. You open your eyes, look around, take a deep breath, then stand up. You are refreshed, and you feel a renewed strength pouring in your veins, as if you had woken up from a restful sleep. You are free. Your mind is free. So is your body. You smile. Life is good. You know no limits except that which you wish.

The world is yours for the taking, and nothing will stand between you and your dreams.