Honestly though, when I was down south in Sequoia Natl. Park, I could barely make out the only constellation I recognize, Orion, because there were so many stars in between. And I could see the Milky Way. Faintly. Just barely there. But still, it's the first time I've ever seen just a hint of it, and it was gorgeous. The fact that I was surrounded by glittering snow both "above" and around can only add to the effect I was experiencing those nights.
It was a bit of a letdown coming back home. Hey, my eyes have to actually flicker to make out the next speck of light. Oh look, there's the big ol' neon orange city, glowing away. The one time I tried to take a picture of the stars in my backyard, with prolonged light exposure, three dots came through. Three. Really? Is this what we've given up for our beloved nightlife? The problem seems so much bigger than usual when you're right in the thick of it.
I don't want to rant anymore, not really in the mood. Jasmine hot chocolate does wonders for the mind.
---
I’m lying on
some surface. I don’t really know what, but it’s something, because I can feel
it beneath me. I hear a whooshing sound, so I must have ears. In opening them,
I discover I have eyes.
The first
thing that registers is white: bright, blinding light. I squint and use the
appendage at the end of my arm to shield the glare. Hand, I think dimly. This
is called my hand. I wonder with vague curiosity where the memory comes from.
Once my eyes
have adjusted to the light, I let my hand drop back down to the surface. Then I
can’t do much more than sit paralyzed with stupefaction, because there are an
infinite number of stars spreading above me, so thick I can barely tell one
from the other. The great moon hangs off to the left, and I realize its light
was what blinded me when I first opened my eyes. The stars cluster around it,
swirling in thick streams across the heavens.
A handy
branch hangs next to me, and I lean on it, blinking around at the scenery. I see a
jungle sprouting up not a hundred meters away. In front are these massive black
lumps. I listen closely, and discern that the whooshing noises are coming from
those lumps. Whatever those things are, they’re breathing. Like I am. One lump
shifts, and the moonlight outlines a reptilian head, curled around its body.
The whole thing is lying on top of a dirt nest.
Dinosaurs.
I don’t know where that word came from, but I
know I have to get out of here. I stumble to my left, away from those
dinosaurs, as if the moon were pulling me towards itself. I start to run, but
branches still whip my face, scratch my arms, and finally one giant root trips
me. I extend my arms, close my eyes, and brace for impact that never comes.
---
My eyes
finally open again. I’m lying on a bed, with dirty linen sheets on top of me.
The stars no longer hang above me; instead, I see dusty wooden rafters.
Something clinks below me, and a voice mutters odd words. Carrots, lentils,
celery. I sit bolt upright, because it’s a human voice. In flinging back the
dirty sheets I realize I'm wearing even dirtier linen clothes. But no matter. I
hesitantly climb down a rickety wooden ladder, turn around, and come face to
face with the voice.
I'm standing in a wooden room. A small table is crammed into a corner, boxes of various objects are stacked haphazardly in another, and a fireplace with a mantle above it occupies the left wall. A figure with a spoon is stirring something in a pot that hangs on a hook above a fire.
Then
something strange happens. Another image flashes above the homely one. The
wooden room is now made of sterile metal. Instead of a small table, there is a
sleek platform jutting out from the equally smooth wall. Instead of messily
stacked boxes, there is a glossy silver filing cabinet, with one drawer open.
And where the fireplace was, there is a countertop with random beakers and
papers strewn across its top. The light comes from a fluorescent bulb on the
ceiling. And the figure is in a stark white coat. Instead of a spoon, it holds a syringe of
clear liquid.
The image is
gone as soon as it comes. I blink, unsure of whether I really saw that vision.
The figure
turns, and I realize it’s a woman in a dirty print dress, with a stained apron
tied around her waist. She smiles at me, and gestures to the table. I realize a
bowl of food is sitting there, and just then do I realize how hungry I am. The
food disappears.
The wind howls outside. I tell the woman I appreciate her taking me in, though I do not remember it. She smiles at me, the crow’s feet wrinkling around her eyes. I gather up my pack, put on a heavy coat she offers me, and open the door.
It is night
out, and the moon sheds silver light on black lumpy haystacks, so much like
those dinosaurs. The stars are still up there, but it seems to me a few of them
have disappeared. I can actually make out the sky behind the lights now. I
sigh, and take a step forward.
---
Before I
even open my eyes, I feel my body rocking back and forth. The movement is
soothing for a little bit, and I keep my eyes closed and enjoy the sensation.
There are clumping noises above me, though. The sound reverberates in my little
area. I open my eyes, and see a flat wooden ceiling above me. Sloshing noises
register in my ears for the first time, and I strain to decipher where it comes
from. Everywhere, it seems.
I groggily
swing my legs over the edge of the hammock-net I am lying in, and stumble
towards the door at the opposite end of the stiff wooden room. The floorboards
pitch me towards the door and before I can stop my momentum, I burst through
the door.
I find
myself standing in a short corridor, the air reeking of fish and smoke. There
is a ladder at the right end of the corridor, with thick yellow light streaming
in through the trapdoor at the top. Staggering and tripping all over myself, I
finally make it to the ladder and pull myself up.
The air up here is fresher, though the briny
smell still lingers. The wind tears through my loose garments, and I shiver. Callous
voices are shouting to one another, as people rush back and forth. The floor
rocks under my feet again, and I grip the edge of a crate, staring, openmouthed,
around.
I’m on a ship. Thick timbers rise up like
trees around me, their trunks heavily laden with ropes and rigging. Shadows
cast by brightly flaming lanterns dance on the dark shapes. I’m facing the
front of the ship, and I can see the prow ascending and dipping as it crests
each wave. Barrels stand in groups here and there; one barrel has been knocked
down by the ferocious wind, and a deckhand runs after it, slipping in the
puddles of water.
A stocky man swaggers up to me and asks me
where I have been. Leaning back a little (he did smell rather strongly), I
point down the trapdoor. He grunts and gestures toward one of the towering
masts.
There’s something about this man’s voice that
differs from the woman’s. The cadence was off, the lilt was different, the
accents stressed on different syllables. I just couldn’t place it.
I reach the
mast and run my fingers across it, feeling the rough texture. I can count the
stars above me with ease, but the black space between each glowing dot has
grown bigger since I stepped out of that woman’s house however long ago. I
squint at the stars, but the light from the scattered lanterns blinds me, and my
eyes cannot adjust to the darkness needed to see those pinpricks of light. I
peer carefully at the disappearing stars.
Fresh shouts
split the air. I turn as a whistling sound comes toward me, turn just in time
to glimpse a dark barrel, hung on a net of ropes, swing towards me. There is no
time to do anything but stand and stare at the dark shape speeding towards me.
In the split second before it hits me, my eyes catch the stocky man’s, and I
see him with his hands above his head, his mouth open in a half shout. His eyes
are wild.
The barrel
caught me in the chest. I felt it crush my sternum, felt my spine curve around
it, felt the briny air leave my collapsed lungs to make room for the
unforgiving wooden boards. I fly, soaring backwards, my body a knife cleaving a
path through the suddenly solid air. The lights speed away from me, then shoot
upwards as I begin my fall towards the sea. The air scurries out of my way, and
I hit the water with such force all the air I have managed to regain is pushed
right back out again. My back screams dimly with pain, and I sink face up, the
edges of my eyesight turning dim and wavery. I’m too surprised to obey my
instincts to kick, to swim, to reach the air receding from my crushed lungs. I
can’t do much more than think, there go the stars.
---
I don't, I- uffa.
At least I finished this one. It's time travel. That's all you have to know.
Seriously, I'm just sitting here, asking myself, where did this come from all of a sudden? I need a hobby. Well, one that I can carry out without a horse and an arena.
I'm going to stop explaining myself. Instead, I will share a song I found on Pandora, coming back from Sequoia. I had an irrational female connection with it, as in this song, quote-and-quote, "really got to me." Maybe it's hormones.
The Script. "This=Love"
The Script. "This=Love"
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