Nightglow Window

Maximum Blah Blah

Skin now dry but I'm unable, unwilling, to move. The only sound the turning of the page every few minutes, the drip of the faucet in the now empty tub, birdsong just below the level of consciousness. Reading and reading as the sky goes to twilight tonight.

The hitch in the clutch and the small fear it creates, a tickle in the base of the brain. What could it represent? The light turns green and there it is again, worrisome.

The lonely guy trip that one early spring day, deep in the San Gorgonio wilderness at 11,000 feet, snow blowing from the summit. The night before, leaving the car at dusk and walking alone as the sky turned black. Feeling my way by headlamp and finally going to sleep in the middle of that wide snowfield. Waking hours later as the moon began to rise and the midnight snow was dazzling.

The damn weight of exhaustion, hanging around my shoulders like a horse collar; the small hooks of fatigue piercing my eyelids and dragging them down. How long and heavy this world can seem when you're tired.

The long drive from Nag's Head to Rodanthe on the Outer Banks, the thin thread of sand dunes standing so brave and alone against the sea. 30 miles of desolation angels. And that small gap, impossibly small, a foot path through the brown waving grasses. How did he know that was the spot? Crab shells and drift wood and that perfect sandbar. A rising swell and offshore winds.

Fourth grade at Camp Royanee. Slipping on that trail, feet over the cliff edge, holding on to the sharp rock as it dug into the loam, digging a furrow that would mark my end if it grew but a bit longer. Then the hands of Chris Pompilio dragging me back from the edge, like surfacing from deep water into brilliant sunshine.

The gold moonlight on the ocean, long after sunset. More than a river of light: ten thousand splashing, shimmering lanterns leading to shore as the the full moon rose from the hills of Camp Pendleton. The laughing of friends as they dig deep, lifted on the back of some half-seen monster from 10,000 miles away.

Midnight on Tahquitz, 300 feet up, bats bouncing off my climbing helmet and that same moon lighting the valley below, illuminating Suicide rocks. The clean feel of the crack, the security of the rope snaking upwards and, from across the south face, the soft and distant sound of laughter as our two parties climbed upward into the darkness. The jangle of climbing gear. Excited giggles as the four of us huddled on the ledge together minutes later.

Near the top of Saddleback Mountain, mid bonk, when all I could do was lay down in the middle of the fire road, utterly spent. Bike forgotten nearby, wheel still rotating gently. And all my gaze was blue sky and clouds and for the briefest second I thought I could feel the globe spinning as I clung to the dry and dusty earth.

The pinnacles of memory, rising up from the sea of everyday.