Beached
It was a clear day, probably summer.
I was looking at a solid image of a pistol lying on the sand. The scene looked like a discrete part of the universe captured in a rectangular frame. The thing was resting near the lower-right corner of the frame, its barrel pointing to the midpoint of the frame’s right border. It seemed to be that the gun was laid on the sand so meticulously that no grains of sand scattered on the surface of its polished copper-colored body facing the sky. I didn’t see the sky in the frame though. Let me add that there wasn’t even a finger print staining the pistol’s sheen. And, despite the chaos of footprints in the sand adjacent to the deadly weapon in respite, and covering most of the frame, the sight, ironically, gave me a feeling of quietude.
The picture was not still after all. I could feel the warm and humid breeze gush, distorting the shapes of the footprints, however, evading that thing lying silently on the lower-right corner of the frame. I could hear the melancholic sound of the waves but I didn’t see the waves rush to the shore. The frame had not captured that point of certainty where the sea meets and teases the beach.
Then, there was silence. The scene became still. At some point, it was as if the picture became bigger but distorted, like what becomes of any object placed under water on a clear day. In waking life, we call it refraction. Then, thin clouds started to blur the sight. At this point, too, I could see black eyelashes bordering the sides of the picture, which was now almond-shaped. This time, I was already aware that I was half-awake and in no time I’d be waking up. I tried to open my eyes, I couldn’t. The image of the pistol became vivid again. I screamed but no sound came out. My next attempt to cross the threshold of dream and waking life succeeded.
The lights were on. I forgot to switch it off the night before.
In waking life, I was lying on my side facing the wall and staring at the empty wall trying to locate stains which could have assumed the shape of a pistol. I didn’t find any. I touched the wall. It was cold. My 10-year old Swiss Army which I always wear on my left wrist even when sleeping reminded me it was only a few minutes past four in the morning. I pulled the comforter, covered my body to the neck with it, and tried to sleep again.
{February 28, 2009}
I was looking at a solid image of a pistol lying on the sand. The scene looked like a discrete part of the universe captured in a rectangular frame. The thing was resting near the lower-right corner of the frame, its barrel pointing to the midpoint of the frame’s right border. It seemed to be that the gun was laid on the sand so meticulously that no grains of sand scattered on the surface of its polished copper-colored body facing the sky. I didn’t see the sky in the frame though. Let me add that there wasn’t even a finger print staining the pistol’s sheen. And, despite the chaos of footprints in the sand adjacent to the deadly weapon in respite, and covering most of the frame, the sight, ironically, gave me a feeling of quietude.
The picture was not still after all. I could feel the warm and humid breeze gush, distorting the shapes of the footprints, however, evading that thing lying silently on the lower-right corner of the frame. I could hear the melancholic sound of the waves but I didn’t see the waves rush to the shore. The frame had not captured that point of certainty where the sea meets and teases the beach.
Then, there was silence. The scene became still. At some point, it was as if the picture became bigger but distorted, like what becomes of any object placed under water on a clear day. In waking life, we call it refraction. Then, thin clouds started to blur the sight. At this point, too, I could see black eyelashes bordering the sides of the picture, which was now almond-shaped. This time, I was already aware that I was half-awake and in no time I’d be waking up. I tried to open my eyes, I couldn’t. The image of the pistol became vivid again. I screamed but no sound came out. My next attempt to cross the threshold of dream and waking life succeeded.
The lights were on. I forgot to switch it off the night before.
In waking life, I was lying on my side facing the wall and staring at the empty wall trying to locate stains which could have assumed the shape of a pistol. I didn’t find any. I touched the wall. It was cold. My 10-year old Swiss Army which I always wear on my left wrist even when sleeping reminded me it was only a few minutes past four in the morning. I pulled the comforter, covered my body to the neck with it, and tried to sleep again.
{February 28, 2009}
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