There exists maybe only in my memory a place where time is contained-there is nothing here to be dusted off-every breath still holds great potential and the future is always far off and full of promise. I call this place morning. Here is a memory I have of one of those mornings.
Woken up. It's the middle of the night, when all noises and shapes are softened. When we speak, the words are quieted down and hushed-if only in respect for the neighbors (or whatever ghosts we don;t want to wake). We carry on our mission as noiselessly as possible.
We are going to the shore-the dark, warm Jersey shore to rent a little rowboat and go crabbing-a family tradition in which we all seem to animate, much like a Bosch painting brought to life. We are humble peasants at leisure, gathering delicacies for our table.
There's soft light in the kitchen-today I wonder if it would be possible to find a bulb like the one in my childhood kitchen: one that could mimic the light cast. Of course, the fixture and the glass that produce that light haven't been made for 60 years...When I was even younger, the prominent sound of that light switch (which I couldn't identify from my child's bed) scared me: I wondered just what demon was afoot, gnashing teeth or claws to make that sharp click.
Only years later did I put a stop to that delicious fear with the logic that comes from growing into adulthood.
Sandwiches, juices, carefully wrapped slabs of cake, fruit...all packed in that same low-lit aura...the crickets and night noises all outside, all humming along, knowing or caring nothing of our trip.
The car (a beast from the 50's) loaded. The soft light cut off-a lone streetlight or the moon giving shape to the otherwise black night-eveything still covered over in softness. Closing, locking the door, the soft light coming along with us for the trip-we leave nothing behind-the house remains, going backl to bed, sleeping alongside its neighbors.
Crickets even louder, muffled again only by the car door softly shut, another click. Turning the key. Slowly out the driveway and on down the street. Sneaking away like thieves in the night.
The parkway tolls interrupt our otherwise steady speed. I am hynotized by the steady stream of lights we pass under-a bit surprised that there are others, anonymous, also headed towards the shore-do we know them?
The street lights behind us, I count ridges in the road by the slight bumping of the tires-I can't hear crickets, but I know that they have followed us-our headlights seem to be the only lights on the road-far off to the left and the right are little pinpricks of bright...streetlights for sleeping people...the dashboard constant with its mystical colored glow.
One time on this same journey, after leaving the black river of the parkway, we passed a building-a bar and grill-totally engulfed in flame in the early dawn. The firemen had given up on trying to save it and were there simply to make sure that the fire didn't spread. Drinking coffee.
We move even closer to the shore, passing signs for towns I knew to be on the ocean. Soon, I got a glimpse of what I've been waiting for-the ocean, reflecting whatever it can, challenged by the dark night.
There is now a hint of dawn in the sky, more of a feeling than a reality. We park and stow the beast, dragging bags and boxes and reassembling them on a shoreline under a string of lights (xmas tree lot style). There is a cluster of empty boats that hugs the shore, one of which I'm sure is ours for the day.
A guy comes out of a shack and my father and he murmur suspiciously (be quiet, don't wake the neighbors) while I investigate the shoreline and its string of seaweed and wrack-dead fish, old shells, bits and pieces, souvenirs of the ocean. The draw and surge of the tide, here quite weak, is mesmerizing. I need to touch the water-either hand or shoe-some part of me needs contact-unexplainable, but nonetheless important to me. Strong arms heave me up over the wale of the rowboat and I'm in, the shimmy and floating only strange for a moment or two.
Soon we're out on the bay (count ten strokes of the oars) and on the water deep and mysterious. Objects thrown in (like a piece of donut) hurry downward away from me, rhythmically swaying in the current, as if testing their very gravity, before being lost forever. It's morning and the sun is gaining strength.
