Good Night.

I'm usually exhausted by this time of night, my mental state reduced to a lump of melting wax. I thought my transitory insomnia had dissipated for good, but it strikes again, playing its hand in spades. The mountains of my dreams are skull-capped in white, the trees garlanded with carnation lays, the birds decorating each with the wreaths, singing sweetly. The pond frogs hum the cadence of the morning, bagpipes, yes, that will do nicely. The grey sky drizzles its tears over the valley bowl, tears washing the feet of God, gently perfumed with the redolence of pine and floral exuberance.
Drink in this incense prayer, for mine are none so pretty, none so pretty indeed.
Singing, strumming at this guitar, staring down the flickering candle, wishing my voice wasn't drier than chalky beef jerky with a side of desert sand, raspy as those frogs might be, not in dreams. Ah, my idealism says my flats are just sharps from below, a piquancy of music, perhaps. Judge not my music, prithee, lay your hardness aside and your hearts before, and let's sing. Sing the songs of mountains, hills, deer, love, breeze between the leaves, dewdrops on flower petals, snowflakes on the rabbit's nose, hibernating bear, leaping fish in sunset's last green explosion, lunar eclipse on a night of naked joy, racing faster than every heartbeat. Let's sing, and remember what's good, and what's good night.



Discussions were good, this night. Enneagram conversations; psychology and competition discussions; dialogues over whether pumpkin, nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and apple-cider might mix into something tasty, or disastrous; people discussions. I think I'm fairly consistently learning how full of holes my psyche is. We walked through some patterns of psychological taxonomy, and I found myself nailed on almost every parameter, consistent even to the disregard of classification, the grave weakness shared by this psychological collection, the triumphs and hopes of this diagnosed individual. Yes, stuff me in a box, staple it closed, lock me in an attic, neat and disposed. But while I understood most of these things concerning myself, I have gleaned a few tidbits that were interesting. I'd explain what these were, but, unfortunately, my classification tends to secrete this sort of information away, and I cannot break free of this box...

Color me tired

Of all the lousiest ways of spending a Friday night, mine takes the cake. I fell asleep for almost 2 hours right as work finished. My immediate plans had been: call mother and inquire as to how she's feeling today; eat something dainty; play soccer in the rain. Instead, I collapsed in a heap, piled blankets on myself, and fell asleep while praying.Now, instead of enjoying the company of friends and chasing a soccer ball around darkening fields, I've only the wind and rain for company. I should have accepted J's offer for a board game night.

My mother is faring better. I'm fairly certain only mothers can receive calls regarding their visit to the emergency room, and turn away questions of health into questions of, "met any cute girls lately?" At first, I believed it a Jewish mother specialty, but I've since learned Jewish mothers do not have a monopoly on such questions.

No, Mom. I think all my female friends will be married by next year. I've never even held hands with a girl, and mother expects a fairy-tale falling. I expect she prays for it each night. Poor mother, cursed with three socially difficult boys. But how are you doing? 

There is heart disease, or something, on mother's side of the family. She fears a heart attack, and has let us know about her worries. She exercises daily, watches her cholesterol and blood pressure carefully, eats especially well, and appears a blazing light of energy and health. The doctors said the same, and, thankfully, it was not the heart causing the pains, but an acquired acid reflux probably.

If I defined the week for you in five words, exhausting might not even make the list. It should have, I just refused to grant it notice. Every day this week, my body slept adequately until four in the morning, and then in small bits until work. I suspect my rem cycles averaged one a night. Yet this fright with my mother caught my body's fatigue up to my mind. I'm still in bed, still listening to the rain putter against the gutters and the wind whistle through the screen, rustling the blinds.

And now, evening drowned the sun in darkness, and I wish I had something worth writing, but my enervation has deprived me. I'm blind to inspiration.

--------------------------------------------------------

.....

            So strong are these feelings, that when you encounter even a few of the Rhuach, senses are easily overwhelmed – the fainthearted have died with bliss in their eyes, a fatal rapture. On the day the great city fell, even the great desert islands of the south, the pearly-peaked mountains of the distant north, to the far-flung reaches of east and west, a lilting song echoed along the wind without discernible words, across the worlds, breaking the hardest of hearts. Even in the farthest countries, over the seas and under the earth, the exotic and nutty smell of cardamom and honeyed saffron drifted like memories.

:But who destroyed the city, Grandpa? And why?:

Grandpa sighed, deflating visibly. :It was a grand greed, the delusion of theft:

In ages long past, they appeared. From whence they came, the first Rhuach, we know not, for they arrived before the great cities of man: Mezekh, Ulan, Il Ariesa. Already, before these laid their first foundations in the hearts of man, the Rhuach delved into the deeper arts, desiring return to the land of their home. To us, it might have been magic; to them, it was but an art, a creative birthing. In a forest glade, far to the west, they linked together in a tapestry of color and sentient mingling, and a great awakening was born.

            Not the city, but the stone of colorlessness at its center. It is neither stone, truly, nor matter, for when held they claim it is liquid sometimes, or of no weight at all, and of changing form.  In this stone, they placed the fullness of their artistic weight, the compleat mastery of magic. But it was not enough, and much was destroyed in the attempt, the earth riven, the forest torn asunder, rivers rent and mountains burst forth about them.

            Devastated, they journeyed far unto the Harmonah river, building the city from the stone’s great powers. If the stone were destroyed, so, too, were the Rhuach, and the city in its wake.

            There were, in those days, several polis in the region. Disregarding the artistry of Zevah Nuahr, its strategic and cultural positions were also substantial.  Crossing the mountains through any other pass required more than a day’s journey, and the danger of bandits was significant. Rogue’s Roads, they called them, for if you were crossing on other paths, you were as like to meet them as be them.

            Strategically, then, it possessed a vantage on every trade route from Nesul to Mezekh, and any routes destined for the western coast. The lake beneath the waterfall offered a welcome respite for weary travelers, and the sight of spiraling rainbows and Zevah Nuarh soothed sore eyes. While caravans frequently passed without lingering in the city, many climbed the extra hours for the safety of a city and the refreshing qualities of an inn, dancing, and the serenity of the city of colors.