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prose


dusk
Dusk ... my spiritual renewal.

Now I type my final piece, fingers methodically obeying rational impulses. There is an urgency to this impending sense of closure, heightening my anticipation as Helios' chariot gallops across the sky.  I wait for the sign, that particular slant of light that heralds the approach of dusk.  However, he seems to deliberately thwart my longing, inching incrementally, until I imagine a retrograde motion.

Blinded by the fluroescent light and syncopated flicker of the monitor, I disable all artificial sources of illumination.  The curtains are drawn.  From the corner of my eye I sense movement.  A magpie, smugly displays his catch of the day - a caterpillar long since reconciled to his fate, weary as the white flag of surrender.  Upon receiving my due acknowledgement, he hops home to the cool sanctuary of a cherry hibiscus.

  I awaken to a tactile reality and overpowering desire to escape the confines of a dwelling that threatens to suffocate.  I must breathe! Dusk approaches and I stretch in feline anticipation of my daily renewal.  I can sit, stare, think, analyse no longer.  Shifting my awareness to an open window, I hear the call of the Sirens as a child hears the sea in a conch.  This is my favourite time of day.  This is my communion.

From the oppressive four walls to the four elements.  I am the elements: fire and earth, water and air.  Soon Luna will rise over the ocean ... I hasten to my sandy retreat.  The saline breeze catches my throat, tickles my lungs, expands every orifice in silent meditation.  Solar consolation rays, rolling westward, gently warm my back as I approach the foamy periphery.  The current obeys a cadence call, breathing in and out over feet naked with expectation.  The icy recognition thrills me into stillness.  I try to inhale but am momentarily denied as the life is sucked out of me.  The tide ebbs and I gasp with the breath of a newborn.  Chastened, my submission is total - I am the elements.

Today the moon will reach its aphelion.  I await their silent opposition in languid faith.  The coalescence of sand and see work their magic as the sun turns a violent shade.  I struggle to identify nature's hues from my human palette.  Colours that hurt, merging and vying for supremacy.  One can barely stand to allow this preternatural fusion of burnt orange, iridescent crimson and magenta to sear the retina.  But I cannot turn away.  I am Lot's wife - immersed in salt - its power burnt on my brain, on my soul.

This is my time - my ocean pilgrimage.  The growing expanse makes one aware of the limitations of human faculties.  One's eyes are inadequate to the task of recording the moonlit spectacle.  I cannot cope with the panoramic vista unfolding.  She rises: bold, defiant, blazing as her brother sinks on the occidental horizon.  Bue he does not 'go gently into that good night'¹.  A final burst of flame, a streak of pure energy as the horizon burns, his rays reflected in the blood red moon.  My head cannot pivot quickly enough to record this dance of rapid simultaneous descent and ascent.  Now the moon is in the ascendancy.  The sun sinks in fierce exultation, his majesty reflected in the growing magenta dome.

Solar rays dim, imperceptibly replaced by fairy lights that dot the coast in growing reverie and homage.  Sadly, the moon's sway upon us is not as that of old.  Seagulls move crab-like upon my approach; an eagle eyes me suspiciously; and I muse, pondering Eleusinian mysteries.  I reflect upon fruitful attempts to synchronise my cycle with the moon.  In times past, the Full Moon, pregnant at the zenith of her power and light, heralded ovulation.  The Dark Moon newly conjnct the sun generated menstruation.  I'm reminded of Annie Dillard's observation: 'After thousands of years we're still strangers to darkness, fearful aliens in an enemy camp with our arms crossed over our chests'.²

I cannot silence the feeling that we've lost this cyclic connection that I see, hear, feel - screaming at me as the soft sand squeezes through salty crevices between my toes.  There is a dichotomy, divergence, alienation.  I see nature from my window but am numb to her pulsation.  I must venture beyond my stone periphery to encouter that tactile sensory experience, one that embraces, affirms and lovingly binds.  I must commune with the Source in an awakening, a regenerative dance of palpable power at the liminal crossroads of day and night.  This is what I bring home.  A stillness; a perfect peace.  I replenish my jar with fresh sea water.  The foam retreats revealing Aphrodite's gift; an ebony stone,smoothed by incessant tides, winks at me in the twilight.

I touch it as I type - my sensory familiar - a connection to the sea that surges behind me.

This is my renewal, my baptism.




¹ Dylan Thomas, 'Do not go gentle into that good night', Seven Centuries of Poetry in English, John Leonard (ed.), 4th edn, Oxford University Press, 1998, p. 91.
² Annie Dillard, 'Seeing', The Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, York, 1998, p. 22.


© 2004 Dianne Monnier. All rights reserved.