Ive sailed so long and sewn so much canvas that the tips of my fingers are blunted and hard, and hauled so many ropes my hands are as rough as manilla hemp; Ive scampered up ratlins in heavy seas and sat on the hatch of a brand new freighter feeling the thump of her engine. Memories… all memories. Images to help pass a day. But only for a short time. I chase them with my dream… my vision. I close my eyes and hear the music and they come, all about me, dancing and singing and O how lovely it is to see the sea rolling from their backs that shine and glisten and though theyre monstrous in size they barely send out a ripple as they go through endless seas. And I call to them, through cupped hands, with a loud and happy, HELLO MY FRIENDS… and they wave their flukes at me and we dance and laugh and this thing called death no longer exists, being dissolved in our oneness, and I know that so long as my heart, and that timeless, ageless leviathan part of me, is filled with my dream… my vision of dancing with my friends… that here is only life, life as large and strong and beautiful and full of gentleness and joy as my friends, and where they go I go also, and we are inseparable, and my life is theirs and theirs mine, and we are all part of the same dream.

Song of the Silent Snow

He tried to judge the weather by the light easing through his eyelids, a gray bordering on black. Perhaps he was wrong, maybe it wasnt almost time for the alarm to go off. Maybe the pills affected his sense of time too—no, that wasnt it, he could definitely sense that it was close to 7. Must be cloudy and overcast, or maybe it even snowed like predicted. Could be. Might even be snowing now. He felt his face wrinkle into a squint as he strained to hear the snow… or rain if it had gotten suddenly warmer… but heard nothing. Not even a hint of wind. He concentrated on the tip of his nose, but it didnt feel so cold. That didnt necessarily mean anything. There were many mornings when he awoke and his nose wasnt cold. Actually, now that he thought about it, it very seldom was in the morning. It was in the middle of the night that it got cold and sometimes kept him awake. I guess thats one good thing about those pills, dont have to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Thats what used to start it off, getting up and by the time he was back under the covers his nose was cold and he just could not seem to get back to sleep and would lie there, half awake and half asleep, never knowing if he was dreaming or thinking, knowing the alarm would be ringing sooner or later and dreading it, wishing he could get back to sleep but his nose was so cold it hurt, and he would fight hard against the coldness, and his sleeplessness, and lay there anticipating the alarms sudden clanging, but never totally prepared for its attack, and when it finally did thrust itself upon him, his body shaking in reaction, he felt he could sleep forever if he just shut his eyes… and so he would lie there fighting to relax and sleep, think of the hour he went to bed and the approximate time he fell asleep, calculating how much sleep he had, and how much he might get, total, and how much he should get in order to do a good days work. Above all he wanted… no, it was imperative that he be more than sufficient for the demands of his work… especially now that they had moved to the suburbs and assumed the responsibility of owning a house. It brought with it advantages, but also many changes. It used to be a 15 minute ride to work, and then a short walk. But now it was almost that long to get to the station, and then it was another hour to Grand Central, providing there werent any delays, and thank God there usually werent. Thats one of the reasons they decided on Connecticut rather than Long Island. All in all he had to get up almost 2 hours earlier than when they lived in New York City. But that had been anticipated. What was unexpected was his lying awake counting those hours, trying desperately to get more rest, but the harder he tried the more firmly he remained entrapped in that strange area between sleep and wakefulness, from time to time falling fitfully into one then the other, literally feeling himself bouncing off their unseen walls until he dragged himself out of the bed and forced himself into another day.

But time was only one element of the night that twisted itself into his consciousness. When he tried to clear his mind and just relax he thought of the sudden, and huge, drop in their bank balance when they made the down-payment on the house. He had carefully reviewed the entire matter with his accountant, before buying the house, and the purchase price was not only well within their means, but because of the tax writeoffs his net cost would not be more than when he was paying rent, and with no equity. Yes, that was the phrase he latched on to during those mornings, he was building an equity and in these days of uncertainty that was vitally important. He had gone over it many times and there was never the slightest doubt about the money, except when he lay awake in the middle of the night trying desperately to get back to sleep and get the proper rest before the alarm went off.

And so he would think of the house, the house that gave them so much more room and allowed the kids to run and jump without worrying about disturbing anyone under them. And Alice had the kitchen she wanted, with ample room for hanging pots and pans and whatever else she wanted to hang from a rack or nail. And, of course, there was the joy of decorating your own home, feeling completely free to make any changes you want, and ten thousand other advantages, and so he thought of all those things and the financial concerns would dissipate, and eventually he would feel himself sliding into sleep, but for some reason a part of him seemed to cling, ever so lightly, to a thin thread of wakefulness and so when the alarm suddenly startled him he was not dragged from a deep state of rest, but more or less jolted from its nearest edge with a sharp twist of exhaustive nausea and a foul thickness in his mouth.

But since coming home from the hospital the tranquillizers and the sleeping pill prevented his being awakened and so all those thoughts, worries and concerns no longer assaulted him during the night. He still awoke shortly before the alarm went off, but it went off much later now that he wasnt going to the office, and though his body was sluggish from the drugs, and his mouth thick and foul tasting, he did not have to battle that nervous exhaustion that the doctors said was resposible for his breakdown. But there was still this time of anticipation and dread.

He lay as still as possible, breathing quietly, listening intently to see if there had been any noticeable change, but there wasnt. He still heard nothing and it wasnt any brighter. He sensed Alice was awake too, but said nothing, though he wanted to turn over and just touch her gently and thank her for being there, for loving him, but the inertia from the drugs was impossible to overcome and so he lay still, breathing quietly, and trying not to think about the fact that there was another day to face…

But it was not just the drugs that made it impossible for him to turn and touch his wife and reassure her and tell her that he loved her and appreciated everything; it was the responsibility that accompanies such a gesture. If it were possible to just touch her in that way that she understood so well, if he were to place his hand gently on her cheek and let his feeling of love flow to her as he had so often in the past, she would turn and smile and hold his hand and kiss it and he knew he was now unable to contend with that, that he would be forced to hunt for words or expressions and none were available to him. He was suddenly so overwhelmed by the responsiblity of love… the responsibility of living. And so he lay on his side facing away from his wife, breathing quietly, eyes closed against the day, waiting for the alarm to ring and when it did he knew Alice would stop it immediately, not wanting it to awaken him, and get out of bed as gently as possible so she would not disturb him. If only he could let her know that she did not have to leap at the clock and then slide from the bed and tiptoe into the bathroom, quietly closing the door, turning the water on to a bare trickle, splashing the sleep from her eyes, not bathing until he was awake and up… he listening to her almost inaudible movements, wishing he could say its alright, that she could take her shower now, and that she did not have to keep the kids so quiet while they ate and got ready for school… but he shuddered at the thought.