Solitary Confinement

I like the mornings best. The day is full of possibility and I am full of resolve. The birds are singing, the trees are rustling. Don't ask me names. I'm no good with names, never was. Life begins now. No matter about yesterday, it begins now. And now I begin with my stretches. I could never understand why people have such difficulty doing a little morning exercise. A salute to the sun or two, or three. Good to feel my back crick and my muscles burn and pull.

And then some more difficult bits, I don't like those, the leg raises and Pilates side strengtheners.They feel like a chore. Something to get through. No rythmn or beauty to them, purely practical. But I get through, I don't set  high goals, not with my body.

Then I lay myself flat on the ground and feel like rock. Always remember to feel like rock. A pail of water on my belly, holding all my energy, not splattering it across the universe like I usually do, but pulling it in, holding it in the bucket, slosh slosh, all sparkly and mine. I start to think, oh about this and that, my mind riding the thrill rides and sideshows. I get lost in the sideshows but pull myself away. Rock, remember to be rock. Rocks don't think. At least not like that.

I sometimes forget the last bit - the bit where I stand and hold my arms out to the sky, imagining a crystal waterfall flushing my body, flushing me, removing all the toxins, the pains, the sleepless night, the failures of yesterday, all flushed through. And then, I bring myself to myself, palms crossed against my heart.

Then I eat. Eating is good. Porridge with honey and cream and ground up toasted millet sprinkled on top. I think about breakfast at night, I think about it in the morning before I get out of bed, something to look forward to. Pity it's always over so soon. But the day is still young, the day is still young and so is my energy. There is so much that can be done in this day and it has only just begun.

I've been here six months now. At least I think it's six months, I've not been so good keeping my journal lately. I've been saving the ink for my writing, not that I've. Well, don't go there, today is today and I'll write today.

They said a year. I can handle a year. Yes. No problem. I don't get lonely. I've not spoken to a soul, but I don't mind. No one is here but me. I talk out loud sometimes, but then I always did. Not going mad, no madder than before. Just the daily struggle. I”m over the half-way mark. Better get something done or it will run away from me like a shot rabbit. I'll encourage myself by having something more to eat. I've plenty of food - I made sure of that. I'll have some toast. Toast and almond butter and honey. A cup of tea. That will help. Then I will write.

The fence is just over the hump of stone in the west. I've trained myself not to notice it, poking into the sky like it does. Ruining the view. Got to have a view, I said. It was my one condition. Lock me up but give me a view. Then I'll do it, I promise. I've still got six months to fulfill that promise but now it's already dusk and my resolve is dribbling out of me like a broke faucet. Still got time, still got time. Time to go for a walk around the perimeter of the grounds. It's important to get out. I try to do it with awareness, a meditative walk. Noticing each rock and flower and bug. That's better. Feels good to get out, always does. Time for supper, oh good. I've soaked some kidney beans, I'll do those, make a good soup, double batch so I don't have to cook tomorrow and I'll have more time. That's the problem really, not enough time.

Maybe I should have asked for two years. Too much time. Maybe I got it all wrong and I just needed a day. I keep thinking I'll get to it, I have all this time, months and months and months and no one to distract me. Heaven. No phone, no TV, no internet ( I do miss the internet ). Just me in this log tent and a pile of food stores and the view with the fence. Good thing there is a mountain on the other side otherwise I'd have thrown the towel in.

I look at that mountain. I watch the shadows lick her face, each moment a different look. Right now she's in a dark mood. She didn't start off that way, she started off just fine. Now look at her, about to crumple. Later it will be night and her face will clear. Nights are okay because night is its own reason. No need for resolve when the stars are out, reminding me that I'm not alone.

Tomorrow will be another day. I promise.

Re: Solitary Confinement

Sandra,

I felt this on such a personal level. I always have that feeling that there is never enough time and even well all outside interruptions are removed, time does not seem to expand far enough to get everything I need to do done. I know that it is somehow my own fault, and the way I deal with things, so I really could relate to this character's procrastination and inability to get started on the thing that was most important.

I got the feeling that this was a sort of self-imposed exile in a way, but nothing that could be walked away from. I liked very much that the character was happy with the food, and somewhat content with the view, but even these 'comforts' provide diversion from the intended task.

The description of the food was very sensuous and made me rather hungry. Also the exercise description was very real, reaching to the sun, the pilates to just get through.

My favorite paragraph is the next to last, the one about night. No need for resolve when the stars are out, reminding me that I'm not alone. It's really a beautiful line that reminds me to look and notice the magic that is all around.

At first when I read it, I felt that there was a big jump between morning and evening. It got lost somewhee along the way. It bothered me at first, like, “What happened to the middle of the day?” Then, I realized, that's really the whole point of it. The best hours are in the morning and evening time, and the middle is lost somewhere, drained away inexplicably, and can never be replaced. What an ingenious way to show that. Brava!

((xo))
Andrea

Re: Solitary Confinement

What an ingenious way to show that.

Andrea :-) Thank you !

as so often happens in freefall, I had no idea this *was* being shown! At first I thought, oh, I was just moving too quickly, not enough detail etc, a bit 'off hand' in writing this piece, but I think what wanted to be written, was written - thank you for letting me see this.

I loved how you wrote it: the middle is lost somewhere, drained away inexplicably, and can never be replaced.

Yes. sigh.

I realise now partly what informed this piece was something I read out of Deena Metzger (again…) about taking a year 'off' - no contact with anyone, just oneself… what would it 'look' like? Where would one choose to be? What books, what activities (no phone/tv/internet). In a way I love the idea – be nice to be able to choose the environment…. (and the food stores!!). Would I write? Would I collapse? A year is a long time, and not so long. What I've been realising ( going off topic here…) is that it's important to have other creative activities – writing is so particular - it needs something else to balance. I'm looking at getting a musical instrument ( tanbura, something relatively easy). If I had a year retreat alone, this would, I think, be crucial to the writing.

Love
Sandra

Re: Solitary Confinement

Sandra, reading you talking about taking a year off made me think of the The Shell Seekers for some reason. Not sure why so just sharing it out loud so we all can know how insane I am…

Re: Solitary Confinement

I've not read the book, it sounds like one to put on my 'wish list' :-)
we're all insane here I think, or maybe everyone else is insane and we are sane!!
Hugs
S.

Re: Solitary Confinement

sandra
I really appreciated the i character's vision which seemed both so small and expansive at the same time.  Also the fluid nature of thoughts reflections and awareness just moving form one ot another without the restraints of needing to make them connect and follow a form.

Re: Solitary Confinement

Sandra,

Absolutely yes to other creative outlets. I cannot imagine if I only had writing to do - I think it would be overwhelming. Other outlets create the necessary diversion from the writing to strengthen it, and give it time to breathe and grow within.

When I focused mostly on art, I used to feel that pressure, so I know what a relief it can be to do something else, and unburden yourself from the constant pressure.

Let us know how your music making goes.

xo
Andrea

Re: Solitary Confinement

Michael wrote: i think this would be a fun series of “glimpses” into the character's journey in solitude if you felt moved to do so.

————–

Hard night. Couldn't get comfortable. Hip hurt, other hip hurt. The pain moved around as if were trying to find a way out. No way out, just lie there. I could get up, but I don't. What is there to do? In the middle of the night? I have all day already. It's not as if I could fit in some vacuuming or something, and save time for the day-time activities. Sometimes, I get up and stretch, that helps. Sometimes I try to find that place just outside my head, the one I once found. It hovered about a foot away from my brain. A place where I wasn't, a place which always told me that sleep was coming. I can't find it anymore.

I looked in the mirror this morning and saw what I didn't want to see. I hate those puffy bits above my eyes. What does it mean? It's not just lack of sleep. My liver? Is it my liver? It is in the liver spot. Makes me look Mongolian. Well, that's not so bad. I'd like to be in Mongolia. Outer Mongolia with a Yurt and a horse and a cute Mongolian to boil water for my bath.

I did my usual, hot and cold showers, tried to do seven, but only managed four. The shower has no oomph. I should have asked for that. A shower with good pressure. The things we forget. I asked for a view, I got that, sort of. I should have asked for a view of the sea. I got a mountain. Making a mountain out of a molehill I am. But the sea would be good, the sound of it in the night. That kind of sound makes sleeplessness a good dream.

I don't want to go outside today. It's too cold. I can see my breath, a grey curl in the air to keep me company, a sign of life.

The showers still helped, I feel, well, fresher.

Breakfast is over. Too bad. Now is the time. I promised I'd do it. I'd write today, I would. But it all seems so pointless here. Why do anything? Why not do nothing? Why not explore that inner space, why not go inward, and find what you know is there?

When they told me about this, what, this retreat - this time alone, my solitary confinement, it's what I imagined I do. I imagined I'd get lost in meditation. The endless silent pitch. The place where death emerges, the place where 'alone' means nothing.

I saw shapes once, in that place. I knew it had a name, the name was death and death was not an end. The shapes were geometric, three-dimensional, in bright fluorescent colours. Glowing in the dark, turning slowly. A neon-turquoise tetrahedron, revolving in the forever dark, a fire-red hyperboloid living in my head. My skull had no limitations, no bone, no nothing, opening out like a black hole into the universe.

Why work, when there is this?

I know it's an excuse. I don't live in that place. If I did I'd not have said yes to this, what, experiment. Perhaps what I wanted was to find a way to live there, in the dark, in the no-thing. Perhaps it has nothing to do with writing. One is eternal, the other, well, a reason to be that satisfies the monkey mind.

So, here I am, my fingers on the keyboard, looking out the window at a coal black cloud.

Re: Solitary Confinement

Glad you decided to continue, she is a neat character.  i appreciate her fullness and emptiness.  This piece also has that same smallness and expansion i enjoyed about the first one.  It is also fun staying right here with her, she has no past, no connections, no strings, just now and herself.  What a beautiful and treacherous place to be.