Inertia

The Quest of Saint George’ by Frank O. SalisburyThe Quest of Saint George’ by Frank O. Salisbury)

#1

There’s a kind of relaxation that comes with the experience of travelling, of being transported somewhere without any direct effort on your part- this sense of a flow, of a movement towards somewhere. As the destination draws closer, an anxiety creeps in, because you know that soon, too soon, the bus or the train or the car or the plane or the boat will stop, and you will have to step out of the safe cocoon of passive inaction and be responsible for your own direction again. It’s like the breaking of a spell, or a reverie. But step back and think of the before- the past actions that led you to this journey, and may be finding a new route will become that much easier. Or may be not. Who knows! The ice melts, the oceans part, the forests shift and the maps change all the time. You are on the ride of life anyway, and there is only one destination, eventually. But maybe you can pick up a notebook and draw a rainbow or write a song while you get there. Who knows?

#2

Staring at flickering screens in a passive concentration so I no longer need to think of the things I could be doing, should be doing, could be failing at, could be succeeding at, looking for answers to questions I’m unsure of, I find myself in the thralls of a listless inertia, expecting something- anything, some sort of miracle, a magic gateway to euphoria. It’s like I have found my way barred by a riddling Sphinx, except that I am the Sphinx, lost in my own riddles, and I’ve forgotten what to ask. And more and more I realize that the magic resides not in some questing knight from afar, not even in the stories told by other people, but within myself. I can make my own magic, I must be my own quest, I must slay my own dragon. I am the dragon that holds me prisoner by the twin enchantments of comfort and apprehension, I am the sword that can pierce its heart and transform it. But there is a password that I have forgotten.

I stare at the mountain that hides the treasure. It is impossible to climb. I watch the fearsome slumbering dragon, and I am afraid to wake it. I know I don’t have the strength. Where have all the mentors gone? The wise old men, the fairy godmothers? But they have taught me what they knew, and sent me on my way, and they can no longer help. The bystanders shout words of encouragement, or tell me to forget the treasure and go back and find some prosaic trade. But I know if I turn back, the dragon will follow in my waking moments and restless nightmares, slowly but surely devouring me whole.  And I stare at flickering screens, playing for time, figuring out the shapes of whetstones and the inscriptions on sword-sheaths, waiting for the blue moon or the eclipse or an apocalypse. The dragon grows in size, even as it sleeps, gnawing at my heart all the while. And I cannot remember where I kept my sword.

For a very long time stretching into forever, I have been a wasteland waiting for rain. Teach me the words to become the flood.     

(Picture: 'The Quest of Saint George’ by Frank O. Salisbury)he Quest of Saint George’ by Frank O. Salisbury