On the Drift

by M. Blake

Drifting. The word probably held more significance than any other in his existence; it came to be the word that not only described his lifestyle, but his state of mind, his character, the man who couldn't attach himself to anything. Others had seen it in him years before, and some had warned him against continuing on in that vein, and he knew they were serious and had a valid point to make.

The drifter. State to state. Coast to coast. Odd job to odd job. Ready to leave as quickly as he could raise his thumb, and he liked it that way, for every place grew stale after a while, the same sights and same people, the same scraping by (so why not another chance on what the highway would bring?)

On arrival someplace, there would be the initial enthusiasm, of course, the thoughts (carrying something close to relief) that this was a place he could invest himself in, this is where he could get a hold on something. And there were always a few who would believe him, though as he got older, they became the very few, for his story was there in his face, his eyes. In those eyes was no longer the sparkle that amused people and made them generous; instead, it was replaced by an ongoing film of unwinding highway, that open, "vacant" stare. There wasn't enough warmth in it to attract interest. In a sense, he had gotten what he had wanted when younger, to be left alone and have plenty of quiet time to himself, plenty of time to think. Except, when he was younger, he hadn't done enough long, hard thinking to know that this solitary process wasn't always a quiet one, and that there could be just as much turmoil in his head as outside it. If he pulled into himself for a long enough time, there would be peace, he had thought, but that just showed him how naïve he was. In twenty years you got educated, whether you wanted it or not.

Some people could grab onto something and hang on; it was obvious. They clung to something as if their life depended on it, and perhaps it did. And yet he could never fail to see something absurd in their commitments, and this might have had something to do with a lack of faith in people and their activities in general, a misanthropic thread in the weave of his character, and one that could surprise him at times with its virulence.

But if he thought about how he had failed in doing this, in "establishing himself" somewhere, doing something, career minded, family oriented, then it did nothing but depress him and set him back in whatever he had currently been doing. He had to tell himself to keep pushing forward, that he couldn't become mired in regret, for that swamp would suck him down. He had seen too many men wasting away on regret. Better to keep drifting if that was the only thing he could latch onto.

A solitary existence? Unquestionably. Lonely? Sometimes. To keep pushing on, the continuous, wandering journey, and not trying too hard to make heads or tails of it. Forty years young.

Copyright © M. Blake 2004

Out Here

by M. Blake

Out here in the woods, his mind settles, he begins to feel pleasant again squinting out at the sunlight glinting over the pond's surface. He is not expending any unnecessary energy; one would hardly notice him breathing. To an observer, he could appear to be in deep meditation, “"communing" with nature, as he had heard a neighbor put it, recently. He had read that somewhere too: a man communing with nature. Really finding himself, he imagined that to mean. A man letting nothing come between him and nature, all cluttering thoughts having dissipated on the fresh breeze.

At first, after finding a seat, he thinks of how angry and uptight he had been the previous night; he had been consumed, however briefly, by a fit of rage that had left him jittery and shaken for the rest of the night. These sudden "fits" often had a lasting effect (for hours afterward), throwing his chemical balance off, his pulse rate, his thoughts. It was a savage madness that lurked inside.

And he had still been a little unsettled by it this morning; it was anything but reassuring, especially with the frequency of these hideous fits. He couldn't help but question his sanity. At one time, he never entered these distressing states unless drunk, yet he hadn't had a drink in months. It was disturbing enough with the alcohol, which had been his standby drug for years, but now that the fits occurred when sober, he didn't have that excuse to explain it.

The image of a howling madman in a loony bin cell came to mind as he started walking into the woods. He thought of the character Renfield in Dracula, always alert for the presence of the Darkness. Darkness personified. Looking for anything to help with the sickness, anything that sounded good to his ears, anything that sounded like soothing music.

And here he had his music in the wind rustling in the trees, in the steady running of the streams. He was dazzled by the light off the water, and the contrast between the dark green of the pines and the clear blue sky. For smell, he had the wet, needle covered ground around him, that thick, yet invigorating earthy smell. He was suddenly rich in sensory impressions, sitting very still there on his log seat. The troublesome thoughts were gone before he was aware of it, and he entered something of a trance in the warm, midday sunshine. Yes, this was reassuring. When all else failed, he could always come to the woods. When he got tired and frustrated with that other world, he could come here, if only temporarily. He would take every hour of that escape.

He focused on deep, steady breathing (just the opposite of what happened during that nightmare the preceding night), letting his limbs go limp, allowing his head to sag on his neck. Loose everywhere. Feeling the cool breeze on his face and arms (pleasant in the sun's heat). If only he could enter this state more often and could count on this dose of serenity, however fleeting.

He had the feeling that in some such place as this, isolated in the woods, he would make his last stand for sanity, or perhaps something that felt like it anyway. Yes, as with this soothing feeling today, as close to peace as he would get. Wisdom be damned. Just that feeling, "one with nature" as the saying went. Let the rest of that noise, his noise, the bothersome voices, go. The final quiet.

Copyright © M. Blake 2004

I've Got a Touch of It Again

by M. Blake

I've spent all day trying to get that Thing out from under my face, the Thing that was there since I opened my eyes. You talk about something unrelenting under that mask I wore all day, that sick feeling I knew would be there all day because that's the way it always goes (it claims my consciousness until the next time I sleep), it's like the saying puts it: getting up on the wrong side of bed. And there's no changing it. So you live with it, and if you're lucky, as I was today, the day goes pretty easy, and you have enough to do so that the time doesn't pass too slowly. I was able to stay busy with routine tasks, for I know better than to get too involved with anything when the Thing is with me; it takes most of my attention, even if my mask doesn't show it. It is more than a handful; it is a constant presence, my sickness, the bit of the plague I carry, and some days it claims as its own.

I used to try to override it, but I don't make the effort anymore. It used to allow me to get to the point where I thought I'd done away with it; I would be ready to celebrate, thinking I had made the day my own. And then, suddenly, it would dispense with that notion altogether, like a personal devil reminding me that I had to pay, Faust-like, for all of my high moments, there would always be a time when I had to pay.

And what could I do but accept? I sensed there was nothing I could really do anyway: my nature dictated that this is the way it would be. I would have these trying days, possessed by the Thing that I make out to be a character separate from myself, but that is really just dormant, thankfully, most of the time.

Copyright © M. Blake 2004