In an instant I’m awake, no idea where I am, sitting bolt upright, eyes open. There’s someone sleeping next to me, long brown hair across the pillow, dim light filtered through the curtains.
“Who’s there?”
Somewhere inside me I’m aware of how childlike my voice sounds. The head stirs, turns towards me.
“It’s me Willy.”
A slender arm reaches out.
Of course. Of course it’s you. Of course I’m here.
I groan and fall back, rubbing my eyes. Then I turn and bury my head in warmth and soft skin.
“I didn’t know who you were…” I say to her left breast.
She makes sympathetic, cooing noises, still mostly asleep. I lie there and close my eyes again, my breathing slows, my brain relaxes. Then it begins a slow inventory, catching up with itself: flights, customs, airports, sunlight, heat, Meg in arrivals, Meg in the car… Then the whole hallucinated day plays out: wandering around, confused and sleep deprived, forcing myself to stay awake, to stay lucid, until Australian bedtime.
I’d slept a little on the couch when Meg went out for groceries. Then we lay together and watched TV. When Meg got up to shower I’d talked to Mum, then watched Leo’s short film about climate change.
Until now I’d watched impassively the slideshow of memories, enjoying Meg’s sleeping body next to me, her smell, her slow breathing, but now a darkness seeps in, a slow, engulfing panic. That ten minute movie, its volume too low, pixilated slightly on full screen, plays again inside my skull. The calm, softly spoken warning, the image of Earth perched on the hill, the little people marching towards the power station…
My brain is swamped. I lie cocooned in love and clean sheets, rigid with fear, my breath fast and shallow, shuddering as every new though hits me: We’re running out of time. I’m not doing enough. No one understands how close we are to the edge and I’m not doing enough! I understand what’s happening but all I do is write stupid stories. I should be doing more. I should be blowing up power stations, picking off the CEOs of multinationals. I shouldn’t be here, warm and loved. I should be holed up in a shed somewhere, making pipe bombs, wearing black clothes. The end is coming and all I do is laugh and play and fly in planes and…
“What’s the matter Willy?”
I’m so tense I can’t even answer. I shudder, fight for breath. She pushes herself away from me.
“What’s wrong?”
And I collapse: knees drawn up in foetal position, sucking air in quick gasps, not exhaling,
And then I start to sob.
“What’s wrong?” She sounds alarmed now, frightened.
“I…”, I still can’t even speak.
“I just can’t… I just… can’t.”
“Shhh”. She says, good woman, drapes herself over me, holds my head and rocks. “Shhh now”.
After a while I cry properly, and that feels good.
And then I draw away slightly, just enough to breathe,
And lie there,
And tell her what went wrong.
I tell her how scared I am, how useless and impotent I feel, how the whole Earth’s going to hell in a shitstorm and no one understands. All my words are over-dramatic, my tone is bleak and black.
“It’s useless”, I conclude, “there’s nothing we can do.”
“Oh Willy,” she says, “you’re jet lagged. You know there’s always hope, you’re always saying that. Even if we do all die and kill as much as we can, it’ll all re-evolve”.
“Rats and flies and cockroaches”, I mumble, “I love this green planet. I want it”.
Again I hear myself, how child-like I sound.
“I’m not doing enough.”
“Maybe not,” she says, “but you will. Right now you talk about it, and you write about it. You tell people. You’re a good man and people listen to you. You throw stones and ripples spread out. You know they do.”
“But it’s still not enough.”
“So do more. Talk more, write more.”
“I should be getting involved. I should be acting.”
“So act. Get involved. But don’t get stuck in frustration, and don’t be scared. I know you’re not really scared, anyway. I know it’s just jet-lag. You’re calm and strong. You’re not a bad person. You’re not lazy either. You’re doing what you can and you will do more.”
And softly she strokes my head, and the fear dies away.
I know what I have to do, and she’s right, it doesn’t really scare me. There is hope. Re-evolution isn’t a real consolation, it’s just a back-stop, something to keep the panic at bay. Deep down I know that a change is happening: all the people aren’t all asleep any more. They’re waking up, lots of them, and in the dreamy morning light they’re sitting bolt upright in their beds, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and asking, in mumbled, childlike voices:
“Who else is here?”
And then they’ll rise like I did,
And cast a little stone,
And the ripples will reach others,
And together we’ll throw bigger stones
Until the ripples become waves
And the waves will peak and roar
And smash upon the granite cliffs
And loosen bigger stones…
2 comments:
you made me cry again!
Wil,
keeo on writing - your voice will be heard !
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