Max Richter "The Blue Notebooks"
Fatcat
Monday, March 1st: On the Nature of Daylight
It's raining out. Spring has come early this year, but I'm thankful for it. I don't know if its possible for someone to love the rain as much as I do. Every time I hear the droplets splashing against my roof, I feel like I'm being given an opportunity for rebirth. If seasons can change, why can't I? Tonight, I lay in my bed alone. Today is our anniversary. It would have been six years. I can still smell her rose petal perfume on the sheets, even though I've washed them and changed them a hundred times. I keep this silver necklace under my pillow. I know it's silly, but some things grow from comfort to habit. In between the mattress and the box spring, that's where I keep them. Her prized possessions, her crown jewels. She speaks to me through them like a ghost, and if she did not haunt me still, I might die too. Tonight I read the entry titled "Horizon Variations," and I almost lost it. She writes so beautifully. I hear the words as if she was lying next to me naked reading them aloud. I would try to tickle her, and she'd just giggle, roll over, and say "Not this time." I am smitten. Her every word is my command. "Let's leave the window open tonight," she'd whisper. "The ocean smells especially sweet today." I oblige. I always obliged...
Thursday, March 4th: Shadow Journal
The sound of the typewriter resonates inside me as I am reminded of these words: "Only this moment at dawn is real to me." I haven't been able to escape my dreams lately. I am in these horrific worlds, trapped inside a cage with a dozen other prisoners. I used to be able to force myself awake, but seem to have lost this ability. Last night I thought I'd finally shaken it. I was curled up in the corner of the cage when suddenly a ray of sunlight pierced the heavens and shone directly on me. I stood up, thinking it was over. Soon I would be greeted by consciousness. But it was only an extension of the dream, and it was not the sun at all. It was a spotlight being put on me so the guards could find me and drag me away. I was suddenly transported to a desolate, acid-soaked beach. Everything on the ground was dead. I heard seagulls circling overhead. If I were lucky, they'd have turned carnivorous.
Saturday, March 6th: Vladimir's Blues
Today was full of hope. I visited the grave and there were three beautiful daffodils growing on it. I'm not sure how they got there, but it was a wonderful tribute. I lay in the delicate, cold, green grass for over an hour. I watched the clouds change shapes overhead, from a cannon to a rabbit to a swan. As the swan sailed away, I felt an urge to run. I got up and ran as fast as I could all the way home. I felt so alive. And then I found a note she had written me about two weeks before the accident. I hadn't seen it since; apparently it was stuck in the inside pocket of my chocolate brown corduroy jacket. "Always remember these days, but never look back," it read. Prophetic isn't the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind. I pulled down the shades and buried my face in my pillow. I remembered the day she'd left me that note. She'd gone for an afternoon at the arboretum, but was going to cook me dinner when she got home. "Work on your novel," she whispered the night before, "it'll be good for you." If only she were here to look out for me now...
Sunday, March 7th: The Trees
If I make it to tomorrow, I will not be able to deny belief in a God any longer. I feel like the trees outside are mocking me. They solemnly hang, acting like they are impervious to pain. They show one face and one face only. It's like they just hang there saying, "I dare you! Just try!" I don't think they'd be as austere if I went out there with an axe. As the silver face of the axe reflected the light from the full moon overhead, they would panic. You'd see fear on their faces and in their limbs then. Oh who am I kidding? I'm not going anywhere with an axe. I've thought about using the bed sheets. I could loop them around the chandelier in the living room, but I've never had the dexterity for complex knots. I am too afraid of guns and abhor them, so it's not an option. And I really don't know where I can get any sort of medication with enough potency to do the deed. If I could manage to get myself up and outside, I could just throw myself in the streets. Who am I kidding? I can't. And I won't. I can't forget her words, and she would never forgive me if I gave up. I will never forget, but I must always remind myself: Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow the sun will shine. After all, it's written on the sky... 8/10 -- Brad Rose (25 May, 2005)
|
