The Break

He put his shoulder to the wind and walked through the lifeless streets. His mind raced, he wished to free himself from his suburban cell, to live quietly among hills and trees, to hear birds and rivers, to never again hear a siren or crash. He needed space to work, to create and think. His sensitivity often left him wounded by the modern world that valued production over feeling and appearance over sight. His day to day had become torturous to him, he longed for the world of Hesse, Goethe and all those who have lived life as art and thusly created art as life. He wanted to wander, to have no home, to be swept away in the rushing current of existence and the natural world. He wished to lay his head upon a mossy knell because he was tired, not because he had a job to rise for, he wanted to eat what he could forage and not what he could afford. He wished for the stars and the infallible pulse of the universe to be his guides, not the common mind of man that bid him work, endure, settle.

His empty pockets mocked him as he stood in front of the glaring supermarket, his desperation often lead him to hedge his bets, or as he saw it, put his faith in the cosmos and be relieved of his debilitating lack of finance. He pulled out a handful of scrunched scratch cards and thrust them into the bin. He’d only ever try his luck with the most modest of prizes, he needed only a small amount, just enough to afford him a van and life on the road, enough to gain space and time so he could fulfil the burning impulse within him that had always bid him, write!

This impulse drove and disrupted his life, for he had come from a normal family and attended a poor school, no literary heritage entitled him and no external successes bated him on. But as he sat, pen in hand in the silence of night, he would access the whole world within himself, a great source of humanity would spring forth and flood his being with lives beyond his own. He knew, for he felt that all people were akin, they shared fears and hopes, past and future, and with his pen he wanted to return them all unto themselves, to free them from the malaise of the modern world and let them be people once more. He recognised in the well of being a phosphorescent star that had been subjugated before the absurdity of the world today, under the yoke of war, starvation, economy, politics and fashion. At each turn he saw people being drawn away from themselves, tempted by false idols, corrupted by ideas and the burden of time, made to be as they suppose they ought and never as they were.

At times his mind would run freely, visions would overcome him, his fantasies would dance like phantoms in the theatre of his soul. The face of his beloved would appear, fragrant winds of distances would caress his skin, the weight of his little black book would increase in his hands, its cover would throw itself open and his pen would glide across the page as if possessed.

Oh to be free of this world,

To live among the stars,

To roam like the wolf or wind,

To know things near and far.

His black book was littered with these transient fragments, those which could find no place in larger pieces but burst forth like fireworks and dissolved into the night sky. The lines of these pages remained private to him, as if they were confessions, truths too fragile to put before unfeeling eyes. At times he would read them sadly, feeling the gulf between his passions and livelihood, his cursed nature that bid him express but would never let him earn. He thought of Haydn shut away in his palace turning out symphonies and quartets by the barrel load, Thoreau strolling around his pond and writing in the woods, Bukowski sweltering in his dingy apartment, scratching poem after poem.

He fished through an untidy drawer and found a solitary coin, it shone in his palm, the room fell quiet and dark about him. The black book fell open before him.

To take a chance,

On this last coin,

To take a risk,

The greats rejoin.

He donned his Stetson hat, tied his long coat and stole into the night as if carrying a gem. His gait was stooped and secretive, his downcast eyes hid the hope his mission inspired. The store shone ominously like a grail through the fog, its sickly yellow light became golden and enticing. He approached the gum-chewing clerk and nodded, inside he shook, such with hope and fear of a final disappointment.

“Number seventeen, please.” He mumbled, dropping the coin onto the counter with a thud. He raced home card in hand, wondering if fate were mixing the numbers beneath the concealed surface, wondering if there was an exact time that fortune would shine on him, wondering if he’d missed it already.

He returned home, several minutes before midnight, he decided to wait until the strike of twelve to uncover his numbers. The card sat atop his many papers, he paced before his desk, smoking nervously. He flipped open the black book.

Oh beauty may you shine on me,

Help me claim my destiny,

For all my words are born of thee,

And stay us to infinity.

He watched the seconds of the clock tick forebodingly past, he vowed never again to appeal to chance if this were to be another dead end. He held his key just above the silver foil, his hand trembled, sweat appeared on his furrowed brow. As the clock chimed he began furiously scraping away the foil covering, the first row was comprised of unmatched small amounts, the second row was the same. He sighed heavily, the chance of matching three on a single row was more than slim. The clock showed fifteen seconds past twelve, as it reached nineteen he blindly scraped away the remaining foil. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to all the deities or fates that might exist. He narrowly peered through one eye, he stood abruptly sending the chair flying across the room. He starred at the card, looked away and rubbed his eyes before looking again, all his past failures and disappointments rose up before him. He held the card in his hand, traced the numbers with his forefinger. A smile grew across his lips, his ears rose, he let out an unrestrained wahoo and began dancing about the room wildly, freely. He checked the card over and over, he’d won, he had the money he needed for a van, for freedom, his ticket out. He fell exhaustedly onto his bed, laid his arm to where he wished his beloved laid and sighed deeply. Sleep would not come, a new and vibrant road opened before him lined with sunrises, mountains and freedom.

The next day he retrieved his winnings and immediately bought a hightop work van and began converting it into his living quarters. He needed very little, somewhere to sleep, cook and write. The days he spent sawing wood and picking splinters from his fingers filled him with an optimism he’d never known. His mind was awash with early mornings and late evenings spent writing and pouring over books. He knew where he was going first, he’d always known where he’d go as soon as he acquired the means to travel, he would fly to the arms of his beloved. He finished the furnishings and adorned the entrance with a wooden plaque he’d engraved with the words:

Life as art, art as life.

He was ready to go, he had loaded his library, a stack of notepads, pens and his little black book. This black book had taken on a Biblical importance to him, it contained his frailties and his wishes and had seemed to respond to both. The road rose up to his wheels and carried him smoothly along, he yelled melodically to the symphonies of Beethoven and beat his steering wheel with his fist when the tide of life crashed too emphatically in his chest. Every mile he travelled increased his yearning to fall upon her neck, feel her lips and hear her voice. As he drove his future unfolded before him, the limitless romantic extravagancies were within his grasp, the boundless nomadic life was his to live.

He pulled up slowly before her house, he smiled when he saw her in the window reading peacefully, the sun caressing her profile. He pressed the horn lightly, she looked up and fastened her eyes on his, she jumped up and disappeared into the house. After several minutes she appeared with a bag, hopped into the cabin besides him and threw her arms around his neck, he held her tightly to him, his heart pounded against his chest. He put the van in gear, she rested her hand upon his, they pulled away and towards the unknown that beckoned them forth. They travelled without a destination, drove without direction.

An easy smile grew across his face, he had attainted that which would open the door to the potential he felt thrashing around inside of him. Without the burdensome realities of the world, without the cold grey of the suburb he felt free. He unstrapped the watch from his wrist and threw it from the window, he needed time no longer. Without time he would no longer suffer conflict or separation, he would live presently and in doing so be complete with whatever was, in this freedom of mind and spirit he would create without interval, without division. Without time he would be whole, he would live without the chains of his past or the spectres of tomorrow. For if one lives without time, they live wholly, then ones life can truly begin.