Experience
As I walk toward the Sandpoint Marina, the night streets glisten with a kind of hyper-reality that seems full of detail and realism while at the same time remaining abstract. Lights, yellow and red, blink on and off in time with the music from my headphones.
It is early morning, or late night, depending on the sleep cycle of the beholder. It is at this time of night that drunks, disgorged from bars like writhing larval parasites in the vomit of a man with a rare and incurable disease, stumble about.
I can’t sleep; that is, when I try to sleep, visions of injustices and harm fill my head with images and my heart with indignation. I decided to go for a walk partly to quell those visions and partly to work them out.
I arrive at the Marina at approximately the same time a freight train begins to cross the trestle over Sand Creek. As the train’s wheels protest their fixed destiny between rails laid long before their arrival, I imagine I can see sparks emanating from the conflict between confinement and dangerous freedom.
Car after car passes, most stacked with one or more shipping containers of various sizes. Some of the cars are empty. I notice that most of the freight cars appear to belong to foreign companies such as “Hyundai.” I wonder why South Korea needs to ship across North Idaho and exactly what is being shipped.
The battle sounds of the war between train wheels and track fades, mingling with the shouts and screams of the inebriated blocks away.
I turn from the departed train and survey the shoreline in front of me. There is a rock outcropping slightly to the left of my direct forward view. On top of the outcropping, within a distance of four feet, stands a large raccoon. It is facing away from me toward the drunken cries of the disgorged. The raccoon, however, does not appear to be paying any heed to their shouts and high-volume ramblings.
I study the raccoon carefully, surprised to see this manifestation of the wild and natural amid the unnatural sounds of the train and the inebriated. The racoon seems to be unaware of my presence, allowing my eyes to percieve its energy and strength.
At this moment, I note that living things appear to have a different level of mass than the non-living, but whether the living have more or less mass, I am not sure.
After an indeterminable amount of time passes, the raccoon becomes aware of the attention I am paying to it. It looks in my direction; eye-to-eye we regard each other.
I feel as if I am looking into the eyes of an old friend. I half-way expect the raccoon to hurry to my side and strike up a conversation. “It’s been a long time,” I imagine it saying, “how’s the writing thing going?”
In fact, I almost speak aloud, but my tongue does not move and my lips stay shut. As we look into each other’s eyes, an understanding passes between us. Yes, we are both where we belong. Yes, we are both out of place as well. Eventually, eye contact is broken by mutual agreement.
The raccoon then moves in my direction. Its apparent destination is under the bridge I am standing upon. After a farewell glance, the raccoon dissapears beneath my feet.
I turn and head for town, suddenly having a need for movement. Everything looks differently. I am aware of all my senses but I feel like I am an observer, not a part of the scene going or around me. It is as if I borrowed a body in order to gather information about this strange planet through the body’s sensory system.
A drunk, telling his equally drunk female companion not to look, urinates off the dock next to an expensive pleasure craft.
I wonder what the raccoon would think of that.
Gary Hassler
May 21, 2005
As I walk toward the Sandpoint Marina, the night streets glisten with a kind of hyper-reality that seems full of detail and realism while at the same time remaining abstract. Lights, yellow and red, blink on and off in time with the music from my headphones.
It is early morning, or late night, depending on the sleep cycle of the beholder. It is at this time of night that drunks, disgorged from bars like writhing larval parasites in the vomit of a man with a rare and incurable disease, stumble about.
I can’t sleep; that is, when I try to sleep, visions of injustices and harm fill my head with images and my heart with indignation. I decided to go for a walk partly to quell those visions and partly to work them out.
I arrive at the Marina at approximately the same time a freight train begins to cross the trestle over Sand Creek. As the train’s wheels protest their fixed destiny between rails laid long before their arrival, I imagine I can see sparks emanating from the conflict between confinement and dangerous freedom.
Car after car passes, most stacked with one or more shipping containers of various sizes. Some of the cars are empty. I notice that most of the freight cars appear to belong to foreign companies such as “Hyundai.” I wonder why South Korea needs to ship across North Idaho and exactly what is being shipped.
The battle sounds of the war between train wheels and track fades, mingling with the shouts and screams of the inebriated blocks away.
I turn from the departed train and survey the shoreline in front of me. There is a rock outcropping slightly to the left of my direct forward view. On top of the outcropping, within a distance of four feet, stands a large raccoon. It is facing away from me toward the drunken cries of the disgorged. The raccoon, however, does not appear to be paying any heed to their shouts and high-volume ramblings.
I study the raccoon carefully, surprised to see this manifestation of the wild and natural amid the unnatural sounds of the train and the inebriated. The racoon seems to be unaware of my presence, allowing my eyes to percieve its energy and strength.
At this moment, I note that living things appear to have a different level of mass than the non-living, but whether the living have more or less mass, I am not sure.
After an indeterminable amount of time passes, the raccoon becomes aware of the attention I am paying to it. It looks in my direction; eye-to-eye we regard each other.
I feel as if I am looking into the eyes of an old friend. I half-way expect the raccoon to hurry to my side and strike up a conversation. “It’s been a long time,” I imagine it saying, “how’s the writing thing going?”
In fact, I almost speak aloud, but my tongue does not move and my lips stay shut. As we look into each other’s eyes, an understanding passes between us. Yes, we are both where we belong. Yes, we are both out of place as well. Eventually, eye contact is broken by mutual agreement.
The raccoon then moves in my direction. Its apparent destination is under the bridge I am standing upon. After a farewell glance, the raccoon dissapears beneath my feet.
I turn and head for town, suddenly having a need for movement. Everything looks differently. I am aware of all my senses but I feel like I am an observer, not a part of the scene going or around me. It is as if I borrowed a body in order to gather information about this strange planet through the body’s sensory system.
A drunk, telling his equally drunk female companion not to look, urinates off the dock next to an expensive pleasure craft.
I wonder what the raccoon would think of that.
Gary Hassler
May 21, 2005
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Re: An Experience
Fri, June 23, 2006 - 1:36 AMNice story, I like the detail. Seemed as if somone was experimenting with conscious expanding elements. I've been on plenty of walks while induced where I could clearly hear the dissonance of the crickets song, every break of a twig or minute sound.
