December 27th, 2022 - 1:35 am
I had prostrated myself before Ted’s washing machine and placed my phone beneath its bottom latch near the access panel, listening intently to the trickling downpour of dish water draining towards the bottom. Metallic blades rhythmically churned the soapy flotsam sludge, accompanied by a low electrical hum that pulsated in sync with their rotation. I remained on the kitchen floor in a meditative state for a few seconds before recording this tickling combination of sounds. I rarely ever listened back to anything I saved. I guess this experience was just some intangible thing that needed to be snatched up before it escaped me. If Ted and Kara were to wake up at this moment and find me on the floor, I’d probably startle them, but they always encased themselves in layers of white noise that seemed to lock them in their rooms and arrest them with slumber.
Juneau joined me as I held my breath listening to this interior fountain. It was now nearly every visit to the Pacific Northwest that I felt this vocation to inspect a home while everyone slept. I was energized by its privacy; the intimacy of my experience. I moved slowly, fearful of being caught, as if I was trespassing. The vignette of darkness followed me. It rested in corners and hallways among waiting furniture. This childhood fear could never leave me. In stillness sat dormant appliances, kitchen utensils left to dry on racks, locked doors, distant streetlights diffused by drawn curtains.
The cats darted about. There was nothing about me being awake at this hour that they found intriguing. This was long before Shiloh. Winston was still alive then. Sometimes I dream about him. I walk into an old room of a previous house and find him neglected. I cry excessively because I know that he’s really dead, but I still hold him in my arms. I can’t decide whether this is a cruelty or a gift. I am glad to have him here in the dream at least.
I sometimes wonder when I’ll find my last photo of Winston. This particular night in late December, I only photographed Juneau. I’m so far behind in cataloguing these collections that I don’t even know. Maybe I’ve already seen it.
I ended my recording and stood up from the kitchen floor. My attention shifted to the descending threads of Christmas lights resting against the closed blinds. Each teardrop bulb radiated alternating crescent shapes that waxed and waned across the white grid. Every few bulbs, these opposite crescents would merge into a golden circle that encompassed the center light. I stooped on the floor again and placed a Bionicle at the feet of the drapes, nestling the toy in their sweeping train amidst these bright stars. I tried to imitate another photograph I took as a child, but it lost its novelty almost immediately.
I rested my forehead against the cold glass of the backyard window and strained my eyes to make out the massive redwood trees. These sentinels swayed their speared heads in an unheard breeze that danced outside. Juneau leapt onto the cat perch beside me, but his attention stayed on the glass ornaments and wrapping threads of the Christmas tree. Only during this time of year would so many lights be left on at this hour-- another reason to love the holiday.
