Hypnopompic Chronicle 111320
Traffic outside and garish colors swirl.
Shattering glass above our heads.
The cat runs from underneath the bed and stands sentry below the window.
Crunching glass at the top of the window behind the blinds.
No an otter.
A tree otter? you say.
Errant, from the gnarled oak, I say.
We have a backyard that is simultaneously outside and inside the house.
This otter scurries down the tree and up on the bed.
The otter tunnels below the bed, behind the blinds, and up and out of the house.
The cat, stupefied and seconds late, jumps up swiping at air and catches its claws on the blind — hangs there — nonplussed.
Hey! There’s a hole in Thee Window where the outside world flows in and out.
A tall lanky man jogs through the edge of our bedroom, out for his morning run with his equally tall and lanky greyhound, and right out through the hall.
We have leaks in the house.
The otter is back, but I stand firm and stare it down from the other side of the window.
Now it’s a groundhog.
Now it’s an otter again.
You complain. You don’t want kingdom animalia running through the house.
The otter and I stare each other down.
“Commit yourself to the process, NOT the project. Don’t be afraid to write badly, everyone does. Invest yourself in the lifestyle … NOT in the particular piece of work.”
— Frank Conroy