Quiver

The time is now, sit, calm down, find your peace.

Jan 26, 2024

There are monsters in the dark. I can feel them there, lurking on the edge of everything I know. I hear their footsteps following when I walk away. I hear them rustle through dried leaves, snapping branches, beyond the tree line. I hear their laugh dancing upon the wind as it pushes me closer and closer to home.

But I wonder sometimes if home is even safe.

It wasn’t always like this. At least I don’t think so. There was a time when the night was beautiful – a time when all that the light touched grew smaller and smaller until it was its own kind of cozy, a time when fireflies danced around in the thick Southern air and made our front yard into its own kind of galaxy, a time when the glow from the t.v. and the droning of tonight’s cartoon was its own kind of lullaby.

But that was before the morning. That was before the morning we parked the car, walked up the bloodstained stairs, and knocked and knocked and knocked on her door.

After that morning, the world wasn’t so safe anymore. Strangers weren’t so safe anymore. Not even neighbors were safe. They, it now seemed, could be the most dangerous.

Then I knew I needed to be vigilant. My ears must be tuned in to every rustle and every creak. My eyes must scan every room and every face. I must guard my body, my heart, from the monsters all around me.

I knew this on that morning as I got pushed into the car, pushed away from the last time I knew I was safe. I knew everything was wrong even though I had no idea what had gone wrong. But I knew that nothing would ever be the same.

The God I knew was dead and so was she and so I sat in the back seat as red and blue lights flooded into my smaller and smaller world.

The stars started looking less like angels wading through the Southern air and more like constellations of entry wounds.

No, that night the glowing from the t.v. and the droning of the local news detailing a homicide left me quivering in the dark.

II.

Perhaps the point is I was already dead. At least it felt that way. I mean, what’s the point of living if there’s nothing to even live for? Enough brushes with death would make anyone feel this way. Death is there, you learn, in the darkest corner of every room, in the mirror when you forget to look away, on the side of the highway or the tip of a blade.

It’s there in every moment, so what do we live for? Another moment of delay? Another pause?

Is that what we call living?

I wasn’t always this ambivalent, but at this point in my life, it seemed to be the only logical conclusion. Here I lived in a small Southern town, where I was surrounded – suffocatingly so – by the God I knew to be dead. At every corner, a church. And at every church, a graveyard. This town also had a reputation for murder. But I already knew that. Because every town is the same.

So I liked to walk around tempting fate. I walked in the night down the darkest streets with headphones blasting. I walked to the edge of the river and felt the dirt beneath my feet dissolve into the current. I walked around, ever drunker, ever higher, until I was as dead as all the bodies in all the graveyards of all these churches all around me.

I had to feel alive, feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck, feel the brink of death, feel anything, because, at this point, I was already dead. At least it felt that way, inside. And besides, I needed sleep.

When my head hit the pillow, I’d see those little drops of blood stained across a mind that desperately wanted sleep. I’d lay there and hear knocking when I closed my eyes, knocking synced to the thumping of my crescendoing heartbeat. I’d close my eyes and see the man standing in the corner of my ever-shrinking room, knife in hand, heavily breathing this thick Southern air, staring me down with his red, glowing eyes.

I’d lay there wide awake, as dead as the bodies all around me, feeling a quiver up my spine.

III.

We walk around at night, always on the edge of darkness. The glow of the streetlights demarcates the line between where I am safe to die and safe to fight. With every footstep, every rustle, every gust of wind, thoughts of death, of another violent attack, creep into the back of my mind.

I remind myself to breathe. I remind myself I am safe. I focus on the present, the leash in my hand, the not-very-scary guard dog on the other end of it, my partner walking with me. At least I won’t die alone.

No, I remind myself, breathe, breathe in deeply this thick Southern air. No one is dying. We are safe here in the present. The danger resides somewhere in the untouchable past or far off in the unknowable future. So relax.

There are coyotes in the neighborhood. They howl in the night and snarl and scream in the trees just beyond the edge of the glow from the streetlights. Monsters in the dark. I look over my shoulder. I’m unsure if I’m happy I don’t see anything.

I suppose the real monsters are the real estate developers and banks and all those other filthy capitalists who are displacing these beautiful canines from their homes. Maybe they’d maul me to death, but that’s probably just something I’ve seen in the movies and another human – one I know – is statistically the thing that’s going to kill me.

No, breathe, I remind myself, my mind is wandering again. I look up at the sky, the full moon pinned against a backdrop of constellations and galaxies. I breathe in the present, breathe in the universe around me, breathe in the only God I understand, and remind myself I am safe.

We walk back to our home, the one I hope – no, know – to be safe. I scratch my dog on the head and give him a treat. We all cuddle on the couch bathed in the glow from the t.v. and doze off to the noise from whatever sitcom we’re binging at the moment.

We make our way upstairs, tie up our hair, brush our teeth. I stare into the mirror looking deeply, or desperately, into the eyes of the only God I understand, the one I know isn’t dead. I affirm his presence, breathe in his peace, exhale his purpose.

When my head hits the pillow, I open my journal and write the things I’m grateful for:

Today I am grateful for the food I got to eat. Tempeh, hummus, tandoori bread. Yum.
Today I am grateful for sharing my art with others and for them sharing theirs with me.
Today I am grateful for my little family. My partner and my dog. My safe place. My quiver.

food for thought

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Who am I? It’s your higher self. Say hi to yourself,
Speaking life into your life span, that life bar was health.
Who am I? Not your favorite rapper, I'm your favorite person.
Look inside the mirror, see me clearer, I look great in person,
Godly. When did God leave? I still feel his presence. 
The Second Coming is every second coming, living in the present.
The time is now, sit, calm down, find your peace. But the world is fucked up.
Go to your inner world, relief. God bless you.

Ras Austin, Ayo.

a journal prompt for you

Who or what (or maybe when or where) are you grateful for?

If you do write something and you would like to share it, I’d love to read it. You can send it to theguidelines@substack.com or leave a comment.

korick is…

korick is reading Breccia by
Ruth Allen
. In particular, the piece Three notes on space and desire, which inspired my own attempt at this triptych form. Ruth Allen, however, is far more profound than me, so yeah, check it out!
korick is watching Thich Nhat Hanh on Practicing Non-Fear. Oh, and also a butt-ton of Brooklyn 99. That’s the sitcom of the moment.
korick is listening to Louis Psihoyos x Rich Roll. There’s this part where Louis Psihoyos is talking about how whales communicate through song. I’m murky on the technical science-y bits so prepare for butchered science, but he mentions how the wavelengths of their songs are kilometers long compared to the sharp, short wavelengths of human communication and that they also travel down to deep parts of the oceans where the sound waves can carry enormous distances. Like around the entire world. That shit blew my mind.
korick is paying attention to this story about using ultrasound to help treat Alzheimer’s was pretty interesting. I won’t butcher any of this science. The same lab is also exploring its efficacy in treating addiction.