I am honored to introduce the photography of Tim Corbeel. I discovered Tim on Twitter via a wonderful person @Loripop326. She had shared a link via a few others to “night photography.” I wanted to learn what that meant so I explored it. Many stunning photographs by some very talented photographers captured my fancy but I couldn’t take my eyes off this one photograph. Please hop on over there to check it out and then return. This happened to be Tim’s. I followed the white rabbit to another site and then another which lead me to the treasure chest of Tim’s photography craft. I discovered he was on twitter and the rest is…Tuesday’s Torrent.
One
“Apnea”
They say I lurk around graves.
The wife told me to get checked out by them mental technicians. She didn’t speak to me the rest of dinner last week after I called a head doctor a “mental technician.” I think that is a better term, no? Not all my marbles are loose up there. Maybe I need a little tweaking and that’s all. Doesn’t everyone? The wife tried to convince me that I have sleep apnea and that’s why I can’t sleep. But I know her. Men know their women. Some of us just don’t know what to do with what we know. I know that was her way of making me go get checked up.
Yesterday I got back home around 5:30 a.m. The sun had barely started making its way when I stepped inside to find her sitting on the sofa I had bought five years ago, the sofa she doesn’t like. I asked her if she was getting ready for work. She responded, angry at me, “5:30 a.m. Why would I get ready at 5: 30 in the morning? And does it look like I am getting ready for work?”
“I thought today you had the morning shift,” I had replied. I was sincerely confused.
I told her I was sorry and had gone on a walk. Same as night before. And the night before that. And the week before that. And the month before that. And the months before that. She told me–again– “You need to get help. I go sick worrying about you when you go walking out in the middle of the night.”
I don’t like when she cries but I never know what to tell her when she does. Our son, seven, walked down the stairs, not knowing what to ask us. Suddenly I couldn’t recall what day it was. She told him to go back to bed but Jacob just stood there. So I walked over to him and ran my right hand over his head, matted hair.
I want to know what kind of a man he is going to grow up to be. I want to know what can I do: can I do anything? Jacob turned around and went back up stairs.
“What the fuck do you do out there?” she asked me like she had many times before.
“Nothing. I just walk, Marcy.”
“They said that you go—someone said—Mr. Perry told Martha’s husband that he saw you in the cemetery.”
“Yes. I told you that last week. I got sick of goin’ to the park.”
“It’s not normal,” Marcy said. And repeated, “Why don’t you want to get help?”
“What for? I am back am I not? I go to work. I don’t need as much sleep as some that’s all,” I told her like I had many times before.
“Why can’t you go on these walks in the day?”
I can’t think during the day I wanted to tell her. The darkness at night terrorizes me yet guards me.
“Mr. Naidoo, you know the Indian nurse I told you about? Who just started working over time? Told me his wife doesn’t sleep much since–since–they lost their baby.”
Marcy had had a miscarriage two years ago. I saw it as a blessing in disguise. I thought we both had always wanted only one child. Jacob was great. After that we had decided Jacob was enough.
“Well, she should take some medicines for that or go see a head doc,” I told her. I didn’t say mental technician.
I walked upstairs to sleep for a few hours.
A different fragment from the same dream was tossed my way and would make its way into the night.
The earth grated her bare feet as she ran, not desirous of any particular destination. Dry breaths pumped out of her cold lungs. She didn’t mind the rush from running on the crusty ground that perforated the soles of her feet. She ran into and out of branches that hung low from the jacaranda trees. Purple has an image-smell; it just smells like something. She ran through magenta and violet leaves vaporizing an unspecified burnt scent. The deep plum shades added another layer to the heavy darkness of the night in spite of the plump moon.
Her thoughts, rapid contractions, reverberated faster than the branches grazing her as she ran through them.
i love you…I hear myself say.
First contraction felt deeper than any cramping she had endured before.
you make me a better man…I hear myself say.
Second contraction pounds her and she can see the pain, a bulldozer hammering through her.
we have a choice…I hear a voice say.
Third.
And when she could no longer contain the pain shooting through her groin and her lower stomach, she collapsed, digging her hands through the solid earth, feeling her insides begin to invert. She coiled herself in the fetal position, face on the ground, to feel the earth exhale.
She tried to pull herself by a branch that hung lowest, a friend’s hand to lift her body, but it cracked without much noise despite the silence of the dark.
She rolled over and propped her head against a bunch of bushes. The violet leaves swayed to make room for her to glimpse at the fat moon. She saw red rocks in the moon instead of the usual grey blotches. The wind rustled the jacaranda leaves.
I sometimes walk at night and think of the son I could have had with Maria. She said it was her choice. I think I could have stopped her. I feel her choice like she made it last night and ran out. I just want her to know I felt everything with her. The graves understand.
Some memories eclipse and stretch the night into a field where we stay until the sun saves us.
Related posts:
- Illumination No. 18 in the series Tuesday’s Torrent. This story will serve...
- “To and Fro” No. 3 in the series Tuesday’s Torrent. Photograph courtesy of Tim...
- Phantom Heart A few weeks ago while walking on the Upper West Side...
Annie this is a beautiful piece. I read it and I thought: This IS the epilogue to “Prayer before birth” by Louis MacNeice..
Just stunning, Annie. I love when one artist inspires another to create a magnificent piece. I’m pretty sure I could just read your work all day and I think I’m a new fan of Mr. Corbeel’s as well.
very beautiful choice of words, and so well weaved into human emotions…as usual you make the reader feel the emotions then at that moment…never imagined how photos could lead to such amazing reflections…in the creation of a story..it’s a gift few are blessed with…keep you alive to feel things.
I generally refrain from commenting on anything before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee, lest I’m in comprehensible.
However, I can’t stop myself from saying this one little thing:
“The darkness at night terrorizes me yet guards me.”
This line wrapped itself around me, then settled into my soul. It’s going to be living there for quite some time, I assure you.
Beautiful piece, Annie.
Simply beautiful.
Once again, you’ve proven that you look at a beautiful photograph and then you add the words that — in collaboration — make a beautiful piece of art!
Mr Honesty here. I didn’t find the story interesting but it was well written. Similar to my views of Charlie Rose. Most of the people he has interviewed I have no interest in however he does the interview so well that it’s always interesting.
You really have writing skills more so than yours truly. And I mean it.
Keep up the great work.
Hi Annie,
First of all thanks for your kind words on my blog about the illustrations, I’m glad you like them:)
And now to business! I loved this piece Annie, it was superbly written and although it was quite dark in nature, I found it very easy to read. It just had a great flow to it. I would have to disagree with John, in that I found it one of the most interesting pieces that I’ve read recently. Looking forward to seeing more of your work!
I love the opening phrase: “They say I lurk around graves.” Surreal dream, I like the image-smell and imagery you use there.
When I allow myself to really absorb the image I actually feel a bit frightened!
I’ve read and heard that insomniacs tend to go for walks at night, and of course I’m not envious of insomnia but I do wish I had the courage to go for a solitary walk in the middle of the night and take in the night.
“The darkness at night terrorizes me yet guards me.”
Yes..
I found the story interesting, primarily because it picks up those layers of life that can manifest in the most unusual of ways.
I’m curious about Marcy – is she as unloving in all areas of their relationship, or does she sense that the walks are to do with a past love and hence lack compassion..