Rembrandt van Rijn: The Night Watch (1642)

“ … failing to make much sense of my mission again.”

Weather dominates my news through Winter's first quarter. Every day brings another aspect into focus as a series of fronts promising change move into and over the area. One morning, snow's expected. The following: record low temperatures. I anticipate each shift as if being invaded. My sleep, normally ragged and discontinuous, turns almost non-existent as I lie there, wondering if the next assault has started yet. I cannot seem to successfully ignore it or just let it happen. It seems to want a witness, and I seem to need to witness as if it couldn't occur without me there or as if some catastrophe might ensue if I were absent. I have been slouching in a reading chair most recent nights, peering out the big front window, waiting for the latest show to start, neither sleeping nor especially alert, on NightWatch.

My internal dialogue seems muted then. It murmurs and whispers as if it might startle and fully awaken me if it spoke more clearly. It rambles, telling stories about this world and others, blurring the distinction between awake and dreaming. I keep my weather eye focused, sensitive to motion in the shadows and for subtle changes in the sky. The cats slip out for short reconnaissance missions, returning dissatisfied with their experiences. I compulsively check the latest weather maps to determine where that front's advanced and to calculate when the brunt will arrive. The town seems still. It seems as if only I sit NightWatch, as if it is solely my responsibility to see the weather in.

My internal dialogue seems different when I'm on NightWatch. It keeps secrets. It speaks in gibberish. Its purpose might be to keep my awareness near the surface, to prevent it from slipping too far in or under as if it might be mutiny to doze, a dereliction of sacred duty. I hold no special power to turn any storm system, so I suppose I'm just supposed to perform as an early warning system but warn against what? Warn whom? When? I feel every inch an inept defender, a pretender upon the parapet, unarmed and no real threat. Am I here, sleepless, as a mere witness? Does my charter extend no further than for me just to be present and accounted for? But accounted for by whom? Present, how?

The deep sense of responsibility I feel when I abandon my bed before midnight and head downstairs feeling if not rested enough, fed up with miming sleep sustains me. Max initially appreciated my lap, and I enjoyed his presence in return. We're cordial to each other, though he'll not last long before returning to his usual sleeping corner and leaving me alone and exposed there to entertain myself with slow-moving cold fronts and brief snow flurries. I might decide to read. I might choose there in the dark that the book I thought was critically important last week was not worth finishing. I felt some authority when I made that decision. I had felt hostage to something I expected to learn before realizing I didn't want to know what that author felt so compelling.

Nothing's supposed to make sense when sitting NightWatch. The daytime behavior rules and nighttime comportment guidelines do not apply to the wee-est hours sliding by. My convictions hold for moments before being overtaken by fresh contradiction. I cannot concoct a conclusion. I sit suspended above the night, neither safe in sleep nor secure in full wakefulness. I am a contingent witness, not even a witness yet, but someone trolling for something witnessable to arrive while hoping he won't doze in dereliction of even this meager responsibility. I am the sentry. Nobody should care how or even whether I perform my service. I remain alert when no alertness seems necessary. I might occupy myself in a private obsession where I continue my internal discussions, failing to make much sense of my mission again.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #iAlogue , #PureSchmaltz