Images by Miguel Murchada

Darkness of the Night
by Miguel Murchada

Life imitates art and my good friend logic does not always rule my destiny. Sometimes, somewhere, somehow, I follow my reckless passions and go against the wind. I have found that society and man’s laws will not stop a stubborn Irishman. It is along these paths that the universe has become my canvas and whether it be while writing, painting or even teaching others, I sometimes find a soundtrack to go along with what I’m up to. It makes those moments all the more timeless and special. After all, movies are not the only art forms that have soundtracks. Each and every one of us also possesses one to accompany the canvas of our lives. Unfortunately, some of us go through our whole lives not realizing this or perhaps never finding a single soundtrack that worked for them. They bounce along from moment to moment, job to job, relationship to relationship, rudderless, wandering, wondering why.

I figure that I deserve a break now and again, especially when things haven’t been going as planned or when life offers me obstinate dilemmas (and there have been more of those than I like on my plate at any given time). I’m pretty sure during some of those moments the music helps to save my sanity. Recently, I’ve been taking too many breaks. I’ve been drinking more. I’ve been searching for something or someone in places where nobody knows me. I’ll find what I’m looking for. My mind works that way. Quietly thinking— I watch the watchers. These days I’m slow to take action lest, as in the old days, I dance where elephants play.

In my experience the absolute best time to find the very finest music and the very best lyrics is in the quiet darkness of the night, when without the music one could almost barely hear a pin drop. That’s when it starts and it is at that precise time, that the music is clearly the most beautiful. I have no doubt that it is best found in the darkness of the night.
I was 15 and possibly in Paris when I first drew her. She had not even been born yet and was only a quiet figment of my imagination playing upon the now worn and coffee stained paper. In adolescent art and later in my life, the strands of her beautiful long hair went from very light tones to very dark ones. I didn’t know it at the time— our lives would do the same. The other coincidence, unless my memory plays tricks on me—and mark my words, my memory sometimes does, were somewhat large earrings dangling from her ears. Now, 40 years later, I was shocked to discover that my image is real, a sparkling diamond studded goddess with plenty of time still on her side. After all, a woman on paper does not age. I know how much she is desired and that she has been other men’s canvas in the past. Today, she is the artist and she possesses her own brush. The strokes of that brush shed light upon my darkness, the darkness of the night.

It takes a lot of time and money and even a little imagination to keep a fantasy alive. Sometimes, an artist over perfects and over does. The paint can be laid upon the canvas too thickly or sometimes too thin. Fortunately, that is not the case for her, not during the darkness of the night.

I love art. Her’s does strike a chord in me. I am played well. It might be easy to love her for those reasons alone—very easy in fantasy. I have no right to ask if she can love or to even travel down that path with her were I so fortunate. I realize all that. Perhaps I have recklessly allowed her to know too many of my secrets. I risk everything. Then again, what do I really have? What is there to lose as long as she loses nothing? Unnecessarily, I warn her. Thankfully, we are hidden by the darkness of the night.

I thought about her so many times over the last four decades. For all the moments I didn’t think of her, I’m making up for now. I never understood why that particular image kept coming back to haunt me. There were so many drawings and I had known so many women. Why on earth did this one reach out to me through the fog of life and the darkness of the night?

Today, I’m glad to say, we rendezvous at predictable, controlled and monitored times on certain nights—never in the clarity of daylight, lest our worlds come crashing down upon us. I pay insurance. It keeps the fantasy alive. However, unusually, we have gone beyond the darkness of the night. Notes pass between us, and I am honored, though it is hard to see her expressions, emotions and thoughts, hidden behind the veil of electronic messages, especially when they are kept so short and sweet. Mostly, I prefer being face to face in the darkness of the night.

We met in the shadows amid the neon, smoke and mirrors—amid the abstract music—a poorer man’s version of the phantom’s opera. One can never be certain in such a world if anything is real. One would normally say that that is an omen of situations to be played with but kept at an emotional distance like ghosts and scary movies. After all, nightmares might occur. Perhaps, understanding that is healthy, at least most of the time. Society would certainly support that idea. But I figure, most of society doesn’t get out much. Were they out late, they might throw stones at the neon lights. They don’t understand the darkness of the night.

But, as I would, encouraged by the knowledge that I had fewer years left at risk, I decided to enter the rabbit hole despite all the posted signs. I sensed something more was calling. I also understand that it is no miracle that a light shines the brightest surrounded by the darkness of the night.

For me to have missed the moment amid all the distractions would have required a total unwillingness or even blindness on my part. But I wasn’t blind and I am certainly willing. There was no logical reason to look at her, or to listen to her solicitation. I was half committed to two others, one an oriental beauty of my momentary fantasies, the other an ancient beloved sister. Still, I did not hesitate. The image from my past hadn’t yet dawned on my conscious self. I would return to the scene to figure it out. Soul mates? No, that’s too predictable and she certainly wouldn’t believe that one. I came back again and again despite the increasingly harsh glow of the flashing red lights in the darkness of the night. She overshadowed the flashing signs, and bizarre scents. She is my teacher. She understands and seems comfortable with the darkness of the night.

I let her fill my imagination. One night, I dreamt about her for the first time. In the dream our open lips touched softly. Then, for some unexplained reason I tasted a trace of salt in that much longed for, soft and perfect kiss. I didn’t know you could have taste in a dream. From it, I might have assumed she was of the sea, a mermaid perhaps—or a siren! Though she is convincing me otherwise, I’ll go with siren for now. I am strong enough to give the siren time to lure me into the dance. Dancing complements the music that plays in the darkness of the night.

I understand that paper drawings are never real especially those revealed in the darkness of the night!

In the past, old lovers would come back to me in the darkness of the night, but even in dreams, the wiles of women no longer fool me so easily. Still, that night I awoke knowing that kiss was real and wondering when and where it had actually happened. How could I not remember something like that? As reality tuned in, I hoped the dream was prophecy and not the siren’s song sending me false messages in the darkness of the night.

My intellect tries to protect my heart from dangerous fantasies, but not from those I have with her. It fails and I don’t listen. Now, at 55, I have found her in a place I still can’t believe possible. Perhaps I should leave it alone, but I don’t. At this age, I am willing to risk more. Time is not on my side. I say, “Better late than never—better anywhere than nowhere.” I set myself up for this. I ventured outside the box. I am rewarded with adventure and fantasy and probably should be content with that or must I be content with the memory of what we’ve shared until now? Real? Sort of! No matter, I’m going with it anyway—in the darkness, the darkness of the night.

Now discovered, she has no equal and absolutely no competition. All women step aside now. She is my first lover in over 15 years, but I am not hers—even now. Despite her darker world, which I now share, I know she has virgin qualities that beg to see the light of day. A universe lies in front of her as it does for all of us, but she too is hemmed in out of necessity and the darkness of the night.

My siren plays me with care, and I think would not be happy if my ship were to hit the rocks. Even so, I don’t think empathy is her style. This is not standard siren fare. While no thought is given by some men if her ship were to crash upon the shore, I do care. Though empathy escapes her and causes her trouble, it is not that she is impartial to the feelings of others. The words “I’m sorry” said to her by others are now so ingrained in her vocabulary that a minor slight brings them out to apologize for what is nothing, or perhaps what could be a blackened eye from a flying elbow as she adds or subtracts from her scant attire, in the darkness of the night.

I know she has loved men, but irony plays upon her heart, for I don’t think truly being loved has ever really happened for her—not yet. She has been fooled once or twice, and those times set the bar, the hurt hardening her heart but leaving her happily encumbered with blessings like those offered but never bestowed upon me. The darkness of the night has rules and she follows them, well almost. In that context it is easier to understand her though she never really got the chance to understand herself before the real world weighed down upon her, in good ways—sometimes. For lovers to follow her down each path she traveled would have led most men to dead ends. Men should know that when lost, one does not ask her for directions. I’m not sure she even remembers how she got here. When it comes to directions, there are none—not exactly—not yet. You would simply become lost. I advise caution in the darkness of the night.

Perhaps, she will win my heart (or she already has and I just don’t know it yet). Does she have some deeper connection to me than I realize? Wouldn’t that be nice? I think again about rules that separate her from my fantasies, the rules of the darkness of the night.

A man hovers while he takes inventory. There is never a good time to take inventory. She is a cog in a wheel. The expensive moment is ruined. One must remember there are many kinds of watchers in the darkness of the night.

I sense that even the slightest breach of current happiness or interruption to her focus might cause my siren to flee. Focus does not come easily, but when it comes to her, she cherishes it. It seems she values her current world the way it is. She protects it. I sense that if I am too abrupt I might find this fantasy spiraling into the abyss of lost opportunities and lost friendships. But there is reward in my consistency. She tolerates those that she might not have given the time of day because she has a grip on her world and the darkness of the night.

I don’t think she sees a deeper connection to me—not really. I am only part of a greater interactive audience viewing her consistent choreography from a different light, one that is new to the darkness of her night.

I think that this very thin tie that binds us, in order to get stronger, must be cherished by both parties to the dance and I’m not certain that will ever happen. Nor am I certain she can really nurture such a thing. I’ve been there and that can be hard on a male ego, especially one unaccustomed to the laws of darkness in the night.

No matter. This journey is too sweet to waste on impractical expectations. For it all to work, honesty must be so complete that I am also not sure that I am up to the task anyway. When my ego is down, I sometimes doubt if I am worthy. When it is up, I am certain. I want to qualify, but it must be the absolute best thing for her, first. That is the only terms I want to accept, no matter how overwhelming her servitude might become. I sense that I am the stronger one, though she may believe otherwise. After all, I am so much older and wiser. But youthful beauty is also strength. Never-the-less, I can risk more than she can. When I think of these things I feel almost alone, even with her in the darkness of the night.

This spark, if there even is one, is so tiny and special to me that I choose not to rush anything. That discourages some sirens. Still, this is not a game of chess. I realize that someone could get hurt. I want to treat this more like the opening of a flower. So few buds blossom, and nature’s odds are often against them opening at all. Even fewer than that bloom in the darkness of the night.

Today, my life is full of distractions and responsibilities unforeseen at 15 and now a shackled blessing at 55. Her’s is perhaps more so. I must always remember that. It is much harder to be her than it is for me to be myself, but there is more balance when in her world under her rules in the darkness of the night.

It turns out that she is more than I imagined. She surpassed my expectations. Yet, I understand that most of her is still unrevealed to me. She has had experiences, not all unpleasant. She has responsibilities and a rocky history. She experiments some and dabbles in areas I don’t touch. She has defenses and protections and some good sensibilities. This siren is human. But I think her most precious traits escape her, trapped between two lives—two pasts, two presents. In the deepest recesses of her soul, she knows this. No anger, or bitterness is allowed to interfere with figuring out the big picture in all of her spare time, time she cannot spare. The search is often put on hold. The search engine stalls. Her canvas confuses her—she seeks calm—or perhaps an oasis. She never quite gets to it. Despite all this, I think—no, I hope—she has in the recesses unbridled passion, hidden from her by the darkness of the night.

Why me? Why her? No special reason. Our paths crossed logically enough. Today, she is unleashed, not limited by my pen and paper. She is whoever she wants to be, and possibly unknown to her until now, I love both of her, woman of my past and present, my fantasies and my reality. She might have already figured this one out. Now that she knows, she’ll decide if she wants to ignore the fact and not rock the gondola that has carried us through the darkness of the night.

So what does the future hold? I sense improbable possibilities. The universe is a miraculous place and even this most unlikely moment in time, so simple and yet so complex, like the finest Tuscan wine being appreciated by an educated pallet, happening outside the pale of decency with what should be virgin hearts.

We are both predictable because we have repeated our habits so often. This path called out to me and now I am on the swift moving East Australian current. There is no swimming backwards. I haven’t the faintest idea what adventures lie ahead, if any. In life, I have been far more fortunate than I could ever have imagined at 15. Those other things, that others cherish more than I have, eluded me. But all that has happened makes me feel as though my life has been so complete that anything that happens from now on is icing on the cake and far more than I probably deserve. A full life requires some fantasies now and again, and so I have one I will dare to share with her. No matter what else happens, for the time being, I like hiding out with her in the darkness of the night.

Now that she knows, we’ll see how it goes in the darkness—the darkness of the night.
There is a thought of soft blankets on a warm summer night somewhere in the north woods or perhaps on some tropical island, in the bed of a pickup truck, under a blanket of stars. The fragrant hemlock, jasmine and scotch broom—or tropical plumeria in the latter case, fills the air. She is herself, an uncontested beauty, a fullness of the initial drawing now come to life. She has color and character in her eyes and on her lips and within her smile, her beauty going well beyond a mere model. She trusts me completely, and I her.

Lithe and long, body and soul, youthful apparition from my past—my hands outline her form from the crest of her mane, down through the nape of her neck past her long waist and traveling slowly and purposefully down her loins. My lips follow the map I draw. She becomes more excited with anticipation, but at the same time she is more relaxed than she has ever been in her whole life. Her muscles flex and stretch, her hands and feet massaged and shoulders and neck now quietly feeling their own symphony. Ecstasy—finally! She deserves all this and something small and quiet tells her this is good and that she is safe. I am overwhelmed with happiness. Fantasy has become real. She is finally warmly and truly loved—and it all began so simply within the darkness of the night.

THE END.