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[Held in the dark] In Japan. The darkest and quietest room Harry’s ever failed to sleep in. Fingertips press against his t-shirt shoulder seam. It’s inaudible, obviously, yet it’s deafening. This pick of fingers against cotton. Right hand almost nails versus fabric. Curl the fingers enough and there’s what feels like the slide of polish, reducing friction, pretty. Was it? Is it? Then the pads of the fingers again; shoulder stiffening against the pressure. Ah fuck, forgetting to breathe again. Five minutes earlier a soft stroke, almost a tickle. Breathe in as a thumb and each finger touches—one two three four five—and out—the same. And again. A regularity. Reliable. Stay here. Now if there were nails there’d be marks, for sure. Which is fine. A memory of Japan. Enjoy The Silence. He cannot hear breathing; not even his own. The immeasurable comfort of skin, whoever’s.
***
[Making music] Harry can’t make out the silhouette of the guitar beside the desk. Knows it’s there, the only non-rectilinear thing in this room. Loves them both: the curves of the spruce, they way he recalls its hug against his front, almost too special; and the tatami room—precision / balance / order. Twenty-four months ago now, learning new chords in the windowless studio pitch blackness. This sounds right / that doesn’t. Midnight, a well of energy left, not believable really. Twenty-one chords in a row, silencing his phone, kept going till one. Was that even fun?
And again here in the mountains, on Honshu, the instrument shipped for music-making, not endless chord drills. Alone in the room at sunrise, picking sparse, perfect notes: I’m here; I love you; that grates; that’s how it feels. Or at least after drinking contraband coffee, that’s how it feels. A fresh notebook for extracted winter thoughts: sketches not words this time, save for a few bad haikus relegated to the back page. Letting go with a small neat set of pencils. 4B feels freeing yet still controlled enough. Four year of mining. Of quarrying away to find the we’ll-be-alright, in art, in sound, in words, in touch; in the stuff that matters. It’s exhausting; the exhaustion has followed him even here. He wonders if it’s evident in the graphite on the paper. At least at some point, he’ll sleep.
***
[Dreaming] Harry knows he’s flipped on his back as he dreams. Apparently. He was told at sixteen; his sleep, his dreams, feel eerily the same. Eyes on the invisible ceiling. It could be six feet above him or six inches. Feels like the latter. An arm curls tighter across his chest; didn’t realise it was there, enough weight already of stuff: on him, around him. He feels heavy on the shikibuton. Everything resting; no space, no spring. Awareness of body, yes (if he’s anything he’s mindful), but such heaviness of thoughts, leaving haphazardly via unrequested dream sequences. Is this meant to feel good?
***
[Awoken] It may be dark in here, as far from a full moon as possible and in the deepest shadow of a steep incline, but it’s impossible to open the door (direct from the enclosed balcony) without disturbing the sleeper. It’s okay. Nonetheless he drags up the kakebuton, twists himself again, face towards the pillow, and remembers to breathe. No need to be silent, not now. He’s even used to Japanese beds now; that lack of any sort of springiness has its advantages.
Seven or seventy (who knows?) minutes later, fingers are back, now underneath Harry’s right sleeve, just a little. No nails, no polish this trip. Slightly cold still (it’s January outside) and edging up a bit. It’s enough for now, it’s always enough. No need for the tightest of hugs across the Japanese mattress gap. Not right now. But—another hand reaching across the pillow—he guesses—towards his hair. That little light sleepy drag through the curls on top, just like a hairdresser’s. Such a silly thing; he loves it, especially when dozing. Lightens things as the sun rises. Light is what is needed. Maybe tomorrow will be better.