Watchers
In every watchtower there is a guard who sleeps and a guard who stands awake. The waking watcher's eyes are open wide; his stance is erect. With his gaze he follows every conspicuous movement on the horizon. Most importantly, he stays as far away as possible (only safety keeps him close) from the sleeping guard, so that the sleeper does not lull him to sleep as well.
I cannot imagine what this watchman must think – with the air so brisk upon his cheeks, with the dew collecting on his armour and his long-axe; with every snap of a twig and every rustle of brush bringing its own anxiety, the ruffles of an otherwise smooth becalmed night, the riffles that threaten to spread wide open into a gash. The constancy of the cricket soon fades into a monotony as dumb as silence itself; and the wind, being no object, no space-filling matter as might make the broad countryside seem more dense, it instead sounds the world hollow, screams through the night and picks up nothing along the way, escaping to its infinite end – and perpetual demise.
But what may be even more curious is the disposition of the sleeping watchguard. Can one really sleep at all soundly in such a capacity? Would not one always dream of waking to an alarm, an emergency, or perhaps even worse, an absence? One abandons the world for a time, a world that one has been assigned to watch. How could this abandon not riddle the resting mind with the most unrestful worries, anxieties? Questions that haunt, questions about what may be missed, what fair maiden requires assistance in the dark night, what rare bird cry may sound and resound and then not be heard again for another century…
Or else, one might imagine the very opposite demeanour; a man self-satisfied and ready to shuffle off responsibility the moment his working shift is done. He counts the seconds down fastidiously until the hour has come (or perhaps even a few minutes before, since the newly awakened guard, in his drowsiness, will not concern himself with the time) to take his sleep. He approaches the resting guard - does not take even a moment to regard him in his repose - and with both unctuous manner and unctuous phrasing, bids the sleeper to arise and take his shift. Then he will set himself down, heavily, in his ready-made cot and drift off to sleep immediately. He is glad for the rest, even more for the forgetting of his duty.
This man has no claim in the world as he views it from so high upon the watchtower. And even some deep, unknown, and unspoken part of him is thankful that, if some horrible catastrophe - a band of thieves or a sweeping firestorm - should overlay the guard on duty and put them both to death, this man who likes himself best in sleep will be thankful that he was not awake to encounter his own end. He could know perhaps no greater boon than to be robbed of his life as he sweetly resigns himself to the fancies of mellow oblivion.
For the watcher - for the watchful - there is always a residue of anxiety, even in sleep. Perhaps such a man may rest in his shift a little longer than need be - not out of any magnanimity of character, but rather by reason of his watchful soul. He feels a subtle pain in his chest in all looking away, in all cessation, in all 'letting go' - such actions that sleep (or the changing of the guard) necessarily entails.
And yet why, I wonder, is the waking guard content only with his watching? Why is this vigilant never tempted to sound himself out in the star-laden night…?
I cannot imagine what this watchman must think – with the air so brisk upon his cheeks, with the dew collecting on his armour and his long-axe; with every snap of a twig and every rustle of brush bringing its own anxiety, the ruffles of an otherwise smooth becalmed night, the riffles that threaten to spread wide open into a gash. The constancy of the cricket soon fades into a monotony as dumb as silence itself; and the wind, being no object, no space-filling matter as might make the broad countryside seem more dense, it instead sounds the world hollow, screams through the night and picks up nothing along the way, escaping to its infinite end – and perpetual demise.
But what may be even more curious is the disposition of the sleeping watchguard. Can one really sleep at all soundly in such a capacity? Would not one always dream of waking to an alarm, an emergency, or perhaps even worse, an absence? One abandons the world for a time, a world that one has been assigned to watch. How could this abandon not riddle the resting mind with the most unrestful worries, anxieties? Questions that haunt, questions about what may be missed, what fair maiden requires assistance in the dark night, what rare bird cry may sound and resound and then not be heard again for another century…
Or else, one might imagine the very opposite demeanour; a man self-satisfied and ready to shuffle off responsibility the moment his working shift is done. He counts the seconds down fastidiously until the hour has come (or perhaps even a few minutes before, since the newly awakened guard, in his drowsiness, will not concern himself with the time) to take his sleep. He approaches the resting guard - does not take even a moment to regard him in his repose - and with both unctuous manner and unctuous phrasing, bids the sleeper to arise and take his shift. Then he will set himself down, heavily, in his ready-made cot and drift off to sleep immediately. He is glad for the rest, even more for the forgetting of his duty.
This man has no claim in the world as he views it from so high upon the watchtower. And even some deep, unknown, and unspoken part of him is thankful that, if some horrible catastrophe - a band of thieves or a sweeping firestorm - should overlay the guard on duty and put them both to death, this man who likes himself best in sleep will be thankful that he was not awake to encounter his own end. He could know perhaps no greater boon than to be robbed of his life as he sweetly resigns himself to the fancies of mellow oblivion.
For the watcher - for the watchful - there is always a residue of anxiety, even in sleep. Perhaps such a man may rest in his shift a little longer than need be - not out of any magnanimity of character, but rather by reason of his watchful soul. He feels a subtle pain in his chest in all looking away, in all cessation, in all 'letting go' - such actions that sleep (or the changing of the guard) necessarily entails.
And yet why, I wonder, is the waking guard content only with his watching? Why is this vigilant never tempted to sound himself out in the star-laden night…?
posted by Jackie | 2:22 AM
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