The Past is Patient
From Tidal Lock: A NovelLindsay Hill
Predator
I listen for my father’s voice on crowded streets—in stores—in restaurants. The voices move in and out like cars among themselves. The voices move in and out like lacing shoes. He won’t come out of hiding. I’m a predator now. He passes through street after street—he’s lost my number my address my name the past the entire past—he sleeps on a train going north to the edge of some sea—through forests and meadows forests and flowers wildflowers and grasslands grasslands and tundra he sleeps on a boat moving north threading ice.
Inundation Zone
In life you don’t notice the inundation zone you’ve entered. A woman is walking down the street—crying—like an ordinary heartbroken person. Maybe her centerline is some loss she swerves across and back again—that loss that takes her head-on into everything moving against her—everything on its way to where she’s already been.
Things that blow you sideways—pull you apart—wear you down—force you down—push you to the ground like shoves and hold you there—your face against the gravel—things like that don’t come the way you think they will—from where you’re looking I mean—they come from somewhere you’re not thinking about at all. Like that pencil eraser you used and used when you were young and in school—a gradual coming apart until there was just the metal casing scratching the paper—those few final times you tried to use it anyway—the little grooves it made where you were trying to subtract your mistakes—and they could not be erased and trying only made things worse. That favorite pencil is what I’m talking about—the one with your teeth marks splitting the yellow paint—the one torn up like the golden road of your childhood.
Things that blow you sideways—pull you apart—wear you down—force you down—push you to the ground like shoves and hold you there—your face against the gravel—things like that don’t come the way you think they will—from where you’re looking I mean—they come from somewhere you’re not thinking about at all. Like that pencil eraser you used and used when you were young and in school—a gradual coming apart until there was just the metal casing scratching the paper—those few final times you tried to use it anyway—the little grooves it made where you were trying to subtract your mistakes—and they could not be erased and trying only made things worse. That favorite pencil is what I’m talking about—the one with your teeth marks splitting the yellow paint—the one torn up like the golden road of your childhood.
The Glass-Eyed Blind
The city is a story that’s handed to you—whole and in motion—a story you find your way in—or lose your way in—or sit on stone steps and watch.
You’ve noticed them I know—glass-like eyes that see no one—eyes locked like little deadbolts—everywhere more and more.
A way to notice nothing—as if the eyes were glass—a glass-eyed blindness—something like that—as if the eyes were Squares of Nothing that everyone sees through—or a game of being spun around blindfolded—where is the world—and the light from those glassy eyes—too sharp—like the uncaring edge of a paring knife in the hands of a child cutting onions distractedly.
On the streetcar the glass-eyed blind sit and stand—jostle and hold on—keep distances—keep quiet—look by looking away—a lock-step kind of seeing like strides coincide when people walk side-by-side. The glass-eyed blind are still persons mostly I think—the way the mirror of the dead is still mostly a mirror.
You’ve noticed them I know—glass-like eyes that see no one—eyes locked like little deadbolts—everywhere more and more.
A way to notice nothing—as if the eyes were glass—a glass-eyed blindness—something like that—as if the eyes were Squares of Nothing that everyone sees through—or a game of being spun around blindfolded—where is the world—and the light from those glassy eyes—too sharp—like the uncaring edge of a paring knife in the hands of a child cutting onions distractedly.
On the streetcar the glass-eyed blind sit and stand—jostle and hold on—keep distances—keep quiet—look by looking away—a lock-step kind of seeing like strides coincide when people walk side-by-side. The glass-eyed blind are still persons mostly I think—the way the mirror of the dead is still mostly a mirror.
Underworld
I tried it on that this was the underworld. The thought clung like fire to the skin of a saint.
I learned to make my eyes look glass-eyed-blind—so as not to stand out—so as not to be noticed as one who noticed things.
In hell the clocks run backwards—so the longer you are there the longer you have to be there. Like the kingdom of red ribbons—where the more you cut away of yourself the more yourself you seem—this is a lying-mirror kind of place.
Some sections of the city have been given over entirely to the dust. You would think the implosions would shake the houses but they don’t. You would think that concrete floors descending into rubble would make a thunderous noise but it’s not so. All is muted here—in this city of muffled drumming—a drumming like distant fingers on a desktop in a room where a decision is pending and pending.
I learned to make my eyes look glass-eyed-blind—so as not to stand out—so as not to be noticed as one who noticed things.
In hell the clocks run backwards—so the longer you are there the longer you have to be there. Like the kingdom of red ribbons—where the more you cut away of yourself the more yourself you seem—this is a lying-mirror kind of place.
Some sections of the city have been given over entirely to the dust. You would think the implosions would shake the houses but they don’t. You would think that concrete floors descending into rubble would make a thunderous noise but it’s not so. All is muted here—in this city of muffled drumming—a drumming like distant fingers on a desktop in a room where a decision is pending and pending.
Inside-Out
Dr. Winker says I have an inside-out or an outside-in sort of problem. He can’t make up his mind which one it is. The building collapsing on the corner is collapsing in here—in me. The building being demolished down the street is being demolished in me. In my heart the furious salt-laden waves are pouring their weight downward in great arcs. The leaves in gales are flying between the trees and the trees and the spaces between them and the leaves and the gales are in here. You know—like that time you were struck by lightning and the outside and the inside were the same at least in that instant and in that instant that boundary being gone illuminated you somehow—well—illuminated wasn’t exactly it but you get the idea. Anyway Dr. Winker says people know where they start and stop but I don’t. As usual he’s wrong. I start where I’m standing and I stop at the horizon—just like everybody else.
Freezer
I noticed a kind of tidal lock—how people turned from themselves—became people they weren’t—lost sight of their lost other sides—lived lives not even at arm’s length—how the underworld stood in for those lives that were over—unfolded seamless as shame—same as salt—airtight like that unplugged freezer I dreamed I could use to teach my cousin to play hide and seek in a way she’d never be found.
The Past is Patient
I’ve never seen the sea be phosphorescent but I read about it once. My father thought the world was mostly cardboard. Only what glitters matters he would say. Sometimes everything glittered—even cardboard.
The past is patient. It waits up ahead for you to arrive. It waits where your life will carry you into collisions of ice and fire—cold memories—struck and ignited.
There in a pawnshop window—the antique copper compass my father traded for a Gila monster—they’re illegal to own you know—and the Gila monster was docile except when you put it on the marble coffee table and its temperature dropped and it started spinning and hissing like something was coming at it from all sides—you know the way madness does—comes at you from all sides I mean—writhing and whipping its head and tail around and trying to bite your fingers off you know they won’t let go he said even if you cut off their head—you might as well just cut your fingers off.
The past is patient. It waits up ahead for you to arrive. It waits where your life will carry you into collisions of ice and fire—cold memories—struck and ignited.
There in a pawnshop window—the antique copper compass my father traded for a Gila monster—they’re illegal to own you know—and the Gila monster was docile except when you put it on the marble coffee table and its temperature dropped and it started spinning and hissing like something was coming at it from all sides—you know the way madness does—comes at you from all sides I mean—writhing and whipping its head and tail around and trying to bite your fingers off you know they won’t let go he said even if you cut off their head—you might as well just cut your fingers off.
Worlds Rising and Falling
We were on a train. The compartment was empty except for us. My father was reading a newspaper. I was looking out the window. Everything unwound—one of those intermission moments. The train rocked back and forth—a slow-motion metronome—marking hours in miles—worlds rising and falling away—landscapes—towns—the backs of houses with laundry hung on lines—kids playing in yards—everything momentary—almost instantly gone.
You find yourself in moments like that—carried in stillness against the deluge. The ever more distant origins somehow recede and remain—remain and change—like light. You find yourself in that forward and backward way—the fulcrum of all that lasts and all that can’t.
Dr. Winker says I’ve become selectively mute. He doesn’t know that speaking is a threshold. He doesn’t know all that is lost—that dissipates—when you cross that line—how all those held-in things—that make your walls—escape when you speak. He doesn’t see that a world unsaid is a world that has not been split apart and broken apart and spilled on the floor everywhere.
You find yourself in moments like that—carried in stillness against the deluge. The ever more distant origins somehow recede and remain—remain and change—like light. You find yourself in that forward and backward way—the fulcrum of all that lasts and all that can’t.
Voice
Dr. Winker says I’ve become selectively mute. He doesn’t know that speaking is a threshold. He doesn’t know all that is lost—that dissipates—when you cross that line—how all those held-in things—that make your walls—escape when you speak. He doesn’t see that a world unsaid is a world that has not been split apart and broken apart and spilled on the floor everywhere.
Rowing
I know my father rows a small glass boat beneath the surf. Deep in the sea I know he rows and rows—bent to that task in the turbulent dark. I know there is no boat beneath the sea that my father rows. I know there is no land that he could reach—pulling oars—stiff as the open empty hands of the dead—against the tides.
Do you ever wonder how many miles to shore—bent to your life—oars in hand—pulling and reaching and pulling—how many miles? Do you say the shore is tomorrow—next week—next year—do you look for that shore in every conversation—every glance—every Monday Friday circuit that you make—every hour you lie awake rowing and rowing from one day toward the next?
When someone you have loved walks into the sea—any sea—sea of voices—sea of strangers—sea of sounds—how many miles of shoreline will you walk as you search for them? You can make a life of what you find along the way—things thrown to shore—things hurled landward—things discarded—spat up by the surf—thrown down by hands—shells broken or whole.
The boat of the dead is glass because death is completely see-through. The dead are transparent too if you think about it. The longer they are dead the more transparent they become until they are perfectly clear—clear like the coldest morning when you rise and your feet hit the cold floor and you know you are alive. In that moment of being solid—you stand next to all the see-through things—vivid against the cold. The dead are clear as that morning—a clarity immediate as that. When you stand in that cold by the bed where you slept you will know how being alive stands by being dead—how sharply the two abut.
Do you ever wonder how many miles to shore—bent to your life—oars in hand—pulling and reaching and pulling—how many miles? Do you say the shore is tomorrow—next week—next year—do you look for that shore in every conversation—every glance—every Monday Friday circuit that you make—every hour you lie awake rowing and rowing from one day toward the next?
When someone you have loved walks into the sea—any sea—sea of voices—sea of strangers—sea of sounds—how many miles of shoreline will you walk as you search for them? You can make a life of what you find along the way—things thrown to shore—things hurled landward—things discarded—spat up by the surf—thrown down by hands—shells broken or whole.
The boat of the dead is glass because death is completely see-through. The dead are transparent too if you think about it. The longer they are dead the more transparent they become until they are perfectly clear—clear like the coldest morning when you rise and your feet hit the cold floor and you know you are alive. In that moment of being solid—you stand next to all the see-through things—vivid against the cold. The dead are clear as that morning—a clarity immediate as that. When you stand in that cold by the bed where you slept you will know how being alive stands by being dead—how sharply the two abut.
Blistering Wind
You can’t finally put the world back the way it was. Even in miniature. A blistering wind scoured the streets to a polished white like flies clean carcass bones—swept the cardboard buildings from their sites—stripped everything I’d placed on the Wall of the Lost—the clouds—the children—the birds—the notes of music—the gravestones—everything torn away. You look for the scattered remnants. Don’t even bother.
Lindsay Hill was born in San Francisco and is a graduate of Bard College. Since 1974, he has published six books of poetry, including
Contango and The Empty Quarter (both from Singing Horse Press). His work has appeared in a wide variety of literary journals. His first novel, Sea of Hooks (McPherson & Company, 2013), won the 2014 PEN Center USA Fiction Award, and the 2015 IPPY Gold Medal for Literary Fiction. His second novel, Tidal Lock, (of which The Past is Patient is an excerpt), is published by McPherson & Company (2024). A former resident of Spokane, he now lives in Los Angeles.
Contango and The Empty Quarter (both from Singing Horse Press). His work has appeared in a wide variety of literary journals. His first novel, Sea of Hooks (McPherson & Company, 2013), won the 2014 PEN Center USA Fiction Award, and the 2015 IPPY Gold Medal for Literary Fiction. His second novel, Tidal Lock, (of which The Past is Patient is an excerpt), is published by McPherson & Company (2024). A former resident of Spokane, he now lives in Los Angeles.
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