Truth and Dare

You are no doubt wondering why I chose such a tragic and dark-laden title, such as it is, “Within the Hour of the Wolf.” Am I some crazed lunatic who runs rampant into the night howling at the moon, in symphony, nay, in oneness, with the nocturnal beasts? “Well…no.” And at the same time, a resounding, “Yes!” Yes, in that I have…in the past…been observed running, or at least stumbling, in the dark (beer in hand) howling, as it were, at the moon—whether or not there was actually a moon at the time. As they say, “boys will be boys.” Needless to say, that is far removed from my current situation. I mean, really. It has been months, or at the very least weeks, since I have done anything as indecorous as that.

            No more to the point. I am, of course, referring to the myth of the Hour of the Wolf, a time between 2:30 and 3:30 am. They say that within this time frame people are at their most vulnerable. It is the witching hour: A moment when you begin to dwell upon past failures, heart-aches, and indiscretions. This condition inevitably leads you to a state of isolation and loneliness. Hence, you have the whole doleful wolf howling into the empty wildness analogy. Perhaps, this is why thoughts of suicide are at their strongest. This is where the Father character in SCTV ( a Canadian sitcom) would be looking strangely into the camera and utter in a creepy, foreboding voice, “Woo, are you scared, Billy?

            For me, however, the Hour of the Wolf is when I am most alive. I work the night shift, so I usually have just gotten home from work. Unable to sleep right away because I am still wound-up from the day’s labor, I would often read, study, draw, or just day-dream, err, night-waking-dream. In any event, my mind is free to wander and imagine, undisturbed. It is a pursuit I have little chance to do during the grinding rigors of the day. And all at once, I find myself hinged on a delicate balance between creativity and consciousness, something John Keats, a Romantics writer, referred to as “Negative Capability.” What Keats was referring to is a sense of imagination that borders between thought and sensation, which he felt was a way of allowing people to give themselves completely over to the Moment, whatever that moment may be. But that is another story. Essentially, with no worries or responsibilities to anchor me down, my mind is set free, to reflect upon the past, to dream about the future, to ponder the intricacies of the heart (both good and bad), or to just wander aimlessly. It is precisely in this dream-like-wakefulness that I am able to explore the dark corridors of my mind, and rattle the sleeping Beast that lies therein.

So it is that I am writing this blog, of all things. It is the vehicle through which the repressed images of my imaginings—the dormant part of my psyche--can find expressive freedom during the daunting silence of the night. It seems the distant howling Wolf metaphor works well with my sudden out burst of inspiration, for it is during the silence and solitude of the night that I find a well-spring of artist expression. Perhaps, it is the lack of judgment, and subsequent fear of reprisal, that I am able to strip away my many social personas, and reveal who I truly am through my words, my stories, my inward reflections. I liken it to Cyrano de Bergerac’s sudden freedom to express his true feelings to Roxanne (A woman he has known and loved from afar his whole life) while he was hidden by the cover of night. Of course, Edmond Rostand’s 1897 story of Cyrano de Bergerac is a cautionary tale, for Cyrano discovers, in the final moments of his life, that it was his beautiful words that Roxanne fell in love with that night, and not the handsome face of the person he pretended to be. If only he told her how he felt all those years. If only he hadn’t hidden himself from the possibility of her love. “If only” the loneliest words in the English language so befitting the Hour of the Wolf. I, like so many others, have found far too many occasions to experience and survive these dreadful words. But that is not what this is all about, or at least not only what this is all about. It is about the experience, and the foresight to give yourself completely over to the moment, wherever it may lead you, unfettered. Cyrano, though a fictional character, could be seen as a representation of that very real need to be liberated of all restrictions, social, inter-personal, or otherwise. I envy Cyrano for having that moment of utter freedom. It is an experience few have known in this taboo filled world of ours.

The question remains, what good may come from this sense of inward reflection? “Hell if I know. Maybe nothing, maybe everything, maybe something in between, who knows?” What I do know is, like most life-pursuits, it is not the end result that we find meaning, but the journey, the trials and tribulations, the internal struggles we face that show us who we truly are, what we are made of. As for me, my journey begins here, with you (the reader) as my Roxanne, I boldly go where I have only thought of going before, figuratively speaking, of course. I feel that we should look for occasions to write in this manner, for our imagination is what keeps all our hopes and dreams alive. To deny that part of ourselves would be to deny the very fabric that makes us who we are. So why not take an hour out of the night to howl into the wilderness? Explore our creative side, our dark side of the moon. The world with all its heart-aches and responsibilities will still be there in the end. For now, lose yourself in the moment with me. See where it takes us, if you dare…