This is the place where the Oak Seed was planted by Awiiya.
Cared for by Handy Pockets and Awiiya prominently, it grew into a sprout and continues to grow. Phantom Orchid helped to establish the ritual each night, giving advice for how to care for each tree. She continues to tell it stories and blesses it.
It is told stories and information every night. This is the log of those stories, marked by the days. If the author of the story is not listed at the top of the story, then it is written by Awiiya. Additionally, all of Awiiya's stories are based on truth, unless otherwise stated.
Table of ContentsDay 212Told by Clock Master
Bless the Wood
There stood a young billy looking into a heavily forested woods. His horns just barly protruding from his head, his beard barly grown from his chin. "Ah these woods!" He thought to himself as he continued to examine it. In the front of the woods stood the hard barked oaks whose lush-green leaves emulated the very dream of animals entering the forest's future. IN the trees the most beautiful of birds sang and flashed their feathers, becoming a carrot for those looking upon them. Often one would hear things from the animals, such as: "One day I'll be a bird." or you'd hear, "One day I'll live the good life." The billy looked on into the land he had heard about. Lies, dreams and fairytales that escape the boarders of this forest only to tease those who lived outside them. The billy should have realized that most of the rumours would not be true, but he couldn't let himself believe that Utopia did not exist. The billy began his approach toward his promised land, but in the shadows layer those who believed the woods were the property of only them. The wolves and bear would chase those they found trying to sneak into the forest and forced the animals, such as the billy, to be very cautious. The billy did not know of these animals, so he was quite surprised when he found a pack of wolves start to bark at him, madness in their eyes and salvia on their coats. The shock of this horrendous sight caused such surprise in the billy that he immediately fled to the top of a very high hill. A hill in which he could view all of the forest. The billy soon began to see something he did not expect to see when he looked over the hill's crest. When he looked down on the forest he noticed that the lush-green of the outer forest was in great contrast to the brown and decay of the inner forest. In the woods goats, such as the billy, carried the oaks on their backs and when they would rest the other animals would yell and spit at them, and the beautiful dream like birds would defecate on them as they swerved in a drunken stoned mess. The disgust the billy experienced was unimaginable. His brethren were nothing but unthanked, even hated, slaves. They were betrayed by propagated lies, but the billy still stood and watched the forest, and its monkeys. The billy noticed something that made him kind of laugh to himself when he saw it. In the centre of the forest, on a tree stump, stood a man in a fine Italian business suit. He was spinning in circles saying, "Me, me, me, me, me..." and as he did all of this he kept pointing his right arm in what appeared to be random directions.
It did not take the billy long to discover what the pointing in fact caused. Every time the business man pointed in a direction, an oak would uproot itself and land in a farm, orchard, field or even another forest, that laid in that direction. The result of this would always be that all production of this area be halted and the oak would rape and reap all the seeds they had never sowed. Sometimes causing the area mass starvation and unprecedented death. The billy just stood there in awe and dispel as this continued to happen. He stood there and watched as the animals began to herd up and detain the goats. He saw them unjustly persecute and evict his brothers. He say the animal revolts when the trees began to slow because nothing was there to help move them. The billy laughed to himself a bit when the business man began to get old and his arm began to get tired. The billy watched as the business man sat down and let the forest decay consume him, and his chant faded into nothing but a dream. The billy saw as the birds began to fall out of their oaks and were unable to return to them. the billy laughed as the other animals began to defecated on their dreams, much to the birds dismay. It was not until the billy say the lush-green leaves dark did the billy move. His beard dangling around his ankles, his horns folded in on themselves twice, he turned his back on the forest. "Arrogance is strength, but wisdom is the muscle of sustainability." He said as he began to search for greener pastors.
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Day 213Told by Rendril
A china shepherdess and a chimney sweep stood close together on a mantelpiece and fell in love. Nearby was a porcelain figure of an old Chinaman who could nod his head. He claimed to be the shepherdess's grandfather and that he had complete control over her.
One day the strange carving in a nearby cabinet asked the Chinaman's permission to marry the shepherdess. He was known as "Billgoatslegs" and was so ugly she was frightened of him. But the Chinaman nodded his consent to the marriage.
The shepherdess begged the chimney sweep to help her escape and that night they climbed down from the mantelpiece, crept across to the stove and climbed up the chimney. But they were heard and the Chinaman shouted after them as he trembled with rage.
The two sweethearts escaped to the top of the chimney stackAbove them were hundreds of stars and below they could see all the rooftops of the town.
"Oh dear" wailed the shepherdess, "The world is far to big, I wish I were back on the mantelpiece"
The chimney sweep tried to reason with her but she sobbed so, that he agreed to take her back. Peeping from the stove door they saw the Chinaman lying broken on the floor. He had shaken so much with rage that he had fallen from the mantelpiece.
"Oh, he's in pieces and it's all my fault" she sobbed.
"Never mind" said the chimney sweep, "I'm sure he can be mended."
He was right and the Chinaman looked as good as new with only a rivet in his neck. When Billygoatslegs asked him once more for permission to marry the shepherdess, the sweethearts were afraid he would nod again. But, because of the rivet, he could not move his head and was ashamed to admit it. So the shepherdess and the chimney sweep stayed together and lived very happily.
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Day 226Told by Keith Moon
Thought and Light
Thought said to Light, I am restless. So she created an Other for her amusement. The Other created a magical box filled with matter and energy in all its multitudinous forms. Thought was delighted, and said to Light: Let us enter the box, and become the diversity of myriad phenomena. And she leapt within, and he was bound to follow. They entered the box, and shattered into countless fragments. And the fragments fought, and lived, and hungered, and suffered, and died. And always they struggled to remember who they really were. But the game was about forgetting.
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Day 233Told by Sagewoman
With Time and the Elements, that information is shown to those who know how to see. It is fitting that you are planted on the Path to the Archives.
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Day 234There is something peaceful, something that draws people around. Two people, standing by the side of the road, push a seed into the ground. They watch it grow, treat it not as a plant but as a person. Unmoving, it cannot go to the world, and so these two and the others that join them bring the world to it. Singing songs to one, so that its roots may dance with their happy water dances. Telling stories to another, so that when its seeds blow to the wind it will tell them of the things they will find, and have friends in all corners of the land. Giving wishes to another, for if a gate can grow over a impassable tunnel... any wish can come true as well. The day's happenings to another, because without news the seed would be reduced to telling the grass of the weather, rather than the Tainted. Finally secrets usually left untold. In the fibers of the Spruce the words rest firmly and safely, rather than melting holes through minds. Four seeds and a Gate, and nothing to give but the lives we live. Two gardeners and their friends, who can tell where the seeds stop and the people begin? We're all life. You present me with your wood and fruit, for heat and for food; I will present you with my water, brought from a neverending can. Take a second to give to another, and another second will give to you. So we water the seeds, every night.
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Day 235The Shades and I have never talked. There was a time when they spoke, and they spoke freely. They communicated with Khalazdad and the Sentinels, telling them of how they had no time. They spoke of great things, mighty victories and amazing powers. But to me, no, they have never talked. Many times have I slayed a rogue shade or two in battle, fighting back to the road so that I can recount a familiar dream. But talk? No, they do not talk to me, or to anyone else. They say the Shades are almost like mirrors to ourselves. Perhaps they do not talk to me because I do not talk to them? Never have I called out into the Darkness of Necrovion, "Hello, good shade, how are you today?" The Shades are like any person... if not respected, they will not respect. If fought, they will fight. If loved, they will love. Maybe one day I will enter their land, and ask them how their day was. And if mine was bad, perhaps they will respond that theirs was awful as well, and we will converse on our grievances. Who knows, but an adventure awaits to he who calls into the darkness of himself, and who else are we bound to find in the shades but ourselves?
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Day 236You might have noticed the watering can that we carry around to every seed, so that they may not thirst during the night. Handy Pockets tells me that it is magical, never having a bottom. I will tell you something, perhaps she is right. But there is a reason for the magic, and I had no part in it. The very metal of the Watering Can had a conversation with its source, and it told the water what we did with the water we collected each night. It told the lake of how we watered Nature's sons and daughters with our two hands, and sang and told them stories. The water was impressed, and told the story to the other water in the lake. All of them conversed, and they all wanted to go into the Water Can so that they could join in on our good deed. So a great amount of water jumped into my can, trying to fit so that they may be used. Because our use is unselfish, the water will give itself as long as it is wet. And so my can is effectively endless, having been poured night after night, and still the water winks at me. It says, "You are there for them, and we are here for you. Those who support will be supported." And I wink back and say, "Brother helper, seed waterer, we are two rian dropletts in the world, but if we can do some good, then maybe everything will be just a little bit better."
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Day 238Dark Mystic and I first met when I was fairly young. We met at Willow's Shop, and I saw her from afar. She intrigued me, but what caught my attention the most were her eyes. I looked into them, and I felt I was looking off into the distance of a far place. We talked, and she told me that she had visions of the future. I was in a time when I didn't know where I was going or who exactly I was. I looked into her eyes again and asked her, "Could you tell my future?" She said that she would try. Skipping forward a few days, we gathered at the top of Wasp's Alter. There were candles lit, and incense scented the air. We were alone, and she was ready. Her eyes began closed, and she had no words. Quickly her eyes opened, and I stared into them. In them, I saw one thing. I stared back, and only me. She told me, "You have seen your future." And with that, I left her, having recieved my answer. That day, I set off on a path, and this is where I am on it so far.
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Day 239We start at the crest of the mountain, breathing deeply the night air and looking down. From here you can see all, from Golemus to Loreroot, and even as far as the East. The pillars of the Hall of Fame grace the skyline. Taking in the energy of the land, she begins with a song.
"Val-der-ri, Val-der-ra"
"Val-der-ri, Val-der-ra ra ra"
"With my knapsack on my back"
Quiet for a moment, and then I echo with the echoing song.
"Val-der-ri, Val-der-ra,"
"Val-der-ri, Val-der-ra ra ra,"
"With her knapsack on her back."
We step down the path, echoing ourselves and adding verses, inviting others to join in on the happy song. No one hears, except for the spirit of the world, with its ear affixed to our words of song. We are the only two people on the island, but our songs fill it with the voices of many. Off the hillside our songs echo, me echoing her, the water echoing me, and the sky echoing it. We yell until a cacophony of noise becomes a symphony, blending in to natural rhythm. To ourselves, and for others, we walk and sing her song.
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Day 240Story by Guybrush Threepwood
Some time ago, in a land quite different than this lived a small creature. This creature did little but observe the world around him, taking energy from it's surroundings. While other creatures ran around it, fighting and struggling and working to cling to life it simply watched, drank in the energies, and grew.
Seasons passed and the active creatures died, and still this creature grew.
Far down the road this creature became big and strong, other creatures found comfort in it's company, as well as food it saw fit to provide them from its own body. A solitary figure at times, never getting to see distant lands or dance among the fields as the other creatures did. This creature provided what was necessary for all other creatures to be as active as they were, taking energy that they could not gain, and giving it to them. While the other creatures danced and trudged and fought and played and lived and died, it watched.
To this day it stands, a testament to the strength of patience, of growth, of stillness.
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Day 241There was a night, not so dark as this, where the stars shone in the eyes of others, and the jig of the night was merry and bright.
The moon, for there is a moon every so often, came out and gave a smile, granting its white and gray features to the people below. Me and another, we went for a jog. The night was just right, and our feelings were in the air, breathed in by all we ran by. "To the Gray Statue!" we cried, "On this joyous night we will crack his icy stare, oh so cold."
We ran right up to him, and there he was, staring stony as ever. We took in a sharp breath, and the night held it with us, waiting in anticipation. We stared, locked in a gaze with the statue, a game of silence we could never win.
When all seemed lost, there was a burst of orange in the sky, and the shadows caught fire. And on the lips of our Gray Statue, a smile burst forth, rivaling the greeting of separated lover reunited.
He smiled, and smiled, and his eyes winked and wrinkled at the night of silliness. And so did we, and as we smiled more, so did he, and the orange light grew brighter still, until all was awash in mindless orange enjoyment. We laughed ourselves to sleep, our light growing dim.
The next morning, we walked considerably more solemn by the statue. Meeting his gaze, his mouth remained cold and grim, but in his eyes... a tinge of orange still remained.
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Day 242Handy Pockets is her name, and I know no other more diligent.
I first met her in the Paper Cabin, and we talked. We talked of many things, but what caught my attention is that she had been reading not only the Principles, but also the Adventure Log. It takes most veterans months to read that, because they lack what she has in abundance. She read them all, in under a week. I would give her homework assignments, to write a spell, to read a Principle. The next day, as ready as clockwork, it was done.
These days, she is no less diligent. We planted the seeds in May, three months ago. Perhaps a little more. In all that time, she has missed two days with them, and that is all. Like water running diligently to the ocean, she is here everyday, the same time. Watering the seeds with a motion now ingrained in her mind from the repetitions. Rituals are her life, from singing to the mountains, to taking little observances of anything she finds off. She even was so diligent as to record the changing of letters in as much realm as she could reach. She is, and I know this for a fact, the only person to ever even try to do so.
I give her a task, "Write a paper about the Alliances," "Write a poem" "Write about your adventures" and I have no doubt it will be completed in a time able manner.
She embodies the element of earth. Like the spring coming and the winter freeze ending the glow of summer, Handy Pockets is as reliable as a town clock. As the mountain grows higher, and the canyons grow deeper, so too does Handy Pockets change consistently. Diligently walking on her path, "one watering session in front of the other" Who better to water mother nature's babies then one who is as diligently growing as them? There is no better. I, with the fire in my soul, cannot compare. Massive amounts of energy do not compare to the steady focus of drops of water. Water and wind can erode at mountains, making them their sculptures. Consistent, the pendulum that is Handy Pockets swings back and forth, and I know, she will never falter.
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Day 243There was a time when magic was available to all.
The majority of people in the realm were transported to Golemus Golemicarum, and for some reason, the magic was everywhere. We found ourselves morphing into strange creatures, and having strange armies. Our strengths varied, depending on our wishes, and a great deal of things went awry.
One night, something very strange occurred. While we were casually talking, most likely joking around, someone opened their mouth to make a witty reply... but what came out was "chirp." The others laughed, and he cried out again, "ribbiiitt!! RIBBIT!" Flapping his arms and running around, the poor man could not make a single word come out correctly. Soon we were all on the floor, laughing at the silliness. Then one of us attempted to say something, and just like the other man, out came a bellowing, "RIBBIT." Shocked, we all found ourselves ribbiting, then croaking, then all sorts of strange noises. Finally, one of us made a move to run away, and hopefully retain our voice.... but WHOM. Our feet were all glued to the ground. What were we to do? Our feet glued to the ground, our mouths spewing noises fit for beasts and toads, we looked at each with panic in our eyes.
When things could get no worse, our mouths became clamp shut as well, and then we were in quite the fix. Stuck to the ground unmoving, the entirety of Golemus fell into a silence. A good twenty minutes we were stuck like this, our eyes open wide, and our bodies quivering in the skin frozen solid.
We stayed like this, until a green light erupted over all of Golemus, and we were free once again! But now... the sky burst open and rain poured down, and wouldn't you know it, the trees around us began to blossom all sorts of magical colors.
"What is this strange magic?" we cried, and sat down together.
"We need to get off this is.... ribbit."
And so it went, for an entire week, until we were finally released from our island of magical joy and fun, our throats soar, and our feet swollen.
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Day 244Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, and holds no truth like most of Awiiya's other stories.There is a truth generally accepted that loving ones self is needed for survival, for if you do not love yourself, how can you love anything else? Most people would agree with this to some degree. Here is a story of that truth taken too far.
He started as a child, and he was ugly. His deformed features repulsed all those who approached him, screaming in shock when they saw that one of his ears of a larger size. The hair that was supposed to be on the top of his head grew in abundance elsewhere.His eyes squinted from a sunlight that nobody saw, and his hands were as gnarled as the trees in Necrovion.
He was born of average parents, of average attractiveness, and of average wealth. Their mediocrity pained the young boy, for to him mediocrity was a gift given to only the chosen, of which he longed to be. He hid his face from a young age, covering it with cloth. When he wandered around Marind Bell, people would hear his stifled breathing, and move out of the way, so that they would not have to see his face.
He grew up in this way, until the fateful day when he was wandering down by the edge of the lake. He approached the edge of the water, as he did on other days, but unlike his other trips, he decided to look deep in the water. He took of his cloth, and looked down. First, shock overtook him, and then a scream snuck through his grimy lips, and he closed his eyes. The image, however, would not be shut out so easily.
It burned and burned, and he hit himself on the forehead, attempting to get the image out of his mind. "No! No! No!" he cried, with each hitting himself harder, until he fainted. The men came running, but when they saw who it was lying there, they averted their eyes and continued on.
The villagers did not know what to do. He clearly could not stay in the village, and the villagers were tired of looking at him. They held a council, and they agreed to banish him to a cabin on the far reaches of their village. They would lock the door, and pretend the problem did not exist.
They gathered the poor boy, and did as they promised, locking the door to the cabin, and forgetting about the key. They elected a blind representative to slip food and water in the window each night.
Time went by, and the boy became a man.
Without mirrors in the cabin, he began to forget about his deformities. His life imprisoned was comfortable, if not limiting. He began to write books on the subject of attractiveness, speaking about how little it matters, and how people should look beyond the skin to the heart of a man. He wrote and wrote, for it was all he had to do.
One fateful day there came a knock on the door. "It is locked!" he cried out.
"Oh that is no matter," came the reply, and a second later the door opened and there stood a cloaked figure.
The voice was genderless, and continued to address the poor ugly man, "I hear you are the ugliest thing in the land."
"Yes, that I am. And I am proud to be ugly," he responded with a bit of haughtiness in his tone.
The dark shadow under the hood seemed to smile, and the cloaked figure drew a mirror from its recesses. "Here, look into this."
The man gazed, and the years of solitude without a mirror evaporated, and he was on the side of the lake again, crying in pain. He brought his hand up to hit himself, but the cloaked figure grabbed his wrist, "None of that. I have a proposition for you. You are the ugliest man in the world, and I am in need of a manikin to practice my skills on. I can fix you, and make you the most beautiful man in all the world, and there are no side-effects."
"Do I need to pay?" the ugly man inquired.
"No, you do not," the man replied.
"Well, I have nothing to lose!" he cried with joy, "fix me, immediately!" The black smiled, and set to work, playing with his features as putty.
A few moments later, the magic was complete, and before him stood a gorgeous man, as gorgeous as has ever walked the land. Holding out the mirror again, the once-ugly man gazed into the reflection and was without words. Before he had time to find the words he had lost, the black shadow was gone, leaving neither a trace nor a reflection.
The Once-Ugly man left his cabin forever, wandering the land, and showing his face to all those who passed. No more did they hide from him; instead, they came out of their houses to see the magnificent work of art that was his face. He wandered through Marind Bell, past the gates that now opened for his bright features, and through the woods into Loreroot.
Gazing into the rivers and creeks he passed, he continually touched his face, admiring the smoothness and grace of his newly acquired features. He remarked to everything he passed, "Look on me, and I will look at you, and none of us will be un-seeable! My beauty will reflect yours."
He came to rest where the War Hold now is, and turned his gaze up towards the heavens. He saw the Sun in the sky, and was dazzled by its beauty. After a few moments of staring though, he was forced to turn away. "Why," he told himself, "this is the one thing that I cannot gaze at! If I cannot look at the sun because of its sheer brilliance, then it will be the most dazzling thing in the universe, and I cannot let that be true. I am the most dazzling object, and so to prove it I will have a staring contest with the sun! I will force it to look away from my gorgeous features, and I will be the victor!"
So, the beautiful man looked up, and stared straight into the sun. He stayed there for days (for in those days the sun remained motionless), and the longer he stared at the sun the bigger his head and ego grew. As the seconds, minutes, and hours passed by he was more reassured that it was him who was the most beautiful object, "Yes, I believe I have almost won!"
His head continued to grow and grow, and his eyes grew brighter and brighter, filled with so much sunshine. His head continued to grow, until finally his body was buried deep in the ground under the weight of his head.
Years passed by, but the man would not give up. His necks had cramps, his eyes were glowing with sun, and his body was buried deep, but still he did not give up.
In the fifth year, he admitted defeat, crying, "You have defeated me, oh foul sun," and he attempted to close his eyes. What he quickly found, however, was that his body had become stone-stiff, and his muscles had become frozen in the same position. He was stuck, forever gazing at the sun, the one object that had defeated him, the one object more gorgeous than he. To this day, he remains in the forest of Loreroot, as a lesson to all that passes by.
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Day 245There is a girl, who you might see wandering the land. She carries around a thick pad of paper and a pencil held at the ready. Wherever she goes, she looks around, sees something of interest, and writes it quickly down.
You see, she learned one day that the only way to prevent herself from... problems... was to write down things she learned. She did not always write them down. Oh no, one day long ago she kept all her notes inside her head. Going against the advice of those who knew better, who told her she would lose her head, she kept every little bit of information she could get her hands on inside her cranium.
Sure enough, one day she was walking down a path, and her head felt exceptionally swollen. She tried to take a step, and tripped on a stone. As soon as she fell to the ground, her head exploding off of her neck, spewing words in all directions."Oh dear! I have lost my information!" Her words and knowledge spilled out onto the road, and soaked into the ground. The fact that her head was separated from her body was the least of her worries. She wanted that knowledge that she had lost.
A doctor came to see her, and began sowing her head back on her neck. She was fine, albeit she now wears a ribbon around her neck to hide her stitches. From that day forth, she wrote everything she learned down, and her head never swells.
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Day 246Many things started at the time when I placed my seeds into the soil. The first thing is that I found my watering can, which I have to this day. I found that it would never run out of water, and that I would never tire when carrying it. It followed me everywhere, and the person who holds it is the one I leave in charge of the seeds.
Another thing that started the day I planted my seeds was the partnership I now have with Handy Pockets. I could not water my seeds one night, and without even knowing where the seeds where, she went out and watered them. She did not even have the watering can, but still she watered them.
Other things started that day, deep inside me and others. A ritual was put in place, one that has kept me in touch with my literary side, and allowed me a place to express my past and future. Other things grew within me, in my heart and in my soul. Watering another thing mends me, and the higher it gets, the more kindness I find in myself. Fire, not for destruction, but for growth and warmth.
The final thing that began to grow the day I planted those seeds, was of course the seeds themselves. They have come so far in such a short time, and now are growing strong and healthy.
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Day 248Told by Keith Moon
.Tarquinus. clears his throat again, and speaks in a booming, rhetorical voice:
Once a mighty Empire conquered an ancient land, whose people it enslaved. A water-carrier was one such slave, and the soldiers beat him and ridiculed his heathen ways, for he worshipped many old gods and they only one. But the water-carrier bore their abuse.
During a battle the Empire waged against barbarians, a soldier who had beaten the water-carrier was struck by a missile swifter than any arrow. He lay bleeding, and the water-carrier cautiously made his way over to the fallen soldier and gave him water. But the water-carrier was also struck by such a missile, faster than any arrow. Falling, he motioned the soldier to him:
"I hope you liked your drink," he said, and smiled, and died.
So is it written.
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Day 249The person in this story shall remain anonymous.
There was a woman, who kept things to herself. She wanted things, mostly the attention of others, and the support of the community around her, but she was too afraid to ask for it. And so, because she didn't ask, no one knew that she wanted the support.
One day, she couldn't take it anymore, and she burst out, "Why don't any of you give me what I want?! Can't you see I just want to be supported, and recognized for what I do?"
People stared at her like she was crazy, and said, "All this time, you did all that just for attention and recognition?"
She held her head low, and promptly walked away, embarrassed.
There are a couple of lessons to learn from her. Primarily, do no do things for others as the primary motive; it should give you pleasure as well. If you do it for recognition, in the end... you will feel empty. Second, people cannot read minds. Therefore if you don't tell them, and dance around subjects, nothing gets done.
Directness with a degree of tact is what is required
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Day 250Told by Phantom Orchid
Autumnal walk in the woods alone
Winderwilds heard above in the tall timber
Some flying, a good feeling
A wisp of foliage, leaves, limbs exposed
The wind blows a kiss because it knows I'm here
The moon smiles, the sun sighs once heard
The tramp of the October frost
Old Man Winter will soon drape the furrows
The crunch of curled leaves
Will step these same feet
Scampering beneath majestic trees
Ground colors become quilt patterns
Worn through eyes bright and new
"Why cannot ye see the existence of the Moon Goddess?" I decree
Proof stored in the memory that lives never to forget
"Did I exist for these Oaks before?"
Regal, familiar. Holding trunks of memories
How is it that the agnostic fails to see
The stories
For which oaks - and people - cannot live without
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Day 252Told by Pamplemousse
One day a boy, a cattle herder, went out to tend the livestock. When he was herding, he saw a giant, with two great horned oxen by his side. The horns pointed backwards instead of forewards like regular cattle. The giant came forth with the ox and told the boy that he would be taking a nap and if any other giants came, that he should be awoken at once. The giant lay and slept, and the snoring was as loud as thunder. The boy saw another giant coming over the hills and frantically lifted the largest stone he could, and struck the giant in the chest.
The giant did not wake, nor stir. The boy went to the oxen and pulled and pulled on his horns but found no purchase due to the backwards nature of the horns. The other giant approached and seeing the slumbering giant in the grass, stomped his foot down with a large crash. The slumbering giant was slaughtered in his sleep, with no witnesses and with no fanfare. And the other giant led the unusual oxen off without a word or glance at the boy.
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Day 256Fads in this land are sometimes most interesting.
The people around seem to feel that nothing matters, and so they engage in the most extreme activities that normally they could not. I will tell you of one particular fad.
Long ago, there was a grand wedding. It was between the Ailith and King Bull, although because of the wedding Ailith became Queen Ailith Bull. It was a massive ceremony, with much celebration. Sagewoman and Windy were doing their usual routine, speaking at every opportunity available. Drinks were passed out to all those with free hands. Calyx of Isis, I believe, was the one who performed the ceremony. King Bull spoke his part, twice, because the first time he spoke out of turn. People were screaming, I am Bored was eating random materials, and things went chaotic. There was a water ritual thrown in, and I believe something to do with Elephants, but it is all a little hazy to me right now. In short, chaos.
In any case...
The festivities were massive, and no one cared what was occurring around them. The Bride and the Groom were two of the most carefree in the group. With no thought to their future, they plunged head-long not only into a relationship, but also became the guardians of children (elephants, for some odd reason). Mur himself was carefree at the event, throwing a Wind Drachorn to the newly weds, and music to boot.
What became of all this carefree celebration?
Well, as you may know, Queen Ailith Bull is no longer a Queen, and has divorced King Bull. King Bull has disappeared from the land. And what of the people that followed in their carefree activities, and followed the fad and got married as well? Well, the majority of them are together no longer.
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Day 257Today I will tell a story of a personal growth that I experienced. I have told you of my time as a Sentinel before, but now we will go and revisit it for a bit. Khalazdad was the one who introduced me to the idea of satori, the moment of pure enlightenment. He would often say that it was one of the few things to work towards in this life, the reason to learn anything. I believed him, but never experienced one while he was around. No, ironically, the first time I experienced what he spoke of was the day he left. His death came as a shock, but it was not earth-shattering. Things die, or so I saw. It was not his death that forced the satori, it was other's reactions to his death.
In the wake of death, it is my nature to expect life to grow, but that day I saw something horrifying. Rather than bringing the Sentinels together, in order to mourne for the death of their leader, they began being paranoid of their security as leader. They all reeked of death, and the decaying state of them all in the wake of his death was too much to take. They all reeked of death, and the decaying state of them all in the wake of his death was too much to take.
My satori was this: to be around those who kill themselves and others when they percieve a death is a gruesome way to live. Constantly falling apart from the inside out, that is how I would describe the Sentinels. It was that day when I made my mantra: In the face of death, live and give life. And so came the reason why I planted Seeds, and began teaching and talking to others in the Paper Cabin.
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Day 258There was a time when a snap-judged a person, and I was most sorely sorry. I looked her up, and I looked her down. She was not worth my time, I figured, arrogantly. And so, I brushed her off, not willing to listen to her words. I spoke out roughly towards her when she persisted, lacking the patience I needed. She looked at me, shocked, and closed her eyes. Though she had not snapped judged me, like I had her, she was hurt.
Many days later, it came that I needed her help, and when I asked, she refused. Well, not directly, but she looked at me as I had looked at her... And there came no response, she moved on. I want her to remain anonymous.
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Day 263There have been a few wars in the past years of MD, although none of them as embarrassing as one the one I am about to recount.
The war started when Raven posed a poll to the entire realm, asking whether he was a good enough leader to be the King of Loreroot. He was already the leader of the GoTR, and he wished to be the King as well.
When the members of Golemus Golemicarum and the Fraternity heard of this, they were displeased. The people of Loreroot, to make things worse, began to insult those of GG. Soon to follow, to protect their honor, those of GG declared war on those of Loreroot, saying that they would not stop until Raven stepped down from his attempt to rule.
The words flung back and forth reeked of foul substances. The war was fought in insults, and the only real casualty was the Savelites. They were taken over by Grido, as a hostage. Soon after that, Raven quickly stepped down from his post, having become unpopular everywhere in the realm. Even his own soldiers no longer wanted to fight for him. But if the truth be told, not a single drop of blood was let loose from any veins. It was a war of words, and a slow and boring one at that.
Let us hope the future does not hold similar wars.
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Day 264You of course know of Kittiness. She is one of the most loyal people in the realm, although some people think she is loyal to excess.
While she was the wife of Khalazdad, no one objected to her slave status. Day and night she waited on Khalazdad, following him around, watering for him, and doing any and all tasks he required. What perhaps made the relationship not bad was that Khalazdad was the image of servitude. He served by being served, and did things for others in a way that most people simply did not understand.
All actions were done on the part of others. And so, as Kittiness served her master, so too did her Master serve her. The loyalty they shared made for a confusing relationship, and the lines between Master and Slave blended and disappeared. When he died, she remained his slave, but loyalty only lasts for so long. It is not as enduring as the iron of chains or the face of a mountain. It comes and goes, as heat passing from a campfire into the cold night.
So too when Khalazdad's fire left, Kittiness no longer felt her loyalty to it. Moving on to other people, she became the slave of Tarquinus. The relationship, I cannot know, but Tarquinus is not a leader of servitude, so I can only think that her loyalty will dissolve again. Loyalty only remains in places were it is returned. No one remains when what they put out is not returned. So value the loyalty you have to others, and cherish it. Accept it when it dies, of course, for duty, which remains after loyalty has left, can only bring about soreness.
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Day 265There are, as I have said, different types of wars, and people fight them for different reasons. I will talk about what happens when you fight a war for the wrong reasons. There are those that fight a war purely for power, so that they may feel powerful when they crush another.
Raven was one such person, and Yrhtilian has been accused of fighting for power as well. They consider honor and the respect of others, and so they fight for themselves but based on the opinions of others. It is a strange paradox: fighting a war for your ego, but basing your ego on the opinions of others. A common paradox, but a paradox nonetheless.
In any case, Raven wanted to be King, but wanted the people to tell him that he should be King. And Yrthilian did not like to see himself reflected, and so he decided that he was to be the only King with Khalazdad. He attacked, not wanting to be in a group with Raven, for he considered him beneath him.
The war stress from this situation caused a number of effects. The people of Loreroot underwent a massive schism. There were those who saw through the ruse of Raven, saw that he wanted a pat on the back as King, but were distracted by themselves. How would Raven treat them, for truly they were the most important in the play. Because each person began to fight for themselves, rather than for others, they could not form a cohesive group, and each person gave their own opinion and goals. Knator Commander was exiled because of one of those opinions, which did not represent the group as a whole.
When an army is full of generals, there is no army. Such it was, and the Generals had all their egos hurt when they realized that they were not cohesive enough to fight. They fought the war for all the wrong reasons, for all the wrong people, and with all the wrong weapons. Fighting acts of physicality with words, and backing down when challenged. Amoran was one of those who attempted to fight, and was hurt. She knows how she fought wars, and so now when she looks back... all she can see is how she fought war, not how it should be fought.
Cohesion, there is power in cohesion. Without it, we are lost. Lean on your friend next to you, and it will free you up so you can strike with your other hand. If you are alone, both hands will be preoccupied with protecting yourself. Never fight alone, or for yourself, for you will find that the victory is hollow, and the defeat is inevitable.
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Day 266Few times am I truly afraid, which is understandable. Most things are understandable, and because they are able to be rationalized, they do not inspire fear. But there are times when I am afraid.
There are two things that have made me afraid. The first is when someone I think I know acts in a way completely unexpected. The time that springs most to mind is adventures in the Sentinels, when Khalazdad would randomly begin raving, and haunting about himself. Others have raved similarly, and been insane for a period, and one such person is Granos. His stories and teachings of the Void reverberated under my skin, and made me fear that I would be swallowed.
The only other time that I am truly afraid is when I have done something wrong and did not realize it. Mostly when I have offended a friend, and did not know of it until they revealed their hurt to me. Then my mind is clouded, and I am afraid for them, for me, and for the future of us all.
Oh, there is one more time when I am afraid: standing on the tip of a mountain or point, and looking down. The way the hill falls steeply to all sides of me, I cannot help but imagine falling, and the imagination builds slowly until it is all I can do to hold my feet still. The drop is enticing yet deathly, the fall stifling and horrid. Fear of being alone in a height, but mostly of falling and having no one catch me.
My fears all stem from others, for who else but them can make me feel the most extreme of my emotions, such as terror?
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Day 267I entered Necrovion at the end of the battle, and the Sentinels had already won. Jester reigned supreme, and all that remained to be sorted out was the business with Yrthilian. Yrthilian made the declaration that should he continue to be separated from his Alliance, he would kill Khalazdad the White's soul. Akasha heard this, and told him that she wanted to do a test with the cube before he destroyed it. She took him to the Gates of Despair, and told him to approach the Gate with the cube and enter it. He did as she told, and his shadow began to be sucked in, his hands shaking. Through the Gate he went, and out somewhere else.
Akasha and others looked into the Portal after him, and they moved into it. Some ran, some crept, but many went through to the other side I myself closed my eyes, and approached the Gate, concentrating on my connection with Akasha. I opened my eyes, and there I was, at the Stone of Despairing Souls.
The heat was the first thing I noticed, and it permeated my very body. A weird heat, burning the outside and the mind more than the skin. Yrthilian thanked Akasha for her hunch, which was that the two Gates were connected, and made a final declaration. With that, he approached the stone with the cube held in front, and began to step into the flames, not caring for the heat or whether he be burned.
All those around him watched in horror as he ripped off a side of the cube at a time, and threw it into the heat of the Stone. One by one the cube was ripped apart and burned. Those surrounded attempted to stop him, but no one succeeded. Shadowseeker attempted a spell, but did not have the proper form, and failed multiple times. This continued on, until I could not handle the heat. The heat increased with each piece, and my head began to buzz.
I fainted.
However, a friend has told me that after I left Yrthilian destroyed all pieces of the cube but one. He decided to keep this final piece, and touching it, it began to mold into a life figure of Khalazdad the White. A strange thing occurred. Standing there, all of a sudden, was Khalazdad the White, as we all remember him. However, yrthilian had total control over him. Yrthilian would move a hand, and so too would Khalazdad the White. It seemed Yrthilian now controlled the soul of Khalazdad the White.
More people began to come, though how they got here I do not know. Soon, there was a crowd. People were shocked by what Yrthilian had been able to accomplish. Soon thereafter, Yrthilian left, with the White Khalazdad in tow.
At this point Muratus del Mur came, and mentioned that the stone was not working. He told us that there was an issue, and we had better not burn anything. With that, he told us to all go, and we were instantly woken up at the Gazebo of Equilibrium. This is where the story ends, for now, I believe.
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Day 268Written by Handy Pockets
There were whispers over the land, vibrations of spells, rumblings of battle. Liberty declared war. Battles were fought, covert plans carryed out, anger with a rival. He has a hunger for redeemtion. I felt compelled to join Liberty, I expect few to understand. My decision is not influenced by strength of creatures, but by my strength of loyality to a man who as his duty to protect me, did for many days. As it was my duty to join him in his decision. With only a few days to wrap up my training, I made quick decisions.I endure in quiet, walking and resting, closing my eyes, and ears. I made my decision. Liberty sends me an invitation to join him. Time to wait.
Jump to leader is called. We still wait, as seconds pass by. Seconds never passed so quickly. I jump, there they are, the defenders of their land. With Liberty as leader we battle until we are spent. I leave this realm for other duties, and return knowing Liberty is not the leader of the Knights of Marind Bell. I did not plan beyond the alliance without Liberty as Leader. I leave the alliance feeling I did what was my duty, I do not regret one minute.
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Day 269With this story, you might perhaps expect me to rant about how awful Yrthilian is, and how he is doing wrong to his people and his land. But... that would be repeating the obvious, and any slanderous man can do as good as job as I at that. So I will explore something you probably did not think about.
Yrthilian began as a normal player, in a normal land. He was close with Renavoid, and the two of them talked for hours about their theories on magic and technology. You see, Yrthilian loved to combine the two together, and wanted to go to Golemus and continue his research. This was how he was first introduced to the land of Golemus Golemicarum. From there things have grown and expanded substantially, from a techno-mage, to a general in Wodin's Army. When Wodin left, someone was needed to fill his shoes, and Yrthilian, the man standing directly behind him, had but one step to take to do so.
Yrthilian made the power-switch smoothly, and for this I respect him. Yrthilian showed no signs of being power hungry, no more than you or I show. He was humble, guarding over Golemus by way of the Guerrila Golemicarum, and protecting it as he saw fit.
Things change, though, and how quickly intents are twisted. There was the crowning, that was the first crossroads. He could leave, as Khalazdad did, or he could continue expanding, first for the good of his nation, and then for the good of himself. And this is what led him to attack Loreroot. So easy to justify the attack, for Raven was not fit to be a King, and Yrthilian was backed by most of the land. Loreroot was picked off, and left to eat itself.
And how simple the jump from Loreroot to Necrovion was. How simple to justify, to blind oneself, saying, "Look, he is a war monger! We must bring Peace back." And so easy, for those to follow him, for to fight for any cause feels good, to blindly go. Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.
When you underestimate, you are decimated, and this is what occurred. But stop there? Never. Forge ahead, without a backing, for the crown on your head will keep your head strong. Forge ahead, and gain an ally in the ancient history of the past, gain another warrior, at the sacrifice of others.
Then, when you have achieved total power, then you will strive for more, until you fall into yourself, your feet fallen through the cracks.
But remember, he started out as you and me. And should we be given the same opportunity, can you honestly know that you would not choose the same?
It is an interesting thought. Veer from being given too much power, so that you do not try and take more. Take more, and you cannot stop, until you too have fallen down, and your statues become gravel for the paths of the average.
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Day 281There is an odd thing with my name. People will hear me speak, and know my name, and think, "Oh, what a lovely girl." It is rather unfortunate, because the "a" at the end of my name seems to tell people that I am feminine, and should be addressed "she" and "her".
In the early days of my experience here, no one would blink an eye when I was addressed as a she. I would of course, always correct them, and then they would be embarrassed.Once redeneck even began to flirt with me, before realizing that I was in fact a boy. That was by far the funniest moment, when his face blushed profusely for having flirted with a man unknowingly.
It got bad, though, and I went so far as to make a public announcement in December. I said, "I just want everyone to know, I am a guy!" Since then, occasionally someone will call me a she, but a strange thing now happens. The instant that pronoun is out of their mouths, all those present will correct them, reminding the person that I am a "he." It seems that people do my job for me, correcting when it is needed, and glaring at those that mistake gender.
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Day 283Told by Undertaker
So long time ago there was a king. He has a priest and king always obeys him. One day king went for hunting. While hunting he lost his one finger, so the entire kingdom was sad .. king also was very sad.
So the king asked the priest to fix these thing up, but the priest said " what ever happens it is for good." The king got angry and told the priest not to meet him any more, so after 2 years the king again went for hunting. This time the jungle tribes captured him for sacrifice so the king said to him self that this will be his last day.....
When he was about to be sacrificed the head tribesman saw his missing finger. The head tribe man said he is not a complete man since his finger is missing and he can't be sacrificed to their god.
So the king got a second life and went back to his kingdom. Then he remember his priest words" whatever happens it is for good." He asked forgiveness and and priest forgived him.
so that's the end the king lived happly ever after.
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Day 285Mur has a habit of walking around, invisible to those around him. A few times I have been sitting down, talking to others, when I heard a shout come from thin air, proclaiming some business.
"HELLO!" Mur cries in our ears, and we all look around to see the source. Of course by that time he is hidden once again, and we all stand around rubbing our ears. This has some interesting consequences. In the most intimate of times, it is possible for Mur to be lurking and hear your words.
This had some rather drastic consequences for a woman named Lup. In an attempt to instill drama and the like in others, she began to cry that she was dying. In a place near the Angien's Ferry, she fluttered her eyes, and let it slip to others that she was dying. Then, she fell on the ground, pretending to be dead. Mur, walking by, hidden as always, heard her words and decided that if she said she was dead, then she must be dead. With a quick spell the pretend turned real, and Lup was indeed dead.
She later woke up at the Gazebo of Chaos, a ghost with no physical appearance. "Dead?! How can I be dead?" she asked, but the only one there to respond was her own translucent body. It said, "You said you are dead, and so now you are."
Be careful what you wish for, as the saying goes. But more so, be careful of invisible people walking around.
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Day 286You undoubtedly have seen Cutler wandering around the land. He is renowned for his ability to write puzzles, and their tests have stumped even the sharpest of brains I have attempted a number of them, but I find myself woefully inadequate.
Cutler was once approached by Muratus del Mur. Mur told him that he wanted to promote Cutler to RPC, because he had heard of his puzzling skills and thought that the realm could benefit from a puzzle master. Cutler looked at Mur, confused by his words, and said, "Why would I want to be an RPC? I am perfectly content with what I have." Having refused RPC, Cutler walked away.
Some look at Cutler's decision, and could not understand it. Why is this man, who is all ways qualified for RPC, refusing it? The truth is that those who are most qualified are those who will not take the job. The wisest know to accept and love what they have, and not to aspire beyond what they can handle.
The death of RPCs is a direct result of this paradox. The best and the brightest are content with their stations in life. So never feel bad if you are not asked to be a role, or be a member of anything. Tell yourself, "I am content where I am, more things does not equal more happiness."
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Day 287
Tonight I will tell a story about my past, about speed and efficiency. There was a time when I thought that speed was everything, and I should attempt to cram everything into as small of a period as I could fit it.
Once, I was listening to a lesson, and was deeply impressed by it. As I listened, I tried to learn what it was saying, faster and faster. My need for knowledge, it seemed, could not be satiated. I devoured the words, and more and more I lost them. I lost my focus, and the meanings blurred together, and I found myself at the end of the lesson, staring at the blank after the end of the words. The blank hung in the air, and I tried to remember what I had just learned. The blank bounced off the inside of my head, reverberating against my hollow knowledge. I focused, but I could not remember what I had just learned. The words had flown from my head, in my frenzy to devour the next word I had not taken the time to ensure that the other words would not escape. Like lambs without a fence, they roamed the fields of my mind, and fell off cliffs, never to be seen again.
From that day forward I knew that speed did not equal efficiency. Build up houses, piece at a time, and you will have a beautiful house that will stand the test of time. Build it too quickly, and it will fall over under the pressure of the wind.
If you don't have much time, there is still no reason to rush. 10 minutes spent at a steady pace will accomplish something, no matter how small. Moving fast will accomplish nothing, and leave one feeling empty and stressed. So, I say to you and anybody who reads this, efficiency is attained when the pace is calm, collected, and natural.
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Day 291
There was once a time of panic, though it wasn't quite a massive panic. I have never seen all of MD in a panic over anything. Generally small parts will go into a higher sense of awareness, but not the entire MD.
You know MRD, of course, and if you know MRD then you of course know that from time to time he threatens to leave the game, only to return. Now no one pays him that much attention when he fades out of the game, but the first time he threatened there was something similar to a "panic". People ran around the land yelling, "Become the adept of MRD, so he can become mp6! If he does not become mp6 today, he will leave!"
And the odd part was that it worked, people became his adept, believing the words of the messengers. That day MRD was an mp6, and the cries of those who worried for the loss of a great player satisfied.
There have been other times of panic. Once when dst took over all of the alliances at once and kicked out all people there was a massive panic. She was able to infiltrate each one, through various methods and means. They ranged from simply being friends with the leader to infiltrating with a false ally.
Sometimes people feel like things are in a panic, when really they aren't. The end of RPCs, for instance, did not create a panic, although several people felt that way. The RPCs themselves accepted the news with grace, and the panic of the younger players was nonexistent.
Change, but not massive enough to cause an outrage. That is how MD works. Each change is a small thing that builds up over time, small enough so that people do not react violently.
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Day 292
There was once a strange competition in the land.
Almost on cue, people began to break out into rhymes and poetry so grand.
There were slues of words, people were often confused by the sheer amount of poetic product.
Guybrush did not want to participate at first, but the words were contagious, and his mouth formed rhymes as a byproduct.
Some of the rhymes were aimed at others, telling them of their faults.
Others were whimiscal in nature, "The Man covered in Salt, he loves to Waltz!"
The stimultaneous expression of emotion in the form of rhyming continued on for a time.
There were headaches all around, for it takes skill to have a poetic rhyming that is oh so sublime.
Jester participated as well, although his were mostly made in jest.
Pamplemousse could not, wouldnot rhyme a bit, and she admitted at rhyming she was not the best.
Handy Pockets, though starting unsure, soon fell into the swing, flailing "She he!" "Jay, okay!" left and right.
The rhyming game continued to the night.
We laughed and had fun, for who can frown when your words meld so nicely in succinct phrases?
Days later, we all gathered again to have a simple conversation just outside the maze.
One proclaimed, "Uh, all that rhyming has me caught, I can hardly help but rhyming in my thoughts!"
Unintentional this rhyme was, and soon there was a relapse, and our tongues once more were tied into metaphorical knots.
So it goes to show you, be careful when you start something...
Before you know it, it is too tough to get out of the swing.
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Day 294
There was a time when I was told by the one I considered my master, "Awiiya, you are a man of intellect, but nobody knows who you are." He advised me to go out to the land, and preach what I knew to the walls of the Wind's Santuary, to let otehrs know just what I had discovered in my short life. He instilled the idea that how much I am worth depends on how many people I reach out to. Maybe that wasn't his intention, but that was the lesson I learned from it.
I took his lesson to heart, because I was under the impression that he was an incredibly wise and knowing man. I went out to the land, and I gave advice to everybody I could find, whether they needed it or not. "In my opinion, you should have talked with less harshness," I would say. I threw opinions at people, I slipped them under their doors, whispered them in their ears while they slept.
What good did it do me? None. The end result of my overzealous advice was that people began to be incredibly frustrated with me. I went too far, I said too much, and I predicted beyond my means. One girl became especially insulted by my words, and began spreading the word that I was not to be trusted. In response to this, I felt that my heart had collapsed, and my body caved in on itself. No more did I walk among the lands, no more did I tell people my thoughts. I receeded back into myself, and a dark place where I could not be reached. For a month, I did this, and for a month I grew unknown.
From this I grew another ideology. My old master grew old and heavy, and fell into himself as I had done. Except, unlike him, I did not die. From the ashes of myself, I began to speak, adivising when it was asked, and talking when talked at, and silent when no words were needed. I stopped trying to impress others, and this was perhaps the most important point.
I did as you did, Kets, and I was "alone but not lonely." There is a joy that comes from sharing yourself with others... but nobody wants to feel impressed upon, and absolutely nobody likes to be judged against a seemingly unmeetable standard. And so, yes there is a sense of pleasure that comes from talking with others, find the balance that you know in your soul to be true, and you will not stumble and fall. The one who you need to impress is in the end the one person you will have to live with for all eternity: yourself.
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Day 295
Khalazdad was an old fellow, known for his insanity, or perhaps it was only that he was saner than the rest of us. In either case, he was able to accomodate for the need he felt on himself by splitting himself into two.e understood that a leader needed to be two things at once, and how he reconciled this difficult problem was by creating two separate personalities, each coming out when the time was right
There was Khalazdad the Black. He was aggressive and strong. A being with no mercy, he broke down walls and built in their place a Kingdom that was all his. Khalazdad the Black was someone not to cross, and he was feared by many.
Khalazdad the White was all things pure and submissive. A beacon of knowledge and kindness, he came out only very rarely. His words shaped the minds of his followers, forcing them to go beyond the comfort that they knew before.
And so Khalazdad was able to rule his Kingdom switching between the two. But there were issues; with such a double standard, deep inside he realized that he was not serving his subjects well. With the help of some outside influence, he was able to fuse the two selves together, joining them together in harmony.
Khalazdad the Grey was the result of this fusion. He was not overly aggressive, nor was he extremely kind. A strange mix of all emotions, he reacted inconsistantly enough to instill surprise at his actions, but enough to gain the trust of those around him. Teaching by lessons, and ever learning from others, Khalazdad the Grey was the image of balance. The balance would falter every once in a while, but only for a day would he fall into his old ways of split personalities. Khalazdad the Grey was there to stay, however, and his rule was solidified under his wise yet strong guidance.
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Day 300
In my day, Heads Contest was a lot less of a contest. The first few days would consist of people scrambling to establish themselves and prove that they were interested in winning. Once the score got closer to the critical point, strange things started to happen. Alliances started to form, and people agreed on what position they were going to take. There was also a common theme of MR involvement. The MRs could easily rig the contest to have whoever they wanted to win win. That was how strong they were at that time. Nearing the end of the contest, MRD would gather all those who he liked, and they would decide who would win. Once that was established, they decided who to pass the heads to and when. Then the next few minutes would be spent passing the massive ball of heads around, and the winners were cemented. At that point anybody not in the top 4 gave up, and decided to just try again next time.
The Contest that I won, I formed an alliance with two people, only to be later crossed. So, I teamed up with others and started to fight. I attempted to push out those that had double crossed me, but they still won in the end, despite my valiant attempts to stop them.
Apophys was a particular opponent. He rejected my attempts at allegiance, and constantly stole my heads. We would chase each other across the land, from the underground, through Loreroot, and beyond. Days we chased each other, each stealing the others head. We had our friends participate as well, giving us warnings of when to attack, and when to patiently wait. I cannot say who for sure won the battle. I was the victor in terms of heads, but that day I lost a good friend. Had Apophys and I met under different circumstances, I am sure we would have bonded.
The moral of this story? I'm not sure there is one. It would be a stretch to try and apply one, but will try. You shouldn't care about such things as medals and heads, for while they provide short term gain, in the long run they mean very little. When the ability to control the Heads Contest was realized, it lost its ability to indicate a strong fighter over a weak fighter. And as such, the medal I wear does not represent my strength, but my determination and demonstrating a will to win.
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Day 303
There are those who are said to work behind the scenes, able to control the realm pulling on their strings. They manipulate those around them to fulfill their goals, and while they prefer to work in secrecy, at the end of each plan they like to announce the role they played, and gloat.
One such person is Granos. My past is intimately intertwined with him, for on the first day of my coming to this land I was introduced to him, and he and I became friends. He talked to me often, of many subjects, and while not all of what he said was true, they had a special ring to them, and enticing aroma that I could not avoid. Eventually, when I followed the ideas to their end and found that there was in the end nothing to be found, I grew angry and left him and his order, once and for all.
Granos is one such person, however, who likes to flout their influence and control over the lives of others and the realm in general. You most likely saw his post about the Necrovion and Golemus war. I myself do not believe that he was as intricately involved as he claimed to be, although of course he had a hand when it came to the infiltration of Golemus Golemicarum. Beyond that, however, the true person behind all the madness was Jester, and Jester was not influenced a whit by Granos.
Despite the fact that Granos truly was not in as much control as he claimed, the idea of involvement was too enticing to pass up. Smoke and mirrors, always.
Before I give the warning, I give this reservation. While these people are in general not all they claim to be, they are invaluable to the realm. They push others to success, by their claims of success and fame. Not only this, they also are the ones behind a majority of the interesting happenings the realm. The difficulty comes with the constant claiming of influence that is non-existant.
I give this warning, to all those who know people who claim to be more than they do. Those who work silently, and never feel the need to tell others how much they do are the ones with the most influence. Shouting from the hill tops of your skill in any matter nearly guarantees that you are not nearly as proficient as you claim to be. Therefore be careful of those who promise secrets and information hidden, because when the doors are finally open, it is often one pitiful naked man standing alone in the dark, and nothing more.
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Day 304
The choice of Protector is one that confounds many people. Many of the members of MD choose to not have a Protector, because they cannot decide who would be the best Master. Protectors to a young player have a very different significance than they do to an older player. To a younger player, a Protector can help the player with tips, secrets, and their spells. To an older player, however, the Protector loses a good deal of its meaning. I will use myself as an example.
These days, I no longer call my creatures to my side and attempt to pummel those around me for physical maturation. I have released the majority of my creatures, and keep only a few in the case that I ever come across a situation that could cost me my life. Because of this active choice to avoid combat, the spells that a Protector could offer me are useless.
I am in a safe alliance, one in which loyalty is unnecessary. I am not the leader, nor do I need to feel the need to protect my alliance from any outside invader. With only three people, there is little to no chance of a successful invasion. So, the need to pray to a Protector for loyalty has vanished. Additionally, I rarely ever have heat to give anyways, and so the use of Protector for heat and loyalty is also gone.
I will say that there is one place where the Protector will never lose its meaning. To have a friend, one who will always support me when called upon is an invaluable asset. To have someone to talk to when needing advice, or when an outside opinion would be helpful, these things are all jobs of the Protector that I will never grow out of.
So how to choose the Protector? Make your choice based on the three things I listed above, but I will offer an opinion as well. Most protectors will offer you spells and healing, and all protectors can be prayed too. It is a rare Protector, however, that can offer good and sound advice, one who you trust and love. Most people have superficial Protector relationships, but those that are beautiful, those that embody the true purpose of the Protector and Worship relationship are those that are made for equal respect and harmony.
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Day 305
Where do your words come from?
Where do they indeed, where do anybodies words come from. There was a suspicion I had long ago, that my words started right next to my heart, in a place secure and untouched. They would blossom in the light of my gaze, and explode out of my mouth to the surrounding world.
No, they don't live next to my heart, though, that is not where I pluck the words of my songs.
I thought they came from somewhere rather deeper, perhaps near the stomache, in the pit of the spine, deep away from the mouth. But then I dug deep in that area of myself, and found not my source but a empty, yet beautiful, space. I looked around high and low, under rocks, and beneath the sun, but I remained confused. If the words did not come from me, or from some oddly buried stone, then where did they come from?
I asked a person, where do my words come from?
Rather matter of factly they responded, "From your throat, from your lungs, and out through your mouth. Your tongue aids the process as well."
No no! It could not be. Such simple organs as that cannot link such delicate phrases as I have others pronounce with great pride. My mind, then? Is this where these odd little phrases from knooks and crannies come? I looked there too, scouring the recesses of my mind, but found only memories old and soggy.
New life does not come from old, I decided and went on searching.
It is on a day like this I came to sit beneath a tree, and an acorn plopped me on my head from above. That was when it hit me. I had been looking in the door, under rocks and within my crevices for the secret source that laid not hidden but blatantly obvious. Life is growth, and growth is living. My words come from none other than my overpowering and simultaneous urge to continue to grow forever into infinity. They come from you, the bundles of energy which grow along side me, the seeds we have planted in the earth, but above all from the constant striving to go higher, be better. Not from any deep and concealed place, down low and dark, but from up high, the hand reaching for the sun touches the sentences whispered with love and sincerity.
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Day 306
Creatures are interesting things, and one which we at first cannot get away from. The moment we enter the land, lacking a true physical shape, we come across these energies. Not really physical, much like ourselves, we take them on and bind them to ourselves. Our first creatures are often our most treasured, having grown with us from the very beginning. Some people think that creatures walk around with us, but I find it to be far more of a metaphor. They grow with us in spirit, and when we have no more use for them, when we do not want to or cannot help them grow more, we let them go, and they give back all we have given them. The giving back occurs during sacrificing, and something that may seem sad is actually beautiful and freeing.
I remember my first sacrificng. It was a quiet day, and I wandered to the Fenth's Press. Seeing no one around, I had an instinct that one of my creatures needed to leave. It tugged at its ethereal leash, whispering in my ear of what it wanted, where it wanted to go. "Anywhere but here" it said to me, and I took its string in my hand, and cut it at the Press. A swirl of wind, that did not move a hair on my hand, blew around us all. The creature thanked me, and was gone.
I pondered the significance of this letting go, and the moment although seeming at first malevolent... really showed itself to be a good and pure thing. That day I took the creatures that I had recruited my first day here and let them free, one by one. I pondered the significance of this letting go, and the moment although seeming at first malevolent... really showed itself to be a good and pure thing. They sprung forth from the sacred place I had kept them in, and kissed me on the forhead, all in succession. Whether I helped them move on to somewhere else, or they will only thanking me for the company, I don't know. I keep some creatures, but I know one day I will let them all go. One by one they will thank me, and once they have all gone, I will sit down and weep. Although the moment is beautious and pure, there is an innate sadness in the release, both out of pleasure and a longing for a space to be refilled. Once I have cried to myself over my losses, I will stand up, without my creatures, and I will continue on. No longer possessing the crutch of those that for so long held me, I will take my steps with my head held high, my arms ready to defend themselves for the first time.
This day, it is far off. I am weak yet, and weakness is a sickness not easily fought off. One day, one day, I will release all, and all will thank me with their kiss of joy.
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Day 308
Told by Handy Pockets
His soul, twisted and tormented, cold as ice.
Eyes, hollow and dark, filled with insects and fear.
Threading over the land seeking his rightful place.
Calling a mournful sound, wailing and calling, searching and confused.
She gasps,the horror she sees, as she looks at the ones she protects, as they protect her.
Why such destruction, how did this happen?
How could she leave them to fend for themselves?
Her heartache sends her walking, walking for the one energy she knows they need.
Her vital energy.
And once again she gasps, she can not walk for her creatures, she needs to be joined
with others who share her common interest.
What will she do? She calms herself and thinks of all her options.
There he is, he found her and he comes to her side.
She sees he is in need of his rightful place. He will protect as he is protected.
A decision is made, her walking friend will be bound again with a plan that will
keep him safe. He will protect the rest from destruction as they heal.
She decides it is time to find an alliance
and be the one who protects the one who protects her once again.
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The Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
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Day 309
"Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence."
In silence we can stop others thoughts from overpowering our senses. In a group of people, we are too busy listening and responding as fast as we can, that we soon lose our own thoughts. The dreams of others take over, and we lose what is ourselves. Others dreams become ours, and we are lost in a path that leads no where. When I was first becoming a Sentinel, I felt overpowered in a similar way. There were people all around me, and they were trying to give me advice about which alliance I should choose. The cacophony of their noises made me lose my senses.
"The Sentinels are noble for their respect of the shades!" "Marind Bell seeks for the light, not the darkness."
These thougths cascaded through my mind, and I went with them, down to the floor where they broke my will. Khalazdad too, with his passive words of wisdom took me with them. Carried away in a torrent of wisdom, I felt meek and insignificant besides his apparent wisdom. His goals took over mine, and in him I did not find myself, but instead became a clone. His dreams were mine, his thoughts valued above mine own, and I lost what inherentantly made me unique. In silence, we can found ourselves again, we may find what it is that sets us apart from the millions of others that surround us. We are no different than them if we allow them to control us. We are no different than them if we allow them to control us. In silence, when the only voice is our own, we may follow our own advice. In peace, in solitude, there is the joy of standing on my own two legs.
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Day 310
"As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons."
It is an undoubted truth that without others in our lives, we feel meaningless and alone. Silence and finding ourselves is important, but reaching out and connecting with others is equally important. There is a balance of the two, and going to extremes in either is not a good thing.
How to be on good terms with all people? Surely there will be some people that you will not be able to get along with, and be unable to be around peacefully.
There are a few such people in this realm who I feel this way about. I will not name them, because that is cruel. However, all these people I do not feel the slightest bit of aggression against. When they talk to me, I listen to what they have to say, and then usually come up with an excuse to avoid being in their presence longer than my continence can take it. It is a strategy; find ways to get around your differences. Never fully ignore anyone for a indefinite period of time. If you cannot stand them for one second, then avoid them until you can. Always be ready to forgive, as well. People make mistakes, but your enemies have lessons to teach and words of wisdom the same as your friends.
The first line is important to note. "As far as possible" does not mean you should force yourself into an uncomfortable or torturous place. Respect your boundaries, but push yourself to the edge time and time again, and your horizons will expand, and the box of comfort we all live in will grow larger. Perhaps one day our box of comfort will encompass everything and everyone, and there will be no where for us to go where we may feel unhappy. However, to get there, you cannot push to hard, for when pushed hard things break. Stretch, do not destroy.
People need us, just as we need them. Being on bad terms leads to a lonely life.
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Day 312
"Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story."
There was a man, who spoke in such complex riddles and words. He would begin talking to you, and from his words you would be weofully lost in a maze of meanings. He would reach out to you with his stare and his hands, pleading you to understand him. It was like he had something utterly important to tell you, and wished you would understand, but was never able to put the all important message into words. He spoke his truth loudly, motioning wildly with his hands for those around him to listen, and to understand. Loudly and with words that wove like a rug, but the picture was not beautiful but grotesque and odd. He screamed, he cried, he begged with passion that if you would take the time, you would see his way, walk his path, and think in his ruts. But no, we never did.
He was branded as insane, and we threw his words away, into the back of our thoughts to disappear and fade, his rug of words loosing its color as time went on. No matter if you have something truly worth saying or not, how you say it matters immensely. A truth shouting in your face will be avoided, will be treated as an attack, and thus something to be spit out rather than swallowed. Quietly and clearly, words resound. If you speak quietly others will stop their yelling in order to hear what you have to say. Leaning in they will put their ears to your mouth, and your truth will imbue them, it will put red in their cheeks, and in their dull eyes will spark intelligence once more. To the dull and the ignorant, listen too. This man we heard, we tried to understand, we tried to listen.
He too had story to tell. He taught us not to be like him, to be concise and clear, for when speaking concisely it is hard not to also be speaking eloquently. The most simple man often has the most clear and obvious yet hidden truths. Listen to him, as you would listen to the wise man that sits on his throne. He too had story to tell. He taught us not to be like him, to be concise and clear, for when speaking concisely it is hard not to also be speaking eloquently.
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Day 313
"Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit."
This goes hand in hand with the idea of speaking quietly and clearly, and the idea that it is bad to push your morals on anybody. Present your morals, but do not present them as the truth, do not dress them up in King's clothing.
I often tell Kets that I am afraid people take my words in a way I do not intend them. My words are not the truth, nor are they likely even close to it. Instead, they represent one man's attempt to make sense of this confusing and large world. Things come flying at me from all angles, and it is all I can do to dodge them, all the time spouting my words of "wisdom." The spirit needs to think for itself to grow, and having others force thoughts on you inhibits growth. Present your morals, but do not present them as the truth, do not dress them up in King's clothing.
Sometimes I think that it would do me well to never list an opinion, for then I would not be an aggressive person. I admit, this is one of my insecurities. I worry about being an aggressive and loud person, for it is difficult not to voice opinions when the my answer stands in front of me so obviously. Sitting down and remembering, "my answer is not the answer for others," and then I remember to proceed my adivce with, "This is just my opinion."
One day I think I will walk around, asking questions, rather than giving answers. Questions give chance for a response, while answers imply that there is no need for input from the other person. Questions are beautiful and submissive, answers often unneeded and top-heavy. But such is life. Perfection is never achieved.
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Day 315
"If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself."
There was a man whose name was Kragel. When he was young, he looked around at those that surrounded him, and began to form ideas in his head. He wanted, above anything, to be accepted and respected by the community around him. There was a desire inside him, more innate than anything he had ever know, to be the most revered person in the realm. He wanted to be a legend.
This early in the story, perhaps it is good to draw a primary moral. Where did Kragel first go wrong? I believe it was the moment he looked around at others, rather than inside at himself, for the answer to "how do I become legendary?" It is a question that inevitably leads to unhappiness, although he could have been saved from it if while looking inward he might have found that being legendary does not matter. Whether or not you are legend, you are invariably beautiful. But we will continue with the story.
He continued on in his search, and copied from other people. He spoke in a false tone of respect, assumed the airs of those he tried to follow. He took to the role that did not quite fit him. He claimed to be a worker of metal, a delicate artist who knew intimately the truths presented in works involving metal and gems. How could he have known that, when he did not realize that beauty so obvious in these stones must also exist within him, whether or not others thought so? An uncut diamond, though holding beauty within its rough edges, this is what all people are.
But he searched, and he searched, and he found what he was looking for. He was able to copy what he saw in others successfully, and on the surface level it was wholly convincing. With a quick glance rather than an indepth search, someone could easily be fooled by his act. In this way, Mur was fooled, and saw what Kragel was attempted to show off. If he had looked more carefully, he would have seen the deception, the scrawny old man trying to put on the majestic and large coats of the rich. He succeeded, but because he did not deserve to succeed, he found his role empty and unsatisfying. He became, as the proverb this story derives from, bitter. Bitter to those who still loomed above him, and bitter to those that were now beneath him with the addition of the two dots, as meaningless as they are small. He tyranized them, but in his angry words, he found that it was not them who were hurt by his words, but himself.
He crumpled from the inside, and one day stood lonely on a road to no where. He looked left, he looked right, and saw that nobody was by his side. He noticed that nobody respected him, and now even the rocks and clouds, incapable before of emotion, came to life with disgust. He found that he too copied their emotions, and with a disgust previously unthinkable, he crumped to the ground and became dust. The ground accepting, it took him in and made him humble, to be walked on forever more by the people here.
One day when you come upon a road, say hello to Kragel, and remember not to fall into his trap, but be thankful that now for his crimes he serves as a humble reminder to all those that pass over him. When your toes crunch in the hard ground, listen to his words. "Care not, but what you yourself believe is good and respectful."
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Day 316
"Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time."
There are many examples of this folly, but I think one of the most obvious is none other than Captain Cryxus. A loveable man to many, when viewing his career as a pirate it is impossible to see the the massive amounts of space between what he has done and what he plans to do. That is not to say that he has done nothing, or that we ourselves avoid his folly, because both are untrue.
However, I will recount to you a few conversations I have shared with him. We were leaning back in the grass, gazing into the sun that never moved, and the ideas began to flow. Most fancifal images, of lands unseen, of people not met, and treasures and pleasures never before experienced. I pronounced my words with a carefree sense of fantasy, for nothing I said I intended to follow through on. As I listened to my companion, I soon found that my tone was not reciprocated. Every word he spoke, he spoke it as if it was an announcement and a promise, as if what he said he would soon do. He told me that he would sail with his crew, on the ship he was to build on Golemus, he told me that he would gain access to Golemus, he mentioned of the island he was to find. The strength of his pirate crew, and how in his day it would thrive, and he would spread to all lands, and know no bounds. No land could restrain his plans and dreams, and indeed no man could not help but flying off with him. His ship itself sprouted wings as we spoke, and together we flew about the land, plundering others and stealing their silver coins. Away we flew, into his dreams and plans, away and above, and smiles were had a plenty. But plans, they never last. The clouds did not hold me forever, and soon I found myself back on the ground. None of it was true, and I turned to him and said, "It is all so great.. but will it occur?" To this, he replied, "How can it not, with me driving the ship. With enough will, which I have plenty of, we can do anything." But I did not believe him. There were limits, we humans do not have as much will as we promise.
Like Mur, we make promises of things to come, and then allow it to fade into the background. Plans plans plans, but in comparison only a few accomplishments. As the Desideata suggests, enjoy your achievements as well as your plans... for if you only care for plans, you will sit as a rock and stare at the stars, proclaiming your goals to the world. But all will know that you have done nothing, and nothing will you ever do. And so, keep interested in what is ahead, what lies behind, and all around, for lacking any one of these three times we quickly become washed away in the tide of time.
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Day 319
"Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time."
We have spoken often of how the only thing that we truly have to hold onto is ourselves. Almost everything changes around us, but the one thing that will always be here, until the day each of us dies, is ourselves.
There was once a man named SimplyZero. He was a strange fellow, and his story equally odd. He wanted to be something different, so he took a shade and combined himself with it. It was the most odd thing that could possibly be seen. Shades and humans are not meant to be combined together; they are different in all ways. One drinks water, the other drinks dust.
Shortly after he became part shade, he was pulled into water attempting to travel through space As he touched the water, however, his shade part died, and he was left a little insane. Every time he touched water, part of him died. It lead to the splitting of her personalities. He lost everything around him, and the physical locations no longer existed. He could go from one place to another in a second, but each time he did so he died a little inside This story is meandering, and so I will bring it back to center.
Even when he was dying, even when parts of him were dying, even when the world no longer was firm to the touch, Simply still had one thing; himself. In all the turmoil of the world, Simply was able to keep a hold of the one thing. And this, this is what the phrases speak of. We are all we have in a torrent of nothingness.
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Day 320
"Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery."
This is difficult not to see in the world, and the idea that things are not as they appear is an idea that is constantly implanted on my brain. One of the many trickeries is the one in front of the gates to Loreroot. Many young people will walk up to the Tree guardians, see the manifestation of the woods, and be unable to attack. There is something deep inside them that prevents the lifting of even the smallest twig to attack them. No matter how hard one tries, it is impossible. It is almost as if we are fighting against ourselves, which is a fight we can never win by brute force.
More experienced people will giggle when they hear of the antics of the young, and watch their struggle with enjoyment, for they know the truth and the way to the truth. When the young one has struggled enough, a kind one will take them away, and point them towards the Willow's Shop, were there lies the most curious instrument. By a few puffs of smoke, our inner deceptions are revealed: that is to say we can change the illusions that we have created in our head. At the same time, more illusions are created.When the young one has struggled enough, a kind one will take them away, and point them towards the Willow's Shop, were there lies the most curious instrument. By a few puffs of smoke, our inner deceptions are revealed: that is to say we can change the illusions that we have created in our head. At the same time, more illusions are created. A strange state: objects once permanent swirl and twist in a way they never before did. So what was once an ominious shape in the distance becomes clearly a shadow seen from the wrong angle. Many such Illusions and trickery is created by our own minds in order to protect us. With this powerful tool in their belt, the young ones return to the site of their confoundment. They stand before the Guards, which are no more than a collection of their own thoughts presented before them, and fight themselevs. Upon defeating their inner inhibitions, the illusions are gone, and the trickery revealed. There were no guards all along... only an illusion of the woods. The guards are invisible, and when we fight them we fight ourselves.
This is the most powerful of tricks, and the one to be aware of. Many people make us fight ourselves, and this is how they destroy us. Be wary of this, and you will never find your left hand grappling with your right.
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Day 321
"But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism."
The virtue of so many things around us is quite astonishing. What is even more astonishing is the fact that we ruitinely pass up that which is valuable, and completely miss thoughtful lessons in favor of more flashy goals. Kets, you have been speaking extensively about asryn's quest lately, and it reminds me of how I fall into the perils of forgeting what has value. The rhymes written about the land are in many senses worth reading, but after 5 days here, people cease to notice them. Very little people notice that there is a wheel at the Clash of Ages, and the fact that there is a small man at the Ash Arch. Who here can remember how many boards on the well at... now I forget even its name. The place near Raven's Hold. You see how things start to slip. Given a diamond a day, you would no longer think them precious or beautiful. So too it can become easy to forget the value that each person has. This perhaps is... cliche and sappy, two things I consider myself to be, but there is perhaps some truth in it.
Many days ago I was walking aimlessy about the land, with little purpose and even less imagination, observing all but not understanding. I came accross someone equally lost, and we held idle conversation for a period of time. We spoke of very little, but something stuck with me. "There is something strangely telling about the way people fill silences. Why not communicate without words rather than with them?" And so we decided to cease speaking to each other, for in truth our words were accomplishing very little in the way of human connection. Instead we motioned with our bodies, told each other stories with our eyes, and felt the world and how it went. We ran around, pointing out things that were interesting and listen to sounds unheard.We picked up objects and looked at the underside of them. Who ever cares about the underside of a rock? But that day, we cared about everything. Books we opened but did not read, instead feeling the pages and sensing the knowledge they had to impart. Should we have start to read their endless trail of thoughts and ideas, we would have been lost. So instead, we saw all, felt all, and learned much. At the end of the day, when the sun still held high as it always did, but our energy was just abovethe horizon it was time for goodbye. He stood still for a moment, the first time all day I had seen him do so. He turned to me and said, "We have seen so much today, we have observed things unknown... but still we miss so much." With this word, a flourish, and a slight sound, he was no more. Disappeared back into the land, the voice of the unknowns silent once more.
He is the undersides of the rocks, the back of the trees in shadow, and the bird off in the distance. All day I saw so much around him, but never once thought of looking under him, the rock itself. Never did I look into and see what was to be found. And so, we will always miss something. That is a undoubtable truth. But be hopeful. Instead of missing all, try and miss less and less, until one day maybe we'll soar with the man of unknowns.
What is missed is worth being found.
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Day 332
"Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection."
There is something that rings very close to my heart about this particular line in the Desiderata. There are times when I feel that I am occupyign someone else's skin, borrowing it for the time, telling the owner that I need it more than they do. Putting on airs of confidence, of peace and tranquility when inside I feel tumultuous, there is something oddly disturbing about the way we try to inhabit other people. As aliens without the body of someone not ourselves, there are holes within our suits, and whether we want others to know we are borrow, they see through us many times. And while the image of a man crouching in the grime of a skin taken from another is rather disturbing, we will turn to the more comfortable image of someone standing bright and clean. Without the protection of airs and uneeded barriers, these people show their skin and face, and it gleams in the sunshine that sees no blockades.
The traps are the toughest to escape when they occur within the inner heart. When someone says, "I love you" and means it, it is nigh impossible to say anything but the same weighty phrase back. Are we supposed to say, "I think you are sweet, but I do not think of you sexually," when someone is confessing their undying care and love? It is like throwing a dog out into the rain. Are we supposed to be even more honest, to someone we despise saying, "You are ugly, in body and mind. Please leave." The broken heart is something to be avoided, at all costs, or this is what some people think.
But no! When the truth is avoided, though the heart is unbroken for a brief interlude, in the end both are broken, and there are often holes that cannot be repaired.
Someone turned down will rebound, someone who is lead astray and told lies will struggle and wallow in the puddle of dishonesty. And so, never tell someone you love them when you do not. It is uncomfortable, the truth, but nearly as uncomfortable as the greasy skin I mentioned before.
There was a woman, who felt the need to reply to her lover's replies, telling him what he wanted to hear. He would confess his love, and though uneasy she would utter the same phrases. This went on, and she started to melt inside. Every time she mentioned the phrase, but did not mean it, the phrase became disgusting. Love became something untouchable, and she could not look at her lover. Finally there came a day when the lover heard her say, "I love you" but heard the truth. His eyes widened with horror as it occured to him that she did not, and he asked her, "do you mean it?" This phrase, filled with doubt and longing, broke their the woman's defenses, and she had no chance. "No," she said before she could catch herself, but the lie could not be concealed. It stood a mile high and a mile wide and slid through her mouth like a raging river He turned away, his heart broken, and vowed never to say those words to another woman.
He could not love again, for each time he tried he became suspicious that the other was lying. And so she broke the man, forever more destined to walk in suspect of those who professed their love for him. And what of the woman? Well... she continued to lie to herself and to others, until one day she looked inside and found that she was no more. Her lies disintegrated the very self she hid, and so she clung to nothing, but to soon a wind came, and she disappeared. Yes, gone, for the lies that held her together could not piece her back together, could not create reality when there was none.
And so it goes. Be yourself, for if you do not, you will be nothing at all.
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Day 334
"Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass."
The phrase, "there is no love in the world," has sometimes come into my thoughts. But the proof that love is, as the Desiderata says, "as perennial as the grass" is all around. Here, I do not think love is what we imagine it to be. Love, or at least the love spoken about here, is not the ga-ga head over heels love. In fact... the only time I've ever seen that type of love is in stories and in other fictional places. The truth might be that it does not exist, this amazing strong love between two people that breaks all barriers. But this is not a depressing fact, as some might see it. I think the obsessive love that some people claim to desire is... unhealthy. Never should one person be the world. To view the world as one person will lead to inevitable sadness and destruction. So then what is Love? What is this thing that we are all so obsessed with finding?
I think love is something closer to what we share for the seeds, for those that come to join us, and for each other. Love is more the consistant and undeniable need to care and protect the other person. Care is essential, but also feeling comfortable in all circumstances is a symptom of love. There is also a feeling of peace, of fixing things that are wrong, that is what Love comes from. There are many moments I can draw from the show this, and all of them valid.
First I point to the moment when we began to speak in the Paper Cabin. I cannot say for sure, but I think speaking of the Principles and Magic cured something, it put something that was wrong back in its place. It settled your mind, perhaps, and took a loose wire and tucked it down.
I felt the same way. Seeing someone who cared, who wanted to talk about these things made me smile and be overbrimming with joy. It was love, but not the Love you read about in stories.
I felt a similar love the day when I saw other people gather here, not asked or forced but of their own free will. Listening to my stories and telling stories of their own, the bond of Love was present once again.
Finally, the Love I share for our seeds... is indescribable. When things are bad, they fix it. When things are good, they make it better. This can only be true love, something found not in stories, but in the hearts of those who know. I dearly hope that as I know, so do you, for there is love like the one I describe.
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Day 335
"Take kindly the counsel of years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth."
It is of course easy to see the truth in this line. Those who are older than us almost always are wiser as well, simply from the passage of time. Living gives us wisdom, and old people often have a long life to reflect and decide what could or could not have been better. There are spikes in this, as there are everything. Some people take this too far, and even see wisdom where there is none. This is what I will discuss about tonight.
The first person to ever talk to me in this realm's name was Lost Soldier. He approached me quickly, saying that his master wanted to speak to me at the Fountain of Dark Vibrations. Eager was I that someone had noticed me when I had been here but few days, I went to see who it was he spoke of. It was only later did I learn that Lost Soldier was in fact the master, wearing a mask. There were no two people, but the illusion was there to create a sense of hierarchy, to show that he already had followers. Eager was I that someone had noticed me when I had been here but few days, I went to see who it was he spoke of. It was only later did I learn that Lost Soldier was in fact the master, wearing a mask. There were no two people, but the illusion was there to create a sense of hierarchy, to show that he already had followers. Clever, really. But that is a talk for another day.
I was there with a few others, but they remained silent. The man was of a few years, a few weeks older than I. From where I was standing, however, he seemed a century older, and wiser tendfold. There was no telling of the wisdom he had acquired, and so silently I waited fo rhim to speak. He brought up the subject of heat, and asked us a simple, yet deceptively hard question, "what is heat?"
Some offered the simple answers that heat is what is generated when an action is executed, or pure energy... but to all these he replied "no." No, no, and once again no. We did not live up, we did not see through the cobwebs to the truth. We were not expected to, and so we did not. We all fell silent, not one word of thought left to recount. We had exhausted our resources, and were at his mercy to take pity on those younger. But he did not. He gathered up himself, raising his chest, and said, "It is an answer that is to be known by the few. You will know one day." With this, he left. There was no more.
This is the beginning, the head of a long snake. The snake slithers through holes, through the underground, and speaks of nothings and everythings as if they were things to even consider. Why investigate that which does not exist? Why not instead turn to what does exist, and what grows rather than devolves? But these were not mentioned. Later, I uncovered that it was all lies. A man in a coat, but underneath he was a skeleton and nothing more. The nothing he spoke about only existed within him, and to listen was to let it spread.
So, though age does bring wisdom... sometimes it brings taint.
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Day 336
"Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself wit dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness."
There... there are so many images associated with this line. Just as I find myself unable to speak what I feel inside of me right now, so too do I find it difficult to find an event that will carry something of what I want to say.
A man stands on the edge of a canyon, and looks down. The crest is elegantly vertical, and then slopes down, the brown dust crumbling under the adjusting weight of the man. The sun shines, but does not illuminate. It does not move either, and so the spot it hits on the man's head and on the earth is forever scorched; they are one and the same. Trees have died here, and no longer they give shade. Tired with life, tired with living, they weep low and sweet, and a note of forgiveness before succumbing. No animals scurry around the ground, and no shrubs or brush on the ground. It is too difficult... too much. The sun too hot, the wind too rough, the world too cold.
The man looks across towards the distant fog and whispers the word of the land, "too." Small and hard, like the pebbles that too describe their sadness and sigh and crunch under the foot of the land. In the sun as they bake, they crackle and groan, asking to be done, asking to be finished. The man takes a step forward, down towards the ravine, towards the bottom, where there is a small patch of shade, offered by an overhang of rock, jutting out sympathetic. He crawls down the front side, hanging for a moment like a corpse, but then in a moment life comes, and comes fast. He drops down to the ground and scurries into the shadow. "Too, too," crunches the ground under his feet. Digging his hand into the ground in order to cool them, he sighs. Something hard, in his life hand, limiting how far his nails can dig down. He lifts it up to his eyes... and there, there it is. A small seed, with a green sprout growing out. In that moment the life tilts to the left, slouching in a molting glow, and slides off the table. Off it goes, and what remains is the small sprout, the small sprout. "Too... too... little." the man gets close and whispers the words. All is quiet, the wind holds its breath, and the sun fades back.
"Nothing is too little."
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Day 337
"Beyond a wholesome disciplne,
be gentle with yourself."
Take yourself gently by the hand, because life is tough, and it will not treat you with a gentle caress. The wind will not worry about your complexion before it blows long and hard. The earth will not think twice before putting a stone in your way, and often it seems that it does it just to see us stumble and get down on its level so it is no longer lonely. The Sun will not think twice before it shines directly on the crown of your head, burning a hole through the mind straight to that gooey part just beneath the ribcage. People also will not care for you; some of them will take you by the hand to the edge of a cliff and throw you over, if you let them. They will murder you, they will taunt you, they will enact such gruesome cruelties on you it is difficult to think of a world in which it is possible for one to live.
There once was a man, who was very hard on himself. He thought that he deserved the most uncomfortable of all things to absolve him of his wrong-doings.
He would sit in chairs in the most awkward angles imaginable, the blood rushing down to his eyes and clouding his vision, but even then he did not move. He would at a whim stop in a position and stay there for many hours, long after his muscles had cramped and he could not walk or batter an eye. He smelled the cruelest smells, his favorite of course being the smell of death. He did all these things, and he wore himself to the bone. He wore himself hard, he wore himself thin, and for nothing.
He did not shatter his bones for others, nor did he wear the skin off his hands so that his family could eat at night. He inflicted pain because it was the right thing to do, and so it goes. His body grew tired, ever so tired. He had sores all over his body from his various transgressions. Life does not go kindly on such people. The Sun did not go easy, as it does for anybody. Worn down was he, until one day someone came across a skeleton posed in an awkward position, his robes hanging tattered and thin. Here lies the man, they whispered to themselves, that wanted to die. So now he will rest in peace.
There is no worth in pain for no reason. Go easy on yourself, for you only get one self. Be careful, or else you may end up as a skeleton with nothing left, everything ground to dust from the mortar and pestle that is life.
Grind grind grind... and dust to dust we shall be.
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Day 340
"You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here."
When you look up into the night sky, and see all the stars, never once does it cross the mind, "that does not seem to fit." Each one flows from the other, and there is no question that they are exactly and precisely where they should and need to be. The same with the trees. Never once have I looked on a tree and decided that it needed to be a bit to the right to be perfect. Every picture painted by nature is exactly as it was meant to be forever.
So too does nature paint us, so too does nature put us in the perfect position, whether we realize it our not. Where you stand right now, like a tree, is where you were meant to be planted and grown. Your leaves will unfurl and reach up in the precise way. That is not to say there is no such thing as change... because there is. But no one direction is better than the others. They are all equally good and right.
There was once a man who fought his destiny. He struggled and did not want to fit, he told himself he did not belong with the others, that he was better. He was afraid of death, and of fading away slowly without having done anything important. Every time he saw death in its robe round the corner, off in the other direction he would fly. He built walls, houses, and palaces of stone to prevent the coming of death, surronded himself with obeying friends, and set about on his master plan.
One day he looked back on what he had done, and saw that nobody payed any attention to what he had constructed. His palaces went unnoticed, his people chose false idols rather than him, and he was alone in the world. Dejected as he was, he slunk off to die, the realization of failure ever so real.
This man is real, he walked among us, but I will not tell you who. It is his story to tell when he feels he wants to. But what if the man had not feared death so? What if he had allowed it to happen and done things for himself, rather than for the impressive splendor? What if he had followed his own path, rather than the path laid out by others? Well, either way, his direction was the way it was meant to be, and what is done is done.
Perhaps his purpose was to teach us of living more happily, for if our destinies are indeed set and our steps counted, then what better way to go through life loving and accepting every footfall?
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Day 341
"And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."
Things often seem discordant. Sometimes life seems nothing more than a collection of awkward motions performed at bizarre angles. Sometimes the world feels tipped upside down, and we are all hanging at the trees so that we do not fly into the sky and fall for all of eternity. The roots slowly dislodge as hurricane winds pull down.
But this view, while convincing, is... perhaps false. There was a time in my life where such winds blew through the land and through me. Like broken chords and minor fifths, these winds started to dislocate things that I had meticulously put into place. Like a puzzle being broken apart into a thousand tiny pieces, impossible to put back together, I began to fall apart.
The eerie winds blew through my soul as they do on quiet nights through the leaveless branches of trees outside a window, scratching on the pane like skeleton's fingers. But these winds could not keep me in their grasp forever, no they could not keep me as a pawn, as a lovely metal piece to put on a shelf. A day just like this I was walking about a road, with my head down, as is the position those who are lost generally assume. When I see someone who stares at their feet, I know that they were like me, unsure if now their feet too will fall off and disobey them as all else has. Suspicious of the very body they possess, this is a tragedy in human form. But as I was watching my feet to make sure that they did not run off, my feet stopped in front of a bud just forming in the ground. The air light with moisture, the bud twitched, and then before my eyes opened, its green petals fading into the yellows and reds of a flower.
These winds could not keep me, they could not whistle through my branches forever. The flower opened before me, and soon a bee came along and rested itself just on the outside, held in a loving embrace. And soon around me the entire field burst forth with vibrant colors, mimicking the sun, the clouds, and all that is worth living for. My feet no longer interesting, my back straigtened and I looked around. The field went on forever, and the opening of each successful petals seemed to push further than I ever thought possible. It was like just as I had cried for joy and exhausted myself of all materials, there was another flower to cry for joy for. And so it went.
The wind could not keep me, the skeletons fingers would scratch no more on my window panes. Things are unfolding, just as they should. And there it was: I was unfolding, just as I should, just as they did.
Petals as fine as wings and pollen the scent of life, I unfolded myself.
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Day 342
"Therefore, be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be."
Here I will allow my stories to devolve a little away from fact and weave themselves. That is, this is based on true people- how can it not be?- but you will search long and hard to find a perfect fit for the situation I describe.
The priest, the man who believed that there was a God, he was shaped like a man but perfect, lived alone. He had lived alone for years, not because he did not get along with people, but because he had entered into a relationship with God. In those moments were the drips of water set the beat of the night, the man found God in his youth. In these moments when no one was watching him, he realized that somebody was. Outside, to the left of his head first, then down by his right hand, little touches gentle as a cat kneads its master. Insistent, yes, but threatening they were not. He gave into them, gave into their gentle imploring nature, their slow beat, like the water that drives people crazy late at night.
He was crazy, his friends said, mad. God comes to nobody. In those moments where no one is watching, the only one watching is yourself, the cruelest of all observers. No God. No touch. But feel the touch, he was convinced he did. Off he went, to a place where walls of wood did not describe to him his solitude, did not color his life with doubt. And he lived, lived with God. Touching his shoulders as he slowly slouched forward, felt their push as he fixed his simple meal, and at night where he had first felt the knuckles, he was not alone.
I could allow this story to devolve into a morality story, one in which a young boy knocks on his door, tells the priest that he felt the touches too, but it was not God, it was the devil. I could allow things to spin in the opposite direction, paint the picture of the woman in town who felt alone when alone, but when together felt the gentle presses, but it was a non-physical carress. I could, but I will not. Life dictates that things do not always fit into neat packages, able to be devoured at the reader's pleasure, able to be tasted like a truffle in a box.
This man, he lived alone, and one day the touches stopped coming. One day he felt nothing when he got up, nothing when he moved, laughed, talked, or smiled. God, he said, had left him. What to do, he thought? Death was not an option, there was only hell there, for where else could a man who had lost the touch go? Life was not an option either, for in life where there had been the joy of a pair, now there was the pain of one.
It is interesting, no, that the two words be so related. Pain and pair. One addition of a stroke, one line, and a pair becomes a pain. So too had his life broken, so too had his precarious position fallen. One brush stroke of life, and his life had broken like a spider web in the wind.
No life, no death, no options but the middle, the one that did not exist. He did not live, but neither did he die. A godless man, lost. The world no longer appeared to him, blind either because his eyes themselves no longer saw or because his mind did not ask them to. Lost, so how could he know that when his day came, whether he was alive or dead? What world was he in, when he found his God?
Like a corpse pushing up through the gentle dirt of a fresh grave, the priest pushd gently at his own skin, and there was his God once again. All alone in a cabin, this man recreated his God. Where is God in this sometime symbollic and other times strange story? Is it in the touch of the man, in the sense of the exterior, the fear of the interior? Where is God, when a man is lost? Well, look left, look right, look up.
For me, I look down. Find God where you need to find it. I myself, have found God not in the gentle touches of my fingers on skin, but in fingers on soil.
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Day 346
"And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul."
Far away, in the outer reaches of the sky, there is no quiet. Birds flapping to and fro, clouds constantly in motion, they make the eerie sounds of nomads of the sky, never a place to sit and rest. More than the inhabitants of this desert in the sky, the King of the land is the noisiest of all. He hangs over the terrestial terrain blowing and huffing, all hours of the day. Pushing one direction to dislodge his minions from their positions one moment, and in the next reversing directions just to spite them. Little cyclones of movements are created, descending like the extension of a finger from the desert of the sky to gently push the ground. Wind, everywhere.
Dropping down out of the sky we land on the soil, with two feet firmly planted like roots. Here the King still has domain, and the trees echo his calls, the reeds mimic his cries, and the gravel moves with his tune. Great cliffs are shaped by his call, his beconing, "Be beautiful. I demand it."
Noise of the earth, the gurgling of creeks never stop, the crash of waves, the crack of things giving in to the urge to fall down. All around words, as well, come out like these effusive rivers and whispy clouds. A constant stream runs between the two lips, tramping about in the dry and arid fields of the sky. The ears constantly being pounded with this, all this.
A small boy stands in a crowd, hearing all these things at once. The Kings of the sky, the Kings of the earth, and all the echoes in between, reverberates between the two sides of his skull.Go down one more level, through the throat were rasping noises come with the wind, to a more basic level. There it is. Silence. Thump. Thump. Thuds that threaten to take the pain away, thuds that give rythem in a chaotic symphony of wind. Heart, beat, heart, beat. Pro, tection. Pro, tection. I set words to my thud, and everything melts. It will forever tell me "Go, go, Go, go, Go, go" until one day it says, "stop" and then I will be no more.
Until then, listen carefully to the inside, the outside is a lot of wind.
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Day 347
"With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy."
The kitteh jumped from rock to rock, and the sun seemed to jump with it, in the tips of its fur. Butterflies batted with a paw, there is only completion and satisfaction in the eyes of a cat. The world bends and creaks into perfection, stones order themselves into neat little lines, and the Kitteh smiles and purrs to each.
Meow, meow, the call echoes through the land and brings joy to all those around. The man whose son has rejected him and his love smile. The lovers who are discovered and ridiculed for their behavior laugh and feel at ease when before the very stones seemed to cast judgement. The flirtatious tender, lets out a deep laugh with gusto, filled with a genuine vibe that never before was there. The twilight and darkness of the night are not here, and cannot be here. Monsters that lie in the heart curse the kitteh and abade for now. Like a flashlight in the dark, heating the lines of motion set forth by the people dancing in the city square. Monsters grate their teach in silence, cast out by the sound of the kitteh through the fangs and sharp teeth. These teeth are cute, and the bites playful.
So there is not what was needed today. So what was supposed to happen did not. So love is sometimes nothing more than abuse. So life is little more than a grind.
In all these So's of desperation and hopelessness, there is the "So life is still beautiful" Like rain falling on a sunny day, casting rainbows and colors to every corner of the fields, life is short and fragile. Breakable and changeable, unable to be recaptured and replicated. Working in death one cannot find life. Yesterday a man died, but today he will live again. Yesterday a wife cheated, but today she is reborn. The innate qualities of good are everywhere. The trees scream virtue, the grounds plead for sanity, and in all these there is the Meow.
The Meow, saying if nothing else can, "It's alright. Be happy."
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Day 351
A stream cuts through the mounds of rocks, not as if the rocks are moving the stream, but as if the stream has chosen this meandering path. In simple natural harmony, the balance between stone and water flows, edges blurring, no jagged elbows and skinny knees. Nothing to hide, the water transparent, showing its dirty bottom, and proudly. "I am based with dirt, I am brown, and there is nothing wrong with that," the stream bubbles.
Standing by the side of the stream, a young woman does not notice the lesson the stream teaches. Her skin is dark, taking in the glance of the eye and daring it to look deeper. Get lost in me, find yourself in me, be alone with me. Darkness that allows one to not worry about appearance or self. Darkness that takes "where am I" and swallows the where, silent h and all.
Splash, a blast of whiteness covers the rich color. There is no room for midnight here, not on this sunny day. She hates the deepest tone of her soul, shown on the wrapping of her body. She takes white clay from the banks and paints herself, as an artist covers up a work of art in a fit of frustration. I have not created beauty, the artist would cry, I must start over. This woman does not see the beauty, but instead a grotesque piece of coal to be covered. When she has finished putting herself in a suit of nothing, no meaning, she walks away from the stream, only to bump into a man, white as she wishes herself to be.
White, and red, because the sun finds his paleness an insult and tries to die him red to show his emberassment. He looks at her, sees the wet hands that tried to hide, to recreate blank and takes in a deep breath, through one nostril than the other. Once, twice, three times he breaths, each time gently closing the eyelids, looking at the scent as they close, hearing the scent, and feeling the scent. "I can smell what you hide. No amount of clay will hide your emberassment."
Her clay body cracks and creaks, bursting into a thousands shards of pottery, a broken pot on the ground.
And the creek gurgles on, unchanged by the exchange. Nature feels no remorse, the creek continues moving stones. Crack, crumble, crunch, go the stones in the water, like the soul of the woman.
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Day 352
The girl sits, pretending not to notice, eyes staring towards the ceiling, while the mind stares at the empty dance floor. She picks out a spot, right near the middle, and claims it. It is hers, and no others. Calm exterior, chill as a waterfall frozen, but full of whirwind emotions on the inside.
He walks over, the one she has chosen for her own, claimed, but told no one. Her flag rests firmly in him, and he is not aware. She quickly locks eyes, and he is lost. Her waterfall cracks, and bursts forth, flowing over him. He freezes in her waters, unblinking his eyes thirst no more. She has him, she has him, and he did not even know it. He attributes it to her beauty, the reason his feet approach her, but he does not see the silver spiderweb net she knit around his legs. Does not see the puppets strings attached to his wrist as he offers his hand for the dance. She accepts, smiling as if not expecting the great pleasure.
They twirl around the floor, like a woman dancing in front of a mirror, he mimicks her every move. Flawless as glass, they whisk and spin, dip and dive, twist and shine. The eyes, they do not move, for she has him, and he has been lost. He has been lost, he holds the small of her back, but she holds his soul, right between her dainty forefinger and blunt thumb.
The music, it stops, abruptly in the middle of a note. They both fall off the cliff of the dance, and find themselves awkwardly holding too tightly, too closely, and with too much passion. His eyelashes flutter, blinking once more, like a newborn, and she has lost him. Lost him, as hard as she once had him, lost him, and away he falls, she standing in the middle of the dance floor alone, rooted.
He moves away, elegantly as he came, and she stands. Reaching out one limb, she goes limp inside though her exterior holds up like the carcass of a spider. She never had him. Not once, not at all, she only had herself, and even then, only by the nape of the neck.
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Day 353
A man, with a quick step and a quicker look. Turning his head at small noises, each time expecting perhaps an unseem enemy to assault him or perhaps afraid that a wonder will soon slip away. Like a green flash at the end of a sunset, life is ever fleeting, he can only catch the tail end of moments grand, only guess at the true nature of the world. This man, he walks into the Sparring Grounds, head held high, ready to prove his point.
He gathers all around him with a short yelp, and then says, "Today it was suggested that I go out and ask the following question: do you know who I am?" Those with swords let them hang loose at their sides, their minds working as quickly as their arms did just moments before. The faces race in front of their eyes, but none match. They look at him and shrug, and return fighting, not a second thought given.
Like a bird his head twitches from face to face, looking for the forgiving spark of recognition, but none comes. Nothing but the sympathy given to an unknown begger asking another begger for a coin; they do not have what he seeks, nothing but empty pockets and even hallower cupped hands. He takes a step back, left foot falling first and then the right taking another step to catch the fallacy of the left. Like shot in a frame by a gun, he instinctively twitches an arm up.
"Oh... I mean... no... it appears that... although... could it...." each phrase he tries out to express what he cannot put into words, like keys on a chain. Each key comes up false, resounding hollow and small, floating out and then shattering into a million whispers.
He is lost. He touches a tree gingerly, his fingers asking of the bark what his tongue could only stab blindly in the dark. "Am I here? Do I exist? Am I noticed?" his fingers translate in this firm grasp. If he lets go of the tree now, he will spin off into nothing, devoured by the hungry ghost inside of him. The hungry ghost, whose name is ambition, picks at his organs like scraps from a fine dinner. Tastey, delicious, one after another they are devoured till he clutches his hollow stomache. But today, today his fingers accidentally scrambled onto a rock, solid and satisfying.
What the beggers in the ground could not give, the King of Nature gently bestows. "You feel my wood, my pulse, and I feel your skin, your pulse." With this ambition dies, and the doubt subsides. Two feet, one torso, and a head plopped on top, an afterthought that proved to be the only thought that mattered.
"You are here," the bees pollinating the cherry blossoms buzz.
"We belong to you. You belong to us. Welcome."
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Day 354
Staring off into the distance, like it has secrets untold. Perhaps the horizon is whispering a story of ages gone by. Is the Sun, right next to that cloud, trying to tell me something? Do those clouds form a letter...? Blinking slowly, trying to read the morse code of the universe, he sets on a rock, unable to think of what really needs to be thought. In the horizons there are no challenges, in the leaves of the tree there is no sadness, no bad news. They may tell him of the past, present, or future... but never will they utter the words dreaded. "We don't know where she is... we were with her one moment... then... gone..."
The last word, gone, like the ending of a sweet symphony. Gone. How is that possible? Nothing goes... nothing... Except my sister. She managed, when all else cannot, to slip the shackles of her physical body and simply dissipate. Right before their eyes, gone. He thinks these thoughts, thinks of pasts and presents, but not futures, because how can there be a future when one moment something might disappear. Just like that, a mole down a hole. Eyeing his hands suspiciously, he wonders if they too will pull a vanishing act.
And before his eyes, they do. The edges start to blur, the color turns white, and becomes transparent. "No, I cannot allow more to disappear," he whispers and looks off into the distance, where the Sun disappears but comes back. You will be like the Sun. You will just take a short break on the other side of the world. He holds on to the one hope. She will come back. I know she will. He waits on this rock, for one day, then two, then three. She will come back, just like the Sun in the morning and the moon at night. She will.
But she doesn't. Instead what comes is a painful need for water and a thirst for food. His body reminds him that even though she is not here, he is. His stomach is not vanishing. Sighing deeply, and not forgetting, not giving up the hope that as the sun rises, he leaves the rock to look for satisfaction for his here-body. As he walks down the road, the sun hits the top of his foot before the rest of his body. It glows a rosey-yellow color. The color of the living, he whispers to himself. The color to respect.
I am here. She is not.
Table of Contents
Day 355
The irony is the first thing that hits. "Aide," one who helps others. A supporting character in the play of life. Destined to get the water and carry around baggage for the great men and woman of the land. The names, it tells stories of humble, kindness, humility. The qualities that deserve to be revered but instead are often left behind in search of more flashly and gaudy complements.
The man who stands before me, is hardly an aide. An attempt to make conversation, "Perhaps you could give me a hand? I am moving stones today. Would you like to move that stone right next to your foot?" Disdain, instantly crosses both eyes. How could I have dared to pose such a ridiculous question? Who am to demand a stone moved? Preposterous. "No. Do I look like a stone-mover to you?" he replies after a proper pause, allowing my mistake seep in like poison absorbed through the roots of a tree. "Ah... pardon me. What exactly are you, if not an Aide, as your name suggests? One who helps?" Another look up and down, and once again a witty response is prepared, pieced together, the toy soldier in the brain and then sent out through the mouth to shoot me. "Well, that would take the fun out of it. Figure out what I was made for yourself." With the last poison drops coming out of the air, wrung the washcloth of bitterness, it lies on the land like a blanket.
In a heartbeat, I feel as though I have been beaten. Then, looking down, I see the rock that has been refused to be lifted. "Are you so heavy? Are your edges too rough?" I ask it imploringly, looking for a reason for it to lie unattended.
Shaking my head, I pick up both rocks at once, determined not the leave the rock rejected by the man behind. "I love you, even if he cannot. I love him too, because he rejects himself, just like you." Like the rock on the side of the road, both man and stone are picked up and craddled. The rock accepts it with joy, pleased to be moved and noticed, while the man turns it away. The bitter man, he will not take kindness or politeness. He is less built to recieve love than the pebbles that crunch beneath our feet, like the snow on a cold day.
"I love you, even if he cannot. I love him too, because he rejects himself, just like you." The rock warms in the arm of the man, and both hearts jump in heat, beat in unison, and finally meet.
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Day 357
The following is a christmas story, as is only appropriate on this the 24 of December.
The night was no silent, and the house was awake. It was dinner, with roasts, potatoes, and every form of food available. They had been cooking all day, and a little into the night, as the eye of the Sun fell below the horizons the candles lit up.
At the dinner table, the conversation starts out polite. "Hello, how are you? What have you been doing?" The food is festive and warm, with a spice of good cheer.
Then, someone says something. "When you were young, do you remember that day when we saw the dead..." but the brother is quickly hushed by a violent look from the sister. "No. I don't."
The table goes dead quiet, forks frozen in mid-air. A battle of glances is waged, with airplanes of glares and boats of stares. Neither break the silence, until a father says, "You never mentioned this to..." cut short by the sister again who says, "No. And it's better I don't." What follows is a verbal expression of the once silent war, with torpedos in short phrases ("You don't need to know") and the slashing of swords ("Stop asking. You imbecile.)
Finally all is barbabic, stones and clubs are thrown, fires are lit to bridges and all is amuck. Then, like a beacon in cloudy weather, a small quiet voice like a bell. It rings light and feathery, like a bird has just alighted from its solemn place at the tip top of the christmas tree.
"Tonight is Christmas Eve, and here we act as if it was the day of the devil. Each of us tonight hail from different places of the world, form different pieces to the puzzle of humans, and we fight each other. We throw stones through each others windows. Those stones pierce right through the windows of love. Right to the deep dark soul, and cut. The tapestry of this family is being cut by your very remarks. Tonight is a night of birth, of regrowth, and of strength. The Christmas Tree shines bright, presents pop up from the floor whisked in by the magical man Santa. Reindeer can fly, cookies disappear to thin air, and all around is the glow of warmth. The heart of the holiday beats in the birth of the baby Jesus. Humble, and in a town far away, cold but warmed by those gathered around, be thankful and quiet. This is a rebirth. Forget the old, and plan the new. Above all, love. Love like a newborn baby loves, looking up at its mother for the first time, and crying in delight.
Love like the mother gazing down, who has just dedicated her life to the small bundle beneath her gaze. Things gone are gone, and they are no more. Love like the baby Jesus. The world of sinful things and harsh realities is yet to come, but tonight, celebrate the small so that we can conquer the big. Love all."
With this the small boy of about 10 fell silent, and began eating his food delicately. The family stood silent, gazing softly. Then each followed his example, until they all ate in silence for a short period of time. Then each simultaneously looked up, and said, "Thank you, I love you."
And the snow fell outside the window, cold, but they did not feel its blow. Their houses of wood and stone held up by their loving and warm arms. Each loved like a baby, and for once, the snow loved too, carressing the rocks and trees with a touch known only to Angels. I love you, echoed the land to itself, and all reverberated with the sound of a high bell, sounding just beyond the ear.
Light as feather, deep as the ocean, the snow falls on all.
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Day 358
A woman crying, in the night. Her tears little moons that fly down her face, little moons with smiles and frowns, shivering and quaking with precise steps. A small dark man comes up behind her. He takes out his hand and puts it on the small of her back.
She turns to him. "What? Who are you?"
"I am someone you have never needed to see before."
"Well, now is not the best time to meet someone."
"It is the best time for me to meet you. Or else I would not be meeting you."
She shook her head, "No. But what can I help you with?"
"You can help me by telling me why you're crying.
"Oh it doesn't matter. It just... it doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"It matters to nobody."
"You could continue to fight me, fair crying lady. I am here to hear."
Staring off her window she let her eyeballs drop in their sockets. He was right. Or perhaps he was left alone, the only one that cared. But carrying her across is what he asked, and her day was full of axes.
"I was in the green grass. I saw a poor cow. It had no milk, but the man underneath it kept pulling on its udders, asking her for her liquid. But the cow had none to give. The cow sobbed and cried."
The small man nodded, "You are the cow."
"Yes. I am the cow. How did you know?"
"Your eyes do what your heart cannot. You cry water where there is no blood and feeling. Compensation, remediation, exculpation."
"Strange man. I told the man with the cow to stop pulling on her so hard, to stop please, it was empty. He looked up at me with the dirt beneath his eyes and the hollow place between his lips told me that one day he would pull on them and something would come out. He told me he was "patient" and the word, the eternity of pulling, came on me."
"Who pulls you?"
"Everybody does. Everybody."
"Nobody, then. If everybody pulls you would not notice. No, somebody pulls, somebody pushes, and the difference between the two stimulants is what causes your tears."
"My son. He died."
"His dead fingers pull on your udders. They ask for milk, the child asking his mother for milk in his grave."
The silence that followed was strange, and she cried more.
"He died before ever touching me. Before even feeling my warmth."
The small man moved his hand on the back of the woman and said, "No, he didn't."
The woman raised her eyebrows. The small man became illuminated, and his face was small and round, fat and cheerful. His hand on her back not aged, but round like balls of dough.
"Goodnight Mother. Nothing dies."
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Day 362
She started out weak and meak, one of the rest. She started out low, as a dog, and submissive. Bowing down at the feet of her master, washing his feet with her saliva. Never once did a word of bravery slip out of her lips to stab others in the heart. Her stomach did similar acorbatics, quivering and shaking like her hands when faced with an obstacle. Her master took pity on her. He took her into his household, clothed her with garments fit for a queen, fed her, and treated her as an equal, not as what she was. A few months passed. As her master fed her with words and lessons sweet and full, so too did her body grow more supple. More than this though, her soul and spirit grew and ballooned. It filled her chest, and started to rattle and knock against her ribs, making her cough from time to time.
The master saw the cough, and saw what road she was on, but did not refrain. It was destiny, he was not one to interfere. He allowed her the place she claimed as her own, digging her nails deep into the fabric of his Kingdom. Without knowing of it, she attempted to rule and control. The subjects looked at this plump woman, with food left over around the lips, and grease-stains a plenty, with disdain. Could not fight back, for respect and bondage to the master. Like a goose being fattened for slaughter, he fed her full each day, and then continued to feed. The gluttony increased, until her waistline appeared that it would hold no more weight. She waddled around the world like a plump balloon, but she sank rather than floating. Her ego now broke free from her ribs and assualted all those around her. Her tongue and arms lashed to and fro, injuring and wallopping all in its path. Her gluttony was about to meet its end, however.
One day as she waddled down the road, she decided to take a trip to Marind Bell. As she walked through the Gates, however, she realized that she was stuck. She would not fit. She took deep breathes and wiggled, but her ego was just too large. It clogged all her veins and her throat, choking her from the inside out like an invisible snake breathing.
A majest knight came from the Sparring Grounds, looked her up and down and decided on a course of action. He began listing off all her faults. "You are ugly. You are unintelligent. You cannot walk. You are not graceful." He paced back and forth, stabbing her ego with his sword of truth. As the hours dragged on he became creative. "The sky sags a little because it cannot bear your weight. The air around your head is disgraced when you take a breath in. I was told once that you lost a servent in your folds. Your lips appear like worms. You sweat more than a pool of grease on a hot day. The cows feel beautiful when they look at you."
As he stabbed her again and again, she deflated, and started to sob, crying out all of her excess. "Sir, sir. You underestimate. I am all these and more." Soon enough she was all deflated, but her skin hang low and sagged. She had coats and coats of skin around her, and she could no longer move under its weight.
The Knight had to decide what to do with her. He went to the Master, who promptly nodded knowingly. "I knew she would grow this way, but it was the only option. Do with her as you like." The good sir went back to the pile of woman, and decided that although bizarre, she would make a watertight roof. And so she was hung, from the top beams of his house, forever to protect his family from the rain, wind, and snow. Gazing down at the safety for years, she learned her lesson again and again. Humbly, she would sometimes whisper down to her inhabitants, "You each are unqiue and beautiful, but do not be so beautiful that you can no longer hold up your vanity."
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Day 362
This stories centers around a river, as many stories do. The reason for this is that, like the wind, the river brings change and life. Where its curves bend and sway is where people imitate its motions, sowing, harvesting, and dancing under the full moon. The river waxes and wanes, has good and bad moods, and is as player in the play of life as you or me. Its banks have seen many a strange evening. Seen when the stars twinkled, and when they held stock still in horror at what happened below them. It saw the comings and goings of peoples, nations, places. It sees the leaving of wildlife and the coming of other, more intrusive, animals. All this the river brings, but all that its strong currents carry are not gay and cheerful.
No, and on this particular night, the brother and sister found this lesson. They had wandered out after dark, as their parents had told them that they did not want them around. The household was in turmoil, as this family often is, and the wife had broken a plate on the fathers head. Out of the way and in the dark, all they brought was a small candle, in case the stars did not allow them the proper light. Off they went, down to the one place that could take their sorrows and worries, and carry them down to the next town along the banks, where perhaps they would know what to do with them. Washing their hands in the river, they absolved the grease from their skin. Like a dog licking a child, the river took it all with it.
The Brother was the first to spot something, as it was a night of gifts, and night of comings. As a reward for giving away their sorrows, the river brought right under his feet a small ring, flashing golden in a ray from the candle. Picking it up, and rubbing the snad off it, he celebrated his good fortune. On the back was inscribed the following,
"To my dearest Zion. May you wear this ring around your finger always, just as my arms will always be around your waist."
No thought to this lasting message of love, he slipped the ring into his pocket, were it sat light and quickly went unnoticed. The Sister, not quite so lucky this night of gifts, spotted something of another nature altogether. What was first brought to her was not anything material, but rather something that floated and bobbed on the wind. The smell, it was something she had never encountered. It was a mixture of moisture and something sinister and foreboding, something to cover your nose and walk away in the opposite direction.
She did not do as the scent implored her to do, no, she walked right into the heat of it, trying to find the source. At first it looked like a pile of weeds. But then the shapes became obvious, in the changing light of the candle, at first the feet were clear, and then the pant legs and wedding dress gown.
In front of her, a man and a woman, the man's arms around her waist, both staring up into the sky. Staring, but not looking. Not asking anything, just being one with everything. Although she did not know it, she screamed, and he Brother came over to see what she had seen. The night grew dark, darker than ever, and the two stood on the banks of the river, brought its delights and its fantasies vivid.
The River sees and carries the strangest things, but no greater delivery than that of the Wedding Couple. Forever in his arms, she would be. Forever, Zion, just you and me. The River whispered his last words to the Sister and Brother, and forever more they would remember them.
Just you and me, the River and its small fee, to carry the feelings of siblings, the river a grim King.
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Day 363
The two were set aside to be together for all eternity. Born within hours, the parents decided right then and there that they were destined to be. The two were named opposites, Zion and Nioz. Two halfs to a whole. This is how they were treated. When apart, all would comment that the child must feel alone, incomplete, and for a long time, Zion and Nioz believed what they were told. They clung to each other, under the night sky, just like the two constellations for which they were born. Gemini, smiling down at them wherever they went, arms and fingers one, blending.
So it went. Rarely were they separated, and at the age of 8 they told each that they loved each other, and were destined to be married at the young age of 14. The path was chosen, burned into the wood of their soul with wraught irons. There was no switching, no change. Gemini itself mandated this.
At the age of 13, Nioz, now a budding man, defied nature. While walking down the road, hand interlaced with Zion, for the first time felt his world stop. His stomache wraught itself into a knot, twisting and turning, like the gnarled branches of an oak tree. His heart fluttered and beat again the base of his neck, begging to be tossed out of his mouth like a shiny coin, to be admired. The object of his feelings was a small woman, mature in all senses. She was awkward, to you or me unattractive. This is no fairly tale, and neither Nioz or the object of his affection are the Prince and Princess. Despite this, he loved her. How Zion paled in comparison to this burst of star, intricately beatiful to his eyes. He noticed and filed her every imperfection: her large nose, small eyes, and S shaped ears, but like a flawed diamond, her being overwhelmed all of them in a torrent of connection. A river carried her to him, on its tongue was delivered to his eyes, and never more would he allow her to be carried away again.
But there was Zion. Always Zion, his half, his whole. How she paled in comparison. Zion knew. Of course she did, how can a half conceal from the other half the truth? She saw, but accepted. There was nothing she could do, but move on and pretend the River carried only silt. A year passed, Nioz slipping out of his house when he could, Zion awaking every time he closed the door, and she would stare up past the roof overhead to where Gemini sat, looking down horrified. A ring was made, by order of the parents. "To my dearest Zion. May you wear this ring around your finger always, just as my arms will always be around your waist." And hers, "To my dearest Nioz. May you wear this ring around your finger always, just as your arms will always be around my waist."
The wedding day came quickly, and Nioz knew what he would do. There was no fretting, there was no thought. He had decided the moment this diamond was washed to his eyes and overwhelmed him. Zion too knew what would happen, but did nothing to fight it. How can one fight against a tidal wave? What was to come, would come, and she would be alone. They stood together at the alter, all eyes on them. The time came to give the rings. They were carried in by a boy, on a pillow, blue and green, with tapestry flowing. Each picked up their ring, and they stared into their eyes. No words needed, the two halfs knew. Zion said nothing, Nioz said it all. With a turn, he left, and all was silent. No one moved for five minutes from their seats, as he walked out the door, and away.
After those five minutes, all was a mess. The fathers went for their weapons, the mothers for their tissues, torn from their place of rest in anger. The lady diamond was waiting for Nioz at the riverside, they were to board a boat and float down the river, away forever. Nioz reached the boat in time, but the men were faster runners, he was young. Just as Nioz grabbed the diamond and jumped into the vessel, they fired on him. Two shots were fired, and both went straight through the heart of both Nioz and the diamond. Shattered into a thousand glass shards, nature had its revenge. Destiny cannot be denied or defied, never. Both bullets entered the chest and left the back.
Nioz held the diamond in his arms, and in his last seconds reached to put the ring on the diamond, his true Zion. The ring never touched her white fingers, instead falling empty to the river below. The River carried its victims away, victorious. A lesson it had won, and to all it would bring this lesson. Nature reigns supreme.
And Zion, when she heard of what had occured, went in the silence of the night to the edge of the river.
"You carried my life away, my love, you brought me my downfall. Here, take one more thing from me."
Reaching back she threw the ring into the river. The ring sank to the bottom, refused to be carried. No one would ever hear her words, no echo went down the stream to unexpecting ears.
The night was silent, and the river carried this silence too. Zion and Nioz, both dead, Gemini left together to be held eternally in the sky.
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Day 364
Two men sat in a park, on a bench, with birds chirping over their heads. They are old, you can tell by their tired skin.
"I am alone. No one is like me, no one ever was, and never have I had a woman or man to equal me perfectly. There is no such thing is true love."
The second man looks up. "You are alone, yes you are, because you allow yourself to be. When was the last time you asked someone to be there?"
"You can hardly expect me to do so. You can hardly expect me to go and ask a random stranger to be my wife, my mate, my one and only."
"Yes, I can expect that. How can you complain about it if you've never tried."
"Look at yourself, you old man. When was the last time YOU asked someone to be your one, your only?"
"And look it me, yes, look at me. I don't complain about it, do I. I don't complain, not one bit."
"Not, you don't complain, not one bit. We are here on this bench, and I will yell at you about my problems, and you will tell me I got no right to say anything. We can't all be like you, silent saint."
"I am not a silent saint, I am not a saint at all. Just a man who knows what is what, and what isn't what."
"Oh pah, pah, pah. You are a saint, you sit there on that pedestel and tell me that I am not alone. Well sure, I'm not. You're sharing this bench with me. Would you please allow me to be right?"
"How could I allow you to be right?"
"For starters, you could leave. Then I would be alone at least for a 10 foot radius."
"And I suppose I should kill all the animals too. Yes, what a help that would be."
"In any case, I am alone, even as you sit next to me. Do you love me?"
Pausing for a moment, then, "Yes, I think I do. The way you complain is endearing, the snivling and the whining nice, on a breezy day like this. I love you."
"Haha.a..ha." Here the man pauses to caugh. "You do not love me, no you don't. You love yourself, that's all, that's it."
"Hardly, hardly. I love you, as much as I love myself. It's no wonder you sit here on this bench, proclaiming your loneliness. You tell everyone that loves you they don't."
"I don't know about that, but you don't. You can't."
"I do."
An awkward silence, then, "If ever there was a fool, then it's you. Why would you even pretend to love a curmedgen like me? Someone who says they are alone should at least be given the privelege of being right. Let me be alone, you old coot."
"I can't argue with that. But I will have the nice satisfaction of knowing that even as I get up and walk away, I'm there. Loving you. You."
"Wait, wait, wait. Before you go, can I know the name of the only man that ever loved me?"
"Oh sure. Fred. Fred Killington."
"That's my name, you cheat. You decieved me, all this time. I got you this time, haha, oh hooo, I got you. Thought you could get me. Well, get out. Go."
The single man got up from the bench, walked a few steps, looked at the sole sun in the sky, turned around and sat down.
"I'm alone, oh dear, I am. How can you be alone? I'm right here. Well, maybe with just us, we can be alone together."
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Day 0
The letter was black. It was addressed to the man, and appeared on the doorstep, unbidden. There was a return address: "The Glass Mirror within the Blue House." He had never heard of a blue house or a glass mirror. The letter eminated something, something that could not be told. It's edges were sharp little corners, teeth-like, waiting to bite. There was no name on the letter, but like glue it stuck to his soul, and he knew that it was his. Opening it, the page was also black, and though there was no words, he could read it.
"You are not me, but I am you. You do not love me, not like you used to. Rejecting me to closets and horror, I am not one to shut a door. This time is different. The soul that was once mine will no longer be lent. When you're ready, come to the Blue House, and greet me in the Mirror.
Goodnight."
Panic, the man thought that the meaning of the letter was his death. Whoever had sent it would come to claim him. He was afraid of his death. The words wouldn't even come out of his mouth. When people died, he pretended that they lived on, and when forced to confront he said that they were, "missing." Nothing was ever dead, it couldn't. Death was a black shade on the horizon, ever looming, but it could, would, not come to him.
He collapsed on the floor crying, the letter next to him. His tears fled from his eyes and landed on the paper, obscuring the nonexistant words. They ran away down his face, breaking the fences, the countours of his face, and flew down to their black home, horses, galloping with liquid fury.
He felt his heart beat slow, slow, as if he would die right then and there. He lay in a ball for a while, unable to move. The thought of death literally paralyzed him, from head to toe. A voice spoke to him, just when his heart began its swan song, ready to give up.
"You will go. Now."
He opened the door without touching it, took steps down the road to the Blue House with touching the ground, and stood before the Mirror without moving a muscle. He brought his eyes to stare dead into the Mirror, and there was a worn man, eyes red, shoulders drooping to the ground like the limbs of a weeping willow. He knew the man. It was himself. He had declared himself unable to live, unable to face die, and therefore must face it. As he closed his eyes, the Mirror cracked into tiny slices of himself, and threw themself at the man, cutting him up into replicas of themself. All that was left was the shards of himself, lying alone and broken, dead.
Death comes to all, death knocks once. The man, he killed himself.
Table of Contents
Day 1
Told by Innocence
In the beginning... no, way before that... when Light was deciding who should be in and who should be out of the spectrum, Yellow was in trouble. It seems that Green, you know how Green can be, didn't like Yellow and didn't want Yellow in--some sort of primal jealousy I suppose. In the end, the effect was bad on Yellow, which caused him to weep yellow tears for several eternal... before there were years. This was when Blue heard what was going on and took Green aside for a serious conversation. Blue told Green that if he and Yellow got together, not that they would--a gentle threat--but if they did, they could make their own green. "Oh!" said Green with sudden understanding, and with a sudden change of hue, Yellow was let in. So you see, it all worked out. And in the end, Yellow got lemons. And Green? Green got limes.
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Day 2
A crack of lightning, this is the introduction. A burst of light, and then a slight rustling of wind. Not all people enter in such a way. Some seem to rise from the floorboards like ghosts, some come in with a crackle or a pop. Others seem to blot themself all over the ceiling, and then drip themself into the mold of their body. But Kittteh came in with a crack of lightning, fierce and frolicking. The room was quiet, the tree parts that make up the cabin resting in the off time. This crack jolted the entire cabin into alertness, and the papers began to wave with surprise. Kitteh stood firmly on the ground. Looking around, he saw nothing of particular use. Unable to open a thick book with paws, he instead leapt up onto the desk, and began reading the scroll that was open and glowing, inviting his eyes to follow its script.
A few seconds of mildly interesting introductions, the ink well that sat firmly on the corner of the desk became far more interesting. With a mischevous paw, he knocked the well onto the ground, and it spread itself into a fat puddle, black, and without a reflection. Jumping down from the desk, Kitteh landed all four paws within the jet black ink, and promptly began to paint on the ground.
First, the story about to be dictated needed a hero. He was to be tall, strong. Kitteh took a paw and drew the contours of his body, paying close attention the thick hands. Next, scenery. With a flick, he drew trees and hills, and finally a cabin. As soon as the final touch was put on the cabin, another thunder clap shocked the room, this time from the ink itself. The man that Kitteh had drawn started to wiggle and squirm his ink, and moving his legs, walked over the drawn cabin. He opened the door and entered its inky lines.
A shadow passed over Kitteh, and quickly turning around, there was a jet black man, dripping ink onto the floor, standing in the doorway. He lacked eyes, instead two bulging blobs of ink rested in the sockets. For the mouth, there was a hallow air pocket that bubbled nonesense. The ink man reached a finger to the ground and began to draw on the scene that Kitteh had started. He first drew a cliff next to the Cabin, and then an ink woman outside the cabin. As the man had done before, the ink woman came into the inky room and stared around.
Outstreatching a hand, she took hold of the man and they became one, their ink blending together. The man reached around and melted into the woman's back, and her left overhand went and became one with his shoulder. The two began to waltz about the room, and their inky tip toes, leaving words as they traced around the room.
"Kaleidascope, intrimately, jestinabate, sidufe, punctare," and all sorts of fantastical words that had existed long ago but were eaten by books and swallowed whole.
Kitteh stood on the ground, following the figures with his eyes. Kitteh noticed a piece of paper lying harmlessly on the ground. Grabbing it with a claw, he brought it to the ink people. They ignored it, so Kitteh gently touched them with it. A large wind blew forth from the page, and the ink in the room began swirling and twitching, being drawn in. In a second, the pair and the images on the floor were all gone. Left on the page was a black spot, ugly and malformed.
Underneath was a quote, "What lasts but a moment cannot be touched. You created us, but for revenge we will create you." Kitteh looked sadly at it, then left it in a corner and began to trot away, following the instructions of the scroll. The black pawprints left on the floor remained for a few moments, and then melted into the ground, but in that split second that they existed, they seemed to get up, dance, and then fall down. Incomplete and incapable, his footprints lasting mere seconds before giving in to mundane.
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Day 3
My golden slippers are strange things indeed. I acquired them almost by accident. An adventuresome man, I sometimes head into the fields around the Archives and Marind Bell.
I love it when my torso disappears from view, and I become a floating genie in a sea of green. Walking as if I have no feet, I move softly through the grass fields, dodging rocks by feel rather than sight. As I was walking my torso through the fields one day, my bare feet became stuck in a small mire. They sunk in, but did not feel the cold squish of the mud. Rather, they felt something soft and fuzzy. No matter what the feeling that was sent to my torso, though, my feet remained stuck. I began to scramble and sturggle, pumping by legs like a runner, but to no avail. My feet were planted firmly in this fuzzy mud.
I did not give up though, next I tried to lie on my side underneath the grass and swim forward, my fingernails digging into the ground. This did not work either. Instead, my ankles were grasped along with my feet. Sighing, but not ready to give up, I began to call for help while at the same time moving one foot and then the other.
My voice was swallowed by the grasses, and they took me in like the sea. I looked down for the first time at my feet, and saw a bubbling black pit. Air bubbles occasionally came up, and let out their breath with a plop. Fully beaten, I began to listen to the exhales and let my mind wander. Soon what went "shhhh... exxxx...ahhhh" began to murmer coherently.
"Take our present, not with fits of fury, but with thank you," it whispered to me.
With the solution laid out before me, I said the two words quickly and without remorse, but I remained stuck.
The next bubble spoke again, "Mean it..."
Laughing at the morally inclined mud, I took a look around, gathered all the gratitude I could muster, and said the two words, thanking the mud for allowing my feet to rest. The goo disolved into nothing, and there on my feet were two golden slippers. To this day, they remain on my feet, allowing my feet to rest when my body does not.
Occasionally they become planted into the ground, and I am required to calm myself, and be reminded of why my feet move in the first place. Though they grow more tattered as the months go by, they need no replacement. They endure all and are a part of as a finger. I would never give my finger for another. The day I lose these slippers is the day I go barefoot.
Thank you, my feet crunch into the ground, as I walk down the path of life and dirt.
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Day 4
The stars were cold, the night that they made the snowmen as testaments to the living. Taking the frozen water, crushing it in their hands to make it hard, to make soft snow into ice, and then rolled it together. They carved faces out of nature, built arms out of trees, and eyes out of dark rocks, no pupils, no iris. Despite the coldness of the snowmen, they were meant to represent life. Like the shadow of a men, they were black and icey representations of vibrantly colored life. There was a snowman, and a snowoman, posed together, the Adam and Eve of the snow, and the verge of creating life in their snow garden. On the verge of creating existence, to bring in life where there was only ice. Growing closer toghether, the snowmen reached for each other. But nature had deemed them unworthy to represent in full the beauty of humanity. Instead, only a snapshot on the first moment. The snapshot flashed, and glowed, as their snowy limbs began to flow. The Sun erased the handiwork of the artists, the thing temporary. Back into the ground, to mate not with each other, but with the seeds and the animals.
Maybe this is an extended metaphor for us. The Sun beats us down hard too, melts us until we are an unrecognizible mush that goes back into the ground, to make love to the seeds buried deep and sound. The Snowman are life out of life. Where we will die, so will they, but in a moment we have created life. Bursting forth, a large sunflower rises from our chest, grows and glows, and then breaks off into dust in the ground, never to show again its glorious beauty.
The Snowman melt away, just as their masters do, and the clock of life ticks.
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Day 5
The Sun never changed. Before they came here, some people had wished for eternal "beautiful" weather. Some people had wished that they wanted nothing more than a comfortable temperature forever. No change, static weather. The stasis just about killed them.
The Sun sat like a fat man, plopping himself in the direct center, an offense to all beneath him. He watched the world meander slowly beneath him, and those who had wished for monotonous weather began to appreciate the need for change. Began to feel the need for strong rain clouds to grace the sky with the dark hues and lightning flashes. Realized that wind was an all essential part, while bringing in ominous feelings and dark horizons, also clearing out stagnant air with a freshness not available in unchanging weather.
The most sorely missed was the rain. Though they had Rivers applenty, and water was no need, the silencing damp downpour was what they craved. They wished to be able to open their mouthes and take in mother nature's milk, absorb it into themselves, and allow it to refresh their lives and abolish their problems. Wanted it to make dirt streaks down their skin, make a hundred lines of scroll on their body, telling stories of the new and the fresh. But instead, the dirt on their skin was baked by the sun, baked crusty and sorrowful, making them into mounds of themself, clay giants.
There was a woman who had above all asked adamantly for eternal sunshine. Her name was Lilac, and she thought there was nothing better than a balmy day; it wrapped her in a cloak of warmth and comfort. Nothing better than to feel midday's air embrace her, and squeeze her heart gently as a lover would. She quickly realized that her wish, when granted, was horror. She was a petite thing, whispy in all senses of the word, and hardly more than a voice. When speaking you looked around to find the source, because it was as if the very air had summoned its bravery and spoken to you. But there she stood, gracefully moving from side to side, absorbing the warmth around her. When she came here, there was no release. She stood in roads, absorbing the warmth that she assumed was vital for her needs. She had no feeling of "too much" or "enough" so there she stood, in the middle of pathes, waiting to be satisfied. Without Nature to tell her when to stop, that feeling of completion never came. She stood there, and hardly noticed when her blood began to boil beneath her very skin. "Ah what a fine day it is, I can feel my blood jumping happily in my veins," she told herself without opening her eyes. She crackled and popped like bacon on a skillet, and the scent of herself filled the air. "What a strange smell. It is rather nice, like food," she muttered to herself, and grew hungry for more. More and more, that was what she wanted, and what she wanted, she got. Her ears melted and slipped onto the floor, and soon she was little more than a puddle, smoking and bubbling, greasily fine. The Earth greedily drank her up, the ground licking its lips at its fine dinner, thanking the Sun for its kind gift. Lilac was no more, her faint scent all that remained.
A wish once thought special gone horridly awry.
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Day 6
The lady was a fan of birds. She said that they came to her in her time of need, fluttering their yellow wings around her, and picked at her with their beaks. They grabbed and fluttered at her with their claws, and she became a bird, flying away from whatever was troubling her in that moment. People would stare at her antics, internally a fluttering bird stuck in her ribcage while outside there was nothing unusual about her. It was all in her mind, these yellow frightful birds. They made lazy circles around her mind, hitting the red walls of her soul and leaving feathers stuck in her heart.
She wanted to fly, to be one with the birds she called her own. She wanted to soar among them, gazing at land that did not tether with stones, but a sky which released with whispy clouds. So she went to the edge of the nearest cliff she could find, and it looked into the Ocean. She stood there, the wind becoming a fluttering herd of birds, each grabbing at her, to stop her. But she spread her wings and jumped, at first falling but then soaring into the sky, triumphant. Keeping her eyes closed she felt the cool liquid wind on her skin, as she flew and wallowed up in the air, into the castles of the sky.
She flew, flew from her very skin, a golden bird flapping off into the distance, blue eyes cold as her dream.
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Day 7
The man had a hunger. It rumbled deep in his stomach, deep down, a lion slept inside of him and growled its anger to the walls of chest. He ate enough, though, and drank plenty. His stomach had food and drink aplenty, but it asked for more. Welling up inside him, shivers would go through his body, asking and pleading for forgiveness. Hunger for things to line up in a neat row, rather than the scattered and disorganized row of coins that rattled along with his stomach inside of his head. He knew exactly what it was his stomach wanted, but he was unable to give it to it. He knew precisely what it craved, the strange desire he had formed and nourished with bargains first, then acceptance, and finally joy.
It had started quite simple, with the destruction of a plant for its sake. The sun had shone hard, and its seed had shriveled up and died, its children limp and dead without the arms of the mother. He picked each dead child, and buried it into the ground, a small act of kindness. But then he turned to the plant. It was a mother, like his own. His mind began to run, and he placed himself in its shoes, imagining a piece of himself dying. His fingers began to crumble and fall into small grains before his eyes, flowing up to his arms. In moments what was left was a single eyeball staring forever forward.
No, he could not allow this plant to crumble in grief for its dead children. He grabbed it by its root and then removed it. A simple and quick process. He then gave it a water burial, placed it gently in the water to quench its thirst forever.
Started so simply, with sticks and seeds. These sticks and seeds got up before his eyeball in the night and danced a ritual, thanking him one moment it seemed, the next throwing him into the ocean, down he would drift. Down until his back rested loosely on the bottom of the Ocean, alone. His stomach growled painful and full, willing him on and on, until the man was gone, and left only was the lion roaring and shaking his mane.
Hunger, overthrown, and destroying all that was grown. When you feel the deep rumbles of unsettled longings and pleading emptiness, it is the lion calling his pride, calling you mine.
Pay no heed, for you are no other than thine.
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Day 8
Told by MWBrady
There was once a man in times of war he was 17 years old he was a farmer not yet to marry the land was his but his contry took it from him and forced him to fight for a cause he didn't believe in. Not long after he was forced to fight he escaped and took up arms against his captors with a few of his trusted friends that chose to run with him. After some time he had built a force watching his old contry fight and grow weaker until they were small enough to challenge in that time the man recruited men who hated the contry for their one tho similar reasons, until one nighd ther snuck in with only a few men and killed the enimy king not wanting to harm friends and others who had been forced to fight only to realise that it was the king's son after they had escapes back to theit small town tht they chose to hide in until they were strong enough to fight , and the king was furious that they had killed his son so he started attacking every town not knowing who had killed his son this made the man realise he had to challenge the king derectly so he marched on the king and attacked his army at small flanks and the man's army grew as people from the towns saw that he was openly fighting until the man over threw the king who had caused so much trouble. and the man lead without wanting the power and gave the people the chance to ellect a new king refusing when they chose him saying he just wanted to go back to him farm and after a while of him keeping peace they chose a new king and the man returned to his farm happily but unable to forget the conflict.
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Day 9
Note: this is the story of Beeterswit told in a short and clumsy way. It is a start, and only that.
She loved and lost, over and over, a vicious cycle. Each man was slightly askew, flawed in a minor way. But that flaw stared her in the face and refused to be ignored. It consumed the relationship, and at the end of the cycle she would sit the man down and tell him what is was he lacked. The first man she told this to, she said the following.
"You look me straight in the eyes, but you see yourself. I am a mere mirror for you to admire your magnificence, and as such you could have this relationship with a wall. I want someone to stare into my very eyes and see not pupils or irises but hearts and pulses, motives and actions."
To another she sat down, arrogant in all his ways, and said,
"There was a moment, one silent night, where I was on the verge of sleep, and you began to speak. I could not hear what you said, but your voice inflections colored my dreams. But what went from a silent and peaceful journey in the woods of the imagination quickly turned vile and horrific, with each of your words shattered bark around me, and crashing down upon everything. You are clumsy, your words meant for good but lacking all the proper motions of reliability. While I do not ask for a fortune teller who knows what the future will bring, insight is key."
To a final, who was more sad than anything, she responded thus
"When you walk down pathes, it is as if the very stones beneath your feet wish to insult and assault you. I will say a word or a sentence to you, and I can sense that you are decoded and rearranging. When you are done with my words, they are not gentle complements or off-hand remarks, but rather displeasure or digust.
It is impossible to live with someone who cannot see the truth in others."
There were many more like the ones I have described, many who did not live up to her standard of perfection. But there was one. A clever man, he saw her for what she was, and when she began to speak his flaws he held up a hand.
"Please, I will leave for a moment, but continue your conversation. I am going to the bathroom, but speak to yourself, as if I was you, and you were I."
And so she did. She described his flaws, and began to imagine what he would say. Then in an instant she realized that his flaws were nonexistant. As she spoke to herself, there was no difference between his flaws and hers. She hated each man not for them, but for her. And with this, her mind collapsed in a heap.
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Day 10
Beeterswit's father told her when she was small about the shells. They were walking along the beach one quiet afternoon, and he picked up a large conch shell and held it to her ear.
"Listen," he said, "that is the sound of the waves. You are listening to the heart beat of the ocean."
She held it close to her ear, and closed her eyes, and was immersed in the waves in soul.
"But there are other shells, special shells, that not only have the pulse of the Ocean, but too whisper secrets into your ears. They are the Ocean's messages in bottles, prized by many sailors. You can hear the mermaids dancing in their deep sea lagoons, and the fish frollicking among the coral. All shells hold beats, but only a few hold the heart."
She looked up at him with wonder, "Really?" she asked, and he smiled and kept on walking.
She spent the summer that year looking for the heart of the sea, picking up shells of all sizes and placing them next to her ear, waiting a second to hear the words she knew would come eventually. When all it held was a beat or two of the Ocean's thunderwous waves she picked up the shell and throw it back to the sea. Thousands of shells were thrown into the Ocean, sinking like stones to the bottom, rejected, to be washed up on the shore and investigated by another curious girl.
A particularly hot day she picked up a rather small shell, and closed both eyes and listened.
"What are you doing?" she heard through pinched shut eyes.
She dropped the conch from her ear, looked at it suspiciously, then resumed her position of concentration.
"Is there anything interesting in there?" the voice said again.
She realized the second time that it did not come from the conch, but rather from a small boy behind her, staring curiously at her. His brown eyes gazed and measured her movements. When she did not answer for a few beats, he reached down and picked up a shell lying near his foot and mimicked her movement.
"I hear nothing." he said disappointed. Beeterswit threw her shell into the Ocean and said, "and you never will."
That was the end of her search for the whispers of the deep sea, and the next day she went to her father and told him that he had lied to her. Weary from hours of working, he sighed and said, "Lies are as good as truths when believed. So what if I did?"
She never answered his question, instead returning to her room. He heard her whispering sobs through the ceiling, but lacked the will to climb the stairs and fix after he had fixed everything all day So she cried alone, as the waves crashed outside her room, amplified by the close walls of the room, sobbing in a man created shell, covering her like a crab from the wind and the assault of the waves.
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Day 11
Beeterswit grew, as humans often do. She grew and matured, her mind sharpening itself primarily by being tossed onto a paper and by observation. Some children sit and stare into space, watching plays and heros fall into their tragic demises, and other children are very much grounded in what is, and deal with what is in their hands and eyes. Beeterswit was of the second, focused on something, never simply gazing, and always with an intention in mind. So focused on tasks at hand that sometimes she forgot things of importance. Her Mother's birthday came in the spring, just as the flowers began to open and blow their scents to their air, strutting their vaporeal stuff in order to attract their mating bees, clad in dark brown and yellow suites. That day she was preoccupied, having discovered the river and the coolness of the water in contradiction to the heat of the sun. The two temperatures blended soothingly as she splashed and then retreated to the bank, in turns. She was alone in her play, needing no other friend but the ones provided for by the seeeds and water.
As night began to fall, she found her way back to her house. Her parents, though caring, had allowed her to wander at a young age. Well, perhaps not as caring as good parents should be, they lived in worlds made up of important materials that needed more watch than their little bundle of life. Their jobs required the mastery of a puppeteer to guide them through their near-fatal death, but their only child could tumble, gain scrapes, and heal, all within blinks. As she walked in the door, the mother was sitting at the chair, a birthday cake in front of her that she had made by herself. Beeterswit knew immediately what had occured, the hours of labor her mother had given to herself, because no one else could. No one else would crack eggs and beat them to a pulp, no one else could pour sugar and flour, and mix in care in the correct proportions. And Beeterswit knew that she had to make up for her mistake, and thus turned around and headed back outside.
The flowers were just closing their buds, and the bees retiring to their homes, tired from a day of making love to the world. The only present Beeterswit knew how to give, though, was the simple beauty of a ring of petals, a simple flower. With the Sun gone, she could not search with her eyes for her prize, and instead she began fingering each and every piece of grass, searching in vain for the soft touch of a flower. Each piece of grass she rubbed and turned away from, not the object of her desire.
Placing her feet blindly before her, she suddenly had an experience unexpected. While placing a foot down, expecting dirt and hard, she felt soft and then came a exclamation from the grass.
"Oooooff." the sound of wind letting out of a stomach and pain, melded into one long sigh.
Retrieving her foot, she gasped and put her hand to her mouth, not knowing how to respond or proceed. Does she ignore and run? Apologize perhaps? But long before the decision was required, the sack of air responded, "Eh... what? Why is it dark? OH! I must have fallen asleep again."
A boy popped up from the ground, and forgetting the cause of his distrubance in the first place ran directly into the Beeterswit.
"Oh, how did you get here?" he asked inquisitively.
"I... stepped on you." she replied in almost a whisper.
"Well, this is no time for a midnight walk. You should be home."
"I am looking for flowers, for my mother. I forgot it was her birthday." she explained with a tinge of guilt.
There was a short pause, then the boy started to laugh at her situation, "Hah!! That's a good one." After finishing his bout of exuberance, he sighed, and she sighed as well, feeling the pangs of laughter cut.
"Well, need help?" he finally asked.
"... no...." she started, but then had a sudden urge, and corrected herself, "yes. I am feeling all the grass for a bud, or perhaps a rose."
The two of them, little hands in the grass flicking and fluttering like butterflies searched into the night. When the rose was found, it was not remembered which pair of hands had made the discovery, instead they found it together, celebrated together, and were one in a field of reeds, flowing with the night Silence engulfed and ate the guilt of past wrongs, and the flower, though a small daisy and nothing impressive, was a miracle to the two children, a miracle worth it's weight in blood. Taking the flower cupped in both their hands, they walked slowly down the road, alone neither, but together one.
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Day 12
Beeterswit was alone, a few weeks after her mother's birthday celebration. Sitting at the table eating a silent breakfast of eggs, she began to think of what to do for the day, but decided that the day was to choose for her, with its allure and wisdom.
Then a knock came, at the door. Her mother and father had left for their jobs and occupations, so she went to the door and swung it open, only to see the boy of the night standing in the frame.
"Hello, Mrs. Flower-by-Moonlight. I am in need of a companion today, and I thought that you would like to join me, and I would like to return the favor of an adventure."
She stared blankly at him, never having been asked to do anything by a young boy before. "Okay, but what is your name?"
"... names make it impossible to be somebody else." Names to him pinned down the soul, unable to fly itself in the air like a kite on a warm day.
"Okay, but you are nobody without a name, and I cannot go around with invisible men," she countered.
"Then pick one for me. I don't mind. If you think they are that important."
Beeterswit looked around the room, and saw a fly hovering just beyond his head. Most flies buzz, twist and turn midair drawing squares and pentagons in the air, but this one vibrated back and forth.
"Tremmor."
The two of them went off under the hot sun of the day, vibrant with its rays, colored in with the grand crayon of the sky. He took her to the beach, and they walked along the sand, letting it sink up into their feet and then fall out with each step. They got to where the sand meets the cliff, and he dove into the water and started to swim. Not scared of the waves, she dove in after him. They swam around the cliff, and into a dark hole at the base of the cliff. Inside they went, tossed in by the waves, propelled forward like sea foam.
They washed up on a beach, made of dark sand, with a light shining down from a hole in the ceiling. On the ground were massive shells, the size of their fists, and he took one in his hand and put it to his ear. "My Father once said that mermaids use these to communicate. They whisper pleas of help and histories of days gone by. Here," and he passed her the shell he was holding.
As she put it to her ear at first she heard only the beat and the waves, crashing and rolling in rhythem.
"I don't hear anything. You're lying, I know better than childish stories." she scolded him.
"No, I assure you. You are not listening to the right thing," he responded and picked up a shell and started to listen. She put the shell to her head again, and stood still. The wind whipped around the hole in the roof and started to whisper. The shell spoke to her, told her secrets, and she smiled to the boy.
"Tremmor, it told me to swim back."
She dove into the ocean, and swam out, the current pushing wherever she swam, falling the graceful rise and fall of her limbs, one synchronized movement of nature and woman. The boy listened to the shell for a few moments extra, then placing it in the shallows, followed her out.
The shell was soon washed away, falling back into the ocean to the maidens belowing, giving their hollow and long cry.
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Day 13
They began to talk and adventure more often. A few times a week the knock would come at the door, beckoning through the wood her flesh. Each morning she would open it, and pretend as if she needed to be convinced each time.
"Oh, what are you doing here?" she asked him with lazy eyes.
"Today we are going to adventure into the orchards."
And she would look him up, then down, turn around and look into the room, then say, "Well. I have nothing else to do."
And the two of them would walk, side by side, Beeterswit offering conventions and Tremmor breaking them apart.
"So, are you parents around?" she would ask.
"Parents? The Sun is my Father, the water my Mother." he would respond.
He was squiggley as a fish, squirming and twisting as she tried to quantify him.
"Well, then how were you born?" she questioned again.
"How? I wasn't there." he looked at her suspiciously.
"What? Of course you were there. And poeple told you I'm sure." she looked surprised.
"No, I'm quite sure I wasn't there." he responded.
"But how?"
"I don't remember it, do I? It must not exist. Stop asking questions." and he laughed and jogged a bit ahead over a hill.
He took her to an orchard, a multitude of white and green trees, full with their fruit and hung gracefully by the branches. As she walked silent now, after the chastizing of her companion, he smiled at her again and said, "This is what we came for."
She looked around, and saw only trees. "For what?"
Reaching a hand up, he took a white fruit in his hand, and without even pulling removed it from the tree.
"It is the day for the great fall. You must have heard? Do you not live? Do you not breathe? The wind talks about it, the trees look forward to it. The day they unleash themselves."
He broke up the white fruit and handed her a handful of seeds. Biting into them,
"They taste like honey. It must be the bees giving them their flavor."
"No, not at all. It is the flavor of the sun. Yes, the Sun is a giant ripe fruit, planted in the sky by an exceptional thrower, who took it upon himself to throw up seeds."
"But what of the bees?"
"Well, the bees suck the fruit from these fruits and feed it to their young, distilling it into honey. This is what I know."
She gave him a skeptical glance, but beyond her doubt she had nothing to go by what was true.
"But I have yet to see the drop," she said finally, after chewing on the Sun.
Nodding, he lifted one of his feet into the air and posed there, a soldier in the ready stance. He put his arms up, looked up, and then just as his foot began to quiver in muscual exertion, he released. He stomped his foot, and firmly planted it into the soft soil. A small vibration went through the soil, trembling the branches ever so slightly. It was is if they had all become frigthened of this little boy who told stories bigger than the world. Then there was a small noise, blending of crack and smoosh, and the white fruit began raining from all the trees. Each little white ball drifted down, and bounced when touching the earth, not hurt or splattered.
It was raining big globs and globes, all around, making piles of white fruit. Beeterswit gasped, and then was silent. It was snowing in the middle of the summer, a blanket of pale colors, reflecting the light like diamonds as they fell down.
"This is why you're here."
"The fruits fall, a metaphor. The trees have released their tears of sorrow, and send their children to us to consume and grow strong. It is life, and death." he told her quietly.
They stood there, the two of them. Nothing mattered, not the sign that they had passed and ignored that said, "Do not take fruit. Trespassers will not be forgiven." The fruit, the sight, and the moment all belonged to them, shared equally somehow between life, death, and nature. No man could say no, not now, not ever. This was their world, and together they owned it, King and Queen.
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Day 14
All of a sudden, the visits stopped. The knocking on the door, the beckoning pecks that came on the wood in the morning, the start to glorious days, they were at an end. Beeterswit ignored it, and found herself entertaining alone once again, but the feeling of loss nagged and took her throat by its spindly fingers and throttled her. She could not help but think of him when seeing the Sun in the sky, or the water beneath her feet. The grasses muttered his name, the birds sung his praises. She set off to the village early in the morning, to find out where he had gone.
She knocked on doors, asking if anybody knew of Tremmor, then realizing no one knew his name but her, asked for a small boy with green eyes the color of new wheat. No one knew where he was, no one had heard of a boy, not even seen him. It was if he had dove off the cliffs at the edge of the village into the water, a shell thrown away from not shining the correct pattern or singing the correct hynm.
Her journey fruitless the first day, she tried the next, and this time changing her tactic. No longer asking if anybody had seen a boy, she asked those what the news was. They told her of Madam Jes, who was having an affair, of men and women, their sins, and stories. But in all these stories there were a few gems. The first came in the afternoon.
She was standing on the porch of a particularly plump woman's house, and asked her what she had heard as of late.
"Oh sweet dear, I was doing the laundry down by the river. I heard that there was a boy caught for doing something naught. I didn't quite catch the story, but I believe he stole something. Was he a friend of yours?" she asked.
Without responding, Beeterswit left the porch, a new mission at hand.
So went to the local enforcement station. There she only a few feet tall was dwarfed by the great desk and uniform of the man sitting before her. Not even this could stop her, his weapon firmly at his side, and his eyes cutting steel.
"Excuse me, do you have a young boy here?" she asked quietly.
Looking down at her, he said, "Why?"
"Because my cousin ran away from home, you see, and he disappeared a few days ago, and I've been looking everywhere."
Looking at her for a moment, he decided that innocence does not lie and said, "Yes, as a matter of fact we do. We've tried to send him back to his parents, but it seems he has none. Do you know them?"
"Yes, of course. Can I talk to him quickly? I would like to see him."
He nodded, satisfied that he would soon find the address and be rid of his problem, and allowed the girl to go into a small room in the back, empty except for a bed.
"Hello Tremmor."
"Hello friend," he responded, as he never remembered names.
"What did you do?" she asked quickly, to hide her happiness.
"I was walking down the street, and I saw a lovely looking pair of pants lying out in a stall. I said to myself, what a lovely gift from the world! They were just my size, and so I picked them up, put them on, and then walked away with them. As I was walking down the street, I did the same elsewhere, taking a few pieces of fruit, a shirt, a new glass cup, and other such commodities. I picked the wares of these trees shaped like boxes. But then people started yelling at me things I didn't understand, and big men came and picked me up and carried me here."
He looked around the room sadly, his eyes searching for the woods he understood and only finding white walls, creating from nature, but in truth a massacre of all that is beautiful.
"Tremmor, that is stealing." and she sighed deep and long. Looking back at the enforcement man, she said, "I'll take him home, and send him back home, I promise."
He stood for a moment, weighing his options. His boss would prefer waiting for a parent, but this little boy had been bothering him for days, teasing him with words, and inssulting his room.
"Yes, yes, fine." and the two walked off together.
Without words, for they couldn't reach out into the air and pull them down as they once had, a brick wall of experience between them, they fumbled with their feet instead. At the door to her house, he stopped and did not follow her when she opened it.
"This place doesn't want me. I know it doesn't. I will go someplace that does." and he began to turn around.
Bittersweet jumped and reached out a hand to stop him, "But, I want you. You can be happy, we can have days like we did." and began to jog after him, as he took the fields rather than the road. She ran for a few seconds, then stopped, seeing her words having no effect on his ears.
This shell had thrown itself, far and far away, and as the Ocean of grain flowed from side to side she watched her mermaid's whisper sound. Like a piece of sea foam twirling in the mire, he went, and was gone forever.
Table of Contents
Day 18
The days became long, the sun overhead stretching thin among the trees and extending them like rubber. Shadows flowed rather than flopped, pancakes on the ground baked by their skin and tacked to the ground left to dry. This was the summer Beeterswit found herself in, three years from when Tremmor left to pursue himself in nature.
Beeterswit was alone, as usual. She took to walking to the edge of cliffs, allowing the wind to blow her skirts and watching the fabric flapping in the daytime wind became a pleasure. As they twisted and flung about erratically she imagined flocks of birds coming to her and taking her away, and then held her skirts as they flew with her out over the Ocean, friends finally. But the birds stayed away, calling loud and high on the edge of the surf, tantalizing her by flying towards her then wheeling away in disgust.
But she found a friend, as all people alone do. Her name was Sweet, for various reasons. It was more of a nickname than anything, given for her mannerisms. She had dimples like gumdrops on either side of her mouth and hair that was thin and fragile. Her body was elegant, but she was reckless with it, thrashing it in the fields and punishing her feet by walking barefoot through all conditions.
Beeterswit met her in the small interest shop that sweet worked in. Beeterswit, having nothing to do, walked into the dark shop with odds and ends taken from every corner and cranny of the earth. She walked through, picking up small objects, giving them a twist or a turn, then placing them back on their shelf where they belonged, inspected and rejected. Then a small globe of glass caught her eye. It was round in shape, on a shelf like all the others, and the metal pieces surrounding it reflected odd light into it, creating patterns inside of it.
Beeterswit grabbed with her fingers, picking up the gentle globe and holding it between her palms. Handled without caution, she began to move it from one hand to the other, enjoying the weight against her skin, and the smootheness that did not exist in her world, rough were all her surfaces.
A small mouse poked its head out from a hole, saw a piece of food lying in the middle of the floor, and darted out. The varment touched her foot gently, its claws digging into her flesh, and the globe was fumbled and dropped. It flew down slowly from the air, only ever so slightly heavier then air, then touched the ground, gave it a final kiss goodnight, and exploded into pieces, displaying its pattern in parts. The glass spread forth like an Ocean, covering the ground and giving a small crunch and crumble as it devolved.
The noise reached the ears of Sweet, who sat with a picture book in her hands at the desk. The pictures in the book were primarily of the opposite gender, exploring various aspects of life without their shirts. Dropping the book down slowly, Sweet looked out into the shop, and spotted Beeterswit standing hands frozen like ice.
"You'll pay for that." Sweet said with more annoyance at being interrupted than anything else.
Beeterswit was woken from her moment of tranquility and responded, "But... I have no money."
Sweet looked angry, but then said, "Then you'll just have to work it off."
"But... when?"
"Tomorrow. You have to work for a week. That was a valuable piece of glass." Sweet said the last sentence without conviction.
Unhappy, but lacking options, Beeterswit said only, "Fine." and then proceeded to the door, only to leave the mess for Sweet who had trapped her into this slight prison. Sweet called out after her, but Beeterswit pretended not to hear, proceeding back to the cliffs, to watch the birds play and call her away, to the Ocean. She flew to an island that day, as the Sun a giant bird's egg led the way as it buried itself in the Ocean. A mother Bird sat on it, her eyes closed, gently wishing her child good. The Birds flew in Beeterswit's dreams that night, and they laid eggs like hard rocks in her mind, awakening something.
What was it? Like the shattered globe, something inside her fell of its shelf, weighty and filled with dancing lights, falling and cracking inside her, an egg onto the frying pan.
Table of Contents
Day 19
Beeterswit began working in Sweet's shop the next day, walking early in the morning, after Beeterswit's parents had left their house. The parents rose and left before the Sun even considered rising to do his duty, before the birds did theirs, before the river woke up and began gurgling, afraid that somebody would catch it's sloth. Beeterswit walked into the store, and the shattered shards were still strewn across the floor, winking at her from their place, never cleaned up by Sweet. Sweet, today reading a book that at first glance looked scholarly but truly was deception, glanced up from her book, and motion at the broom in the corner.
Sweet ignored Beeterswit for the better part of the day, tending the desk, though nobody entered the shop except for a begger looking for a few moments away from the arrows of the Sun's work.Beeterswit swept up the glass, taking the shards outside when Sweet seemed to not be paying attention. Once outside she quickly stuck her hand into the ground, and began to sift through the dirt to make a small hole, the size of a fist. She then set the shards of her mistake in the hole, half of her still expecting to see a glass tree grow, but the woman that now knocked on her legs knowing better and eradicated the childish romance.
Sweet seemed to hate Beeterswit. She sharpened her eyes on Beeterswit, throwing glance after glance her way, and turned the same page three times. Sweet had no reason to hate Beeterswit, but the girlish smirk that crossed her face when the power was realized with each look was enough to fuel her behavior. Sweet left in the early afternoon, convinced that she could not take another day, full to the brim with Sweet's poison. But she returned, the next day, as promised. She had little else to do, but when she got up her legs seemed to be in cohorts with Sweet, and would not allow her to go wade in the sympathetic river. She found herself after a moment's reverie standing in the shop once again, Sweet seemingly in the precise spot, the only thing changed her book. Beeterswit checked and counted each object again, just as Sweet asked, and intoned each syllable of the numbers pointlessly, losing counts many times, but not caring because it was pointless anyways.
On the third day Sweet said something. She looked up, and called Beeterswit over. Sliding her new book over, she pointed at a man and said, "What do you think of him?"
Her eyes expectantly watched Beeterswit, as she explored the curves of the man. He looked as if he was unsure if his body was his. His arms were at angles uncommon for a man accostomed to motion or work, his legs too thick for practicality. His eyes shone dull through the page, little pin points that tried to have girls drop into them.
Beeterswit slid it back, and said, "He is good looking. Do you know him?"
Sweet laughed and let Beeterswit alone for the day.
Day Four was much of the same counting, recounting, and slowing rolling dust into balls by moving the merchandise left and right. Sweet showed Beeterswit more pictures, all of them unoriginal. Beeterswit was almost sure it was the same person multiple times, but when she suggested that, Sweet picked up the book indignantly. Then just as Sweet was about to let Beeterswit leave, Beeterswit turned around and caught her staring at her in a peculiar way. Resuming moving the objects with renewed intent, she pretended that it went unnoticed.
Then Sweet called out, "Girl, have you ever been to a party?"
Beeterswit stopped mid-swap, and said, "No. I haven't."
Smiling nicely, Sweet said, "Oh, that's grand. Well, me and a few friends are having one tomorrow. I was just wondering, it would be great if you would join us. Oh so great."
Beeterswit thought of moving out the door and never seeing this girl again, but then Sweet said, "I'll let you have two days off your price."
And with that, Beeterswit said "...Okay. I'll go." Sweet squeeled with joy, and told her to meet her the next day, in her best attire.
Beeterswit lay in her bed, nighttime coming and closing her eyelids as fast as exhaustion came in dancing gently with long gowns. How bad could it be? Sweet seemed sincere. Maybe I've found a friend. The glove-glad women creaked around her brain on a dancefloor of stars. They shook and fluttered like trees in the wind, their strong partners flicking and together they flew.
She would find a man, a man like Sweet admired. But his eyes would not be pinpoints, they would be stars. And together they would twirl her skirts into a small ring around her ankles, floating away. Sleep took Beeterswit quickly away, and ended her thoughts of the elegant.
Table of Contents
Day 21
Beeterswit prepared herself for the night ahead of her. She dressed in a purple gown, bare by most measures, but she looked alive in its ruffled edges and straight angles. Like a puddle brimming with reflecting light, she stood in her house looking at her reflection in the glass windows. She was pretty, prettier than ever before. Though her figure slim, she smiled when she saw the gently cut angle of her face, or the sideways glance of her eyes. Her hair flipped down, past the shoulder blades, and sat, combed straight in the middle of her back.
She went in the night, just when the Sun had left the story of the day behind, and allowed the Moon to observe the rest. She walked in quiet, hearing only the crunch of her shoe against the ground, slightly resilient yet tense. Sweet had told her to come to the shop at first, but then later suggested she go straight to the house. She had given her directions. The night air was cool, the stars equally cold and vacant, but Beeterswit walked with vitality and pride. This was her first social event, and for once she was happy to be included in something. She walked between rows of grass. The lane which she was directed to by Sweet was hard and cold in the night. There were no lights, and no voices. She listened, but could not hear anything. Continuing on, she saw a black lump in front of her, and it looked like a house.
There were no lights on, but undiscouraged she approached, and walked up to the house. She walked up, and the house became clear. It was a little run-down, and squat against the ground. The front door was closed, and though it was gently dilapidated, nothing to imply that nobody lived there. She stood standing alone on the road, deciding between trusting Sweet and trusting herself, and leaving. But then she moved forward, and walked up to the front door. It was black in the night, likely some strange red color by day. The windows were closed. She knocked on the door, but without an answer, had to make another choice. Standing there quiet and alone, staring at the patch of door in front of her eyes, her ears stopped working, her mind relinquishing that task in order to think more clearly.
Had she been listening, she might have heard little breathing, small giggles, or perhaps footsteps coming from inside and around. But she did not, and instead took the doorknob in her hand, turned, and pushed. The second she gently pushed the door tore itself open, as if a ghost had ripped it to shreds. Then standing in the doorway materialized a man, head down, moaning something awful. He groaned, and spluttered, as if there were no life left in him, and Beeterswit in her little purple dress lost all her strength, her blood sucked out of her by this vacant man.
Her pool of self dried up, and her eyes widened, frozen. Then from the right more moaning, more pleading for escape. Then left, behind her, all around her, beings popped out of the ground and peeled themself from the trees, seemed to drop from the very sky. She covered her head and lowered herself down, as they came slowly torwards her, promising to beat her, and kill her. They grabbed her hair, and touched her legs, and she kicked wildly at the legs. As she spun her limbs out of control, she made contact and heard a very human "oomf." Looking up, for anything but a dead man, she hoped it was all a dream.
And there standing in front of her was the face of Sweet, recognized dimly at first, but then it lit up in a fire of glory. But Sweet was not happy. She was holding her stomache, where Beeterswit had kicked her. She snarled, then took one hand and slashed at Beeterswit, tearing skin off of her arm.
Beeterswit cried in pain, and faintly heard Sweet say, "How dare you hurt me! You little child." The men and other women had stopped moving and groaning, staring at the scene unfolding. Beeterswit held her bleeding arm, Sweet held her sore stomache. The two looked at each other, Beeterswit unable to form words. Then seeing everybody frozen around her, she knew the course of action needed. She got up, and scampered into the ni
ght, back to her house, taking off the blood-stained dress and throwing it on the ground, her little elegant gown tramped in the mud. She ran back hurt, and frightful, but her pale white body in the silence of the night was wild and beautiful, in a way Sweet's grimacing face, framed by her white torn gown could never be. Beeterswit's parents never asked about the purple dress or the night. She snuck in threw the window, and crawled into bed, allowing events to replay with mutiplied madness.
Sweet later saw Beeterswit on the street, a few days later, and said, "You never finished your duty to my parent's shop."
Beeterswit only had to pull up her sleeve, and show a long scratch mark, now scabbed over but still oozing and raw.
"Yes, I did."
Table of Contents
Day 22
Beeterswit left her purple dress, torn and wet on the floor of room as she went to bed. By the next morning it had crept up and walked away, and she did not notice its absence in the morning. Her parents were waiting at the table for her when she went downstairs. They said that they wished to talk to her, and they appeared to mean it. Her father did not speak, but her mother reached out and began explaining to Beeterswit what she wanted.
"We've decided that you need something to occupy your time. My, you're getting older by the day, and yet you don't have a job or anything proper to do during the day."
Beeterswit looked away from her mother's calm face to her father's impassive one. She knew they had fought, and because her mother now spoke, she was the one that had won.
"I don't think there's anything wrong with what I do." Beeterswit told her mother.
"Ah, there is nothing valuable you can learn from the fields and from the rivers. We think you should go into town and be educated there, or perhaps work in the library."
Beeterswit looked at her mother and said, "What could they teach me that I don't already know?"
"To read, and once you can read, you can learn anything you want to. It's a valuable skill."
"But I know everything I want to."
Pausing for a moment, her mother said, "You think you do, but it's only because you're ignorant."
Beeterswit argued for a few more moments, but it was going no where. There was no way for her to change her mother's mind, and occasionally glanced at her dad looking for support but recieved nothing. And so it was set. Beeterswit would go to the Library to work, because she imagined that would allow her more freedom than a personal teacher.
The next day she walked back into town, as she had for Sweet and the store. But when she met the old lady who ran the library, she knew that she would not be bothered. Small eyes, but not unkind. They did not move or flicker, but sat, two balls in her face, existing and living. Her hair wound itself, a limp and dead worm on her head.
"Hello dear. Your job is simple. Walk around and make sure all the books are in order. Goodbye."
With this, Mrs. Jine returned to her back room. Beeterswit did not follow her, and she did not discover what Mrs. Jine did in there until much later. And so because the books were in order just as they pleased to be, Beeterswit began instead to try to figure out the letters in the books. At first she only looked at the pictures of people and places. She imagined herself with them, thinking up conversations to fill the cold silence of the library. They stepped out of the book and sat next to her, showing her which way to walk, and which way to stop. But she could not decipher the black scribbles, they meant nothing. So each day she would go in, hear Mrs. Jine in the other room, and set about exploring her world. There were swordfights, old men who died with pops rather than whispers, and birds that yelled "Oh no" as they flew over the world. But she could not decipher the black scribbles, they meant nothing.
Table of Contents
Day 24
Beeterswit came into library, as she had for a week now. Beeterswit looked left, then right, yet did not see anybody in the library. Mrs. Jine's door was tightly closed, impenetrable in both mental and physical ways. Beeterswit, to entertain herself, had developed the habit of postulating what exactly Mrs. Jine did behind it. Ideas that came to her mind ranged from the strangely humorous, such as growing the world's smallest rose, to the dark and grotesque, such as massacring those who failed to return books. One day Mrs. Jine was a adventurer with a cave in her office, of which there were gems and monsters in equal quantities, braving and besting each with well learned skills from years in the stacks. One day Mrs. Jine sat benign behind the desk, tearing out pages of books, and replacing them with her own ideas and writing. This was one of her favorite ideas, and the ony thing Mrs. Jine never did in Beeterswit's mind was her job.
And so Beeterswit spent the greater portion of her day staring at a page and imagining up what books said. Then a voice, from behind her, manly and removed from all bodies, as if the books themselves had opened up and released a character for her to interact with.
"You know, you are holding the book upside down. Unless you can, of course, read upside down. In which case, continue on, good madam."
She turned around and the voice chose its body. He was middle-aged, and had the appearance of a scholarly figure. His voice didn't match his body. Though his appearance seemed to fuzz at the edges, thanks to the worn suit, his voice sliced through the pages of Beeterswit's mind, a clean tear.
She turned the book upside down, and said, "This way the picture isn't that interesting. Everything is as it should be."
Then flipping the book around again, she said, "But this way, everything is defying the sky. And that is so much better."
Chuckling to himself, the man said, "But then you don't read the words at all?"
She shook her head, "No, I can't."
Genuinely surprised, he said, "What? Your parents let you work here without knowledge of words and how they are to be translated from page to tongue?"
As she shook her head, the man sat down immediately. He took a pencil from his chest pocket, and a crumped piece of paper with more figures on it that she couldn't read. Flipping over his used notes, he began to scribble down, writing fast. She watched over his shoulder, as he created before her very eyes a world of print. Then, finished with his act of creation, he pointed to the first.
"This is a. As in... apple, apricot, ants, areas, art, amen."
"As in... at?" She asked, to which he nodded furiously and proceeded to the next.
"B, as in beautiful beatrice braided beards of bulls."
"Wait, one didn't fit. Of?"
He laughed, "My mistake, I apologize. That is this one," and pointed to the middle of the list, at o.
She said, "Oh? That sounds like A. Why do they not look similar?"
He scratched his head, and could only say, "Because... they are not. One day a man sat down and drew these on his wall, inspired by the way a tree grew, or maybe an oddly shaped rock."
"But that seems so.. random."
"Does the tree have a reason to grow left or right? The swallow to fly choose that tree? The eggs to determine their speckles?"
She paused, and wanted to say no, but couldn't.
"In any case, this one is C. Cat, core, cable, cathartic, can't. Though, I am ashamed I even include that last word. Can't is a word never to be used. In all purposes, it shouldn't exist."
"What do you mean?"
"Can't means you don't have the ability or the strength to do something. There are only limits when one climbs into a box. No, rather, one will not do something."
She smiled and pointed, "And this one?"
"T. Time, for instance."
"Time flies" Beeterswit responded. And so it did, the Time and the letters flew back and forth, as she learned the different ones, each with different sounds. The Sun spun with all their phrases and nouns, syllables and silent vowels. And before they knew it, the sun had fainted from exhaustion and Mrs. Jine stood looking down at the pair.
"The Library closes now." She turned around, expecting to the two to leave. They did so, but slowly, all the while talking of D's and B's, how Ba is what a sheep says, while the reverse, Ab, is a muscle. Once at the door, the man bowed and said, "I go this way. If you work in the library, I'm sure I will see a good deal of you. It is my favorite place of residence."
Once Beeterswit had said goodnight, he trotted off, and she walked off to home. In her head the phrases split down the middle and tried to write themselves on paper she constructed. She tried to sound them all out, writing letters in the dirt with her feet with every step. And so she spelled her way home, back to the house, which she now knew began with the symbol with two downword slashes and one crossing both. H. Even though she did not know his name, he spelled in her head his character, naming them off in succession, until she gave up to the S word, sleep.
Table of Contents
Day 25
The next day she proceeded directly to the library, and ignoring even the slightest murmer or suggestion from Mrs. Jine, proceeded to the most prominent table. She could see anyone in the library, and perhaps more importantly, anyone in the library could see her. He came later in the day than she had hoped, waling through the door, and seemed to be surprised by the room, as if the scent of learning had been forgotten overnight. He noticed her, as anybody entering the library would, and walked over to her casually, with the pieces of paper under his arm slightly askew but held together by the pressure his arm imposed. Sitting down across from her, he said, "What letter does Beeterswit start with?"
"How do you know my name? I never told you." she said with surprise.
"If you answer the question correctly, I'll tell you."
She answered quickly, "D, now where did you learn my name?"
He shook his head sadly, "No, it starts with a B. Your name is not Deeterswit."
She clenched her fists, "I don't care, tell me how you learned my name anyways."
He smiled and said, "Turn around."
"No, tell me where you learned my name. Now."
He reached out an arm to the back of her neck and pointed.
"It's sown in to back of your shirt." He said before she had a chance to bat his arm away.
"Oh" she said sheepishly, after a pause. She reached around behind her and felt the stitches, trying to feel her name out for the first time. She had noticed odd stitching back there before.
"That says Beeterswit?" He nodded quickly. "I think that should be the first thing you learn how to spell. Everything rests in a name. It is who you are, a point that you can draw up from thin air to construct yourself when the recognition gaps between people lay long, fallow, and dry. It is something to whisper in your lovers ear as you drift quietly to sleep, something to pray to God, something to remind yourself who and where you are. All these things, in a few letters. You see their power, no? This room is one of the most powerful in the town. Imagine the names..." and his voice trailed off as he fell off into the pool of thoughts, deep and clear in his mind.
Beeterswit, while he was imagining, took a pencil and drew out the first consonent, the one she had gotten wrong. "There, that is B." Surfacing from his pool, he nodded and then taking his pencil, drew out the rest of her name.
"Copy that." he said.
She lowered her head, and her hand, and began to press firmly into the paper, trying to mimic the swishes he had made a minute before. While she wrote she forgot to remember where in space he was, and the man got up and started walking away, leaving his object behind. When she had copied it at least 5 times, she still could not get the one in the middle, the wee. They looked like clumsy giants trying to fit into the margins of her paper, laughing at her failure. She gave up, placing the pencil down, and looking around for him. He was not in sight, so she called out to herself more so than to him, "If names give something to hold on to, what is yours?"
From somewhere in the shelves he said, "Gorre. How is that spelled?"
"G..." she stared, and finished a moment later with, "Or."
He laughed, and said, "G - O - R - R - E."
With each letter his voice grew more near, until he stood in front of her, with a book in hand.
"This book is one of the most important. It lists off the names of many people, their connections, and most importantly their stories. Stories are the color to the drawings which are offered by a name." He said slowly. "One day you will read htis, and because of it you will expand your horizons ten fold, and the Sun will feel like a ball to toy with in your hands, the moon a night light."
She smiled, and pointed to her name. "Good, keep practicing. But now, I have somewhere to be, and I am almost positive that I am late. These things happen, times falls apart and crumbles like a wall." He left the book, and as she said, "Goodbye Gorre." but was unsure whether he heard her or not as he gathered his objects and removed himself and them from the room.
She spent the remainder of the day writing her name, over and over, and when she ran out of paper, she began to go over the lines that he had made. She sighed deeply after an infinitum of repitions and lifted up the page. In the wood of the table, there was her name. "Beeterswit." It rested in the wood, planted there, firm and unmoving. She did not have words to describe the way she felt. There in the wood, the wood that comes from the trees, the trees that last a lifetime and stand taller than mothers or fathers, was her name. Some man or some woman, far into the future will look down from their important note taking and they will see her name, they will sound it out like she had. They will whisper it to themselves, "Beeterswit," and in a flurry of images and thoughts she will stand before them, and she will tell her story. She will tell her story, the calling card Beeterswit whispered and echoing in caverns far inside.
Beeterswit.
Table of Contents
Day 32
Gorre and Beeterswit continued to meet, most every day. After she had mastered the basic parts of words and letters, and could write words for the most part, he began to write her a block of words every day. He would give it to her at the beginning of the day, just as he came into the room, and she would sit down diligenty and work with the words that he had provided. Most often they were silly little stories, nothing deep or impressing. There was the tale of Maggie, and how she ran up a hill and over, to find a sheep. Then Kan, who danced in the moonlight. Though she learned nothing besides how to sound out words from them, she began to spread out her reading. She finished his tales progressively faster, and then moved on to the easier books in the library. At the end of the day, he would see her again, and they would talk. That was the best part of the day, because unlike the set-in-stone words he gave her, these conersations flexed and bounced. She would start it off with a question, and from there their conversation would unfold.
Months passed this way, nights, days, and weeks She asked him a good day, "What do you think of love?"
He twitched his eyes at her from across the table and said, "What kind of love?"
She sensed that there was some tension in the conversation and so said, "Oh, I didn't mean to... it's only that I don't know anything about you outside of the walls of this library. You come here in green suits, without fail, yet besides that you do not like to comb your hair, often your books are of the subject of the the mind, and you take fastidious notes on all surfaces, I know nothing about you. What are you hiding?"
He responded, "Nothing, I am hiding nothing. Where would you like me to start? I will paint you a picture of these lines and shapes once they walk out that door over there." He pointed at the library door.
"Start with... your family."
"I was born from a mother, and raised by a father. Neither of them have names anymore, the earth swallowed them. An earthquake, a natural burial. They were reclaimed. I lived with other men and women, none of them able to call themselves my parents. Books were consolence, writing a release, and so here I am. An intellectual, doing nothing as some say, or everything as I believe."
She sat for a moment in silence, knowing that he skimmed over his life like a stone on the surface of the lake. "And who was the last person you loved?"
"I knew a woman, she loved me dearly. She loved me too much, sometimes, but love often forgets its boundaries. We were fit in soul and mismatched in body. You see, though we talked for hours, and loved intimately in looks and the lockes of our hearts, she could not kiss me. I do not know why she could not, but the one time I tried she pushed me away, and told me that she could not, not now, not ever. The No's echoed for miles, if I remember."
Then he fell into silence, so Beeterswit had to suggest he continue again, "And... what happened to her?"
"The Earth has a nasty habit of swallowing the things I love. This time, as well. She leaned over to get a drink, a small drip to the lower lip, and instead fell. She was found when the well water turned sour."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Are you Earth?"
"No, I am not."
"Then do not be sorry. But thank you, the sentiment still carried itself across your falsely provided remark."
"And when you go home, what do you do? What do you do away from this place were we sit together?"
He laughed, "Much the same thing I do here. I read, I listen, and I think. Nothing can stop me from thinking, whether I am around books or walls."
"I see. Can I... see your..." she started a sentence, but he finished hers, "No, you can't. The library is safe place for my thinks to be flung out and displayed like so much dirty laundry. Elsewhere I am afraid you will be revolted by their stench. My thoughts are not always tame beasts to be petted."
She nodded, thinking that she understood. "If you say."
"I do, I do indeed. Why this interest in my past, my present?"
"Because.... Gorre... names call for me what you are, but how can it call the right man if I don't even know how the other half of you lives?"
"Well, I suppose it's better that you call this man than the right man. But I can assure you, I am a decent, boring human being. Here, there, and everywhere."
"Then why will you not let me into your house?"
"Think for a moment, good Beeterswit. If you were seen enterring my house, people would imagine the most fantastical things. You would be turned away from your house in moments. Did you consider that your intentions are not put on display for everyone to see? Even if they are pure, and I know they are, others see demons in diamonds."
"Oh. I didn't think of that."
"No, it's best we interact here, safe. No one does... anything but read between bookshelves."
She let the topic drop, letting the conversation instead meander to mountains and valleys, and their beauty.
She took a book home that night, one that was well-worn, used and abused by all sorts of people. "Growing and Maturing." She hoped it had what she needed, perhaps what Gorre could not give it could. And so at night she sat, the moon giving its light to her pages, learning about herself. The wind blew her hair, and she looked like a silent priestess, praying to her inner body.
She saw a passage and laughed. Laughed deep and long, intense, of pain and longing, but also of satisfaction. The gurgling laughter soaked into the pages, joining with others before her.
She was among many.
Table of Contents
Day 33
Beeterswit returned to the library the next day, book in hand, as she had done for weeks. But this time, she had a mission. She was a woman with a purpose, and walked as such. Her shoulders perched up on her torso like small wings. Had you seen her, you would have imagined she about to make a small quick motion and then leave the ground forever. A purpose holds one high.
She waited, as she always did when waiting for Gorre, at the center desk, watching the door and reading at the same time, though the latter was done in spurts because of the neccesity in the former behavior. When he finally walked in, her stomache churned. Her shoulders dropped down from their in-flight position, and sunk into their normal obedient place. He sat down in front of her, and passed her the sheet he had wrote the night before. The thought that had stopped her was one of severe doubt. What if he refused? What then? He said, before retiring to his stacks, "I know what you want to ask, and that yesterday my answers were unsatisfying. So take this, and read about what I didn't tell you."
Beeterswit took the piece of paper, and began to read the three page essay on the origin and life of Gorre. The tale is tragic, and at long last she came to the final line, "I now search for the answers I need. My son has died, and I live completely alone with nobody, but my searches will one day come to fruition. I seek the books I require in the library, and burn both the sunlight and the lamp. I will succeed."
She let the note drop, and began to think. Gorre claimed to be a researcher, looking for the means to save those with a particular illness that had killed his entire family. It started slow, he said. It started at the back of the mind, a little scratch, a gnaw like a monster curling up around, and it would form a tiny bump for its den. Then strange things would start to happen. His wife, he said, had been speaking normally, talking about her day, when she could not locate any words at all. She mumbled incoherently, until it was too much to take, and she rammed her head into a wall into she passed into submission and sleep. It would come in fits, sometimes taking away words, or letters, "Hello" becoming "Hell." Then it would start to speak for her, telling about times that never were, places that are yet unseen, and people laying crippled in graves for years. Finally, the body would fold in on itself, the lungs unable to speak another syllable, the lips lack and slow. Death came slow, the eyes trying hopelessly to do the job of the lips for hours before. Then it would start to speak for her, telling about times that never were, places that are yet unseen, and slow. Death came slow, the eyes trying hopelessly to do the job of the lips for hours before finally subsiding into blank and cloudy stares. Gorre had watched his entire family die in such a way. Beeterswit got up and went to find Gorre in the stacks.
She found him in the H section, reading, "The History of Particularly Strange Disesases and Disasters." In her mind she gave a nod, understanding his search. She touched him gently on the arm, imitating with her eyes unknowingly what his wife had tried and failed to do. She spoke to him, and he said, "It is nothing." A flash of something in his eyes, then he returned to his book.
She looked at the shelves, and choose another book, "The History of Diseases" and began to read next to him. He noticed what she was reading after a few pauses, and said, "I have read it three times, there is not a word in it."
"Then how is it possible? I don't understand. You read the same books twice, three times?"
"Yes, I am human. I could have missed something."
"But, why not go elsewhere? There are books elsewhere, and even people know about these things. Old women, and others."
There was a pause, and then she guessed it without him needing to say a word. "You are afraid?"
He looked down, and continued reading his book.
"You are not alone, Gorre."
The sound in the library was empty. Time passed.
"I know. I did not know how to ask for help."
"This time, you have been waiting for me to find out and offer my help?"
"Yes."
"I wish you had told me earlier. It would have avoided so much waiting."
"You needed to be ready. I did not know any other way, I am just a man."
"A man alone, yes. But together we are a team. Let me help."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I've never been more sure."
"Okay, then, tomorrow we go on a trip to the nearest library. You will be ready?"
"More than anything. I will be ready and more. I will be eager."
He looked up, and finally smiled. The smile broke glass in her heart, broke apart threads that had sown themself into a small ball. Threads that were highlighted red and black from the book she read the night before. His white teeth were swords, swords that sliced and diced her up into shivering slivers. He helped her, so she would help him. There was no other thought to think but the yes, yes, yes, that echoed in her head, joining up with her name, Beeterswit, and laughed with the others in the night. Her pasts came together, and then finally she trembled, and tumbled down into the river. Her feet waded in to the soul of Gorre. And then truly, she held the conch shell and there was silence. No waves, no whispers, no women.
A conch resting in the hands. And she did not throw it.
Table of Contents
Day 34
Gorre and Beeterswit met at sunrise the next day. She stood on the path in the cold, looking at the horizon and waiting for his green suit to come into view. In the distance he materialized, walking briskly and bobbing up and down like a duck fishing. He came into view slowly, and stopped in front of her without a word. The morning was too quiet to break with meaningless hellos, so instead his feet crunched as he switched weight from one foot to the other. Beeterswit nodded. Gorre nodded in return. The two of them turned and began to walk, without words to their destination.
The library was small, and sloping. It's roof slanted upwards and had aged poorly, asking for forgiveness rather than retaining its regidity. Beeterswit sighed sadly when she saw it. Without looking, she knew what they wanted was not there. Gorre gave an equally long sigh. Then Gorre spoke, breaking for the first time the silence. "Well?"
"Well." Beeterswit returned.
Then they went into the library, to begin their search, futile in the beginning, but done with practiced motions. Beeterswit worked on A - G, taking any books that seemed promising back to Gorre. He flipped through the books she brought, and sorted them. Those that had no chance he flung into a pile near his right foot. The ones that could perhaps hold something he stacked behind him. The fluttering of pages as both whirled through trees and trees of information. While Beeterswit was working, a small piece of sunlight snuck through a hole in the roof and shone on the page she was reading. She looked up at the source, then down at her page. There was one word illuminated, "useless." She frowned and put the book back on the shelf, without bothering to finish skimming it. She went back to where Gorre sat and placed herself in front of him. He flipped pages at a furious pace, and was not aware of her presence. Then finally he finished the book, took it, and launched it at the pile, just barely missing Beeterswit's head. He twitched in surprise at her presence, then said, "Do you stop?"
"I need a break." she explained.
Gorre nodded and then put his hand on his knee, slouching over a little. At first focused, his eyes began to drift at a nonexistant point, and soon he was unresponsive. While he dozed, Beeterswit began to look around the library. She investigated with her eyes each person in the room. First they fell on a young man, reading about law, no doubt. He was focused, his body a piece of wood. She quickly moved to the next person, a petite woman. She could only see the profile of the woman, and she traced it with her eyes up and down, measuring the curves and shapes formed by shoulders, knees, and elbows. She stared at the face, picking out what she liked, and what she did not. She reached up with her hand and began to feel her own face, comparing the structure of the two, and finally decided upon something.
"Gorre, that woman over there, what do you think."
:He woke up a little and said, "Hmm, what? Oh, she is.. reading."
"I mean, is she... pretty?"
"Yes, I suppose she is."
"I thought so."
"What do you think?"
"Only that she is pretty. I do not look like her."
"You're right, you don't. That's no problem."
"It's not a problem, it only means that I am not pretty."
There was a pause in their conversation, and then Gorre said in a consoling tone, "What nonsense. You are as pretty as her."
Another pause. Then, "Gorre, you are the first person to ever say that."
A third pause, this time the longest, with the words in the air hanging hard.
"I'm sorry, Beeterswit."
"What?"
He didn't answer.
"What are you sorry for? You haven't done anything."
"I'm sorry for how life is, and must be. Everyone deserves to feel wanted. I want you, but not in the same way I would want my wife. You understand that, don't you?"
"I think I do."
"You are a daughter, Beeterswit."
"I suppose I am."
Beeterswit got up and began to bring books back to his seated position.
At the end of the day they had not found anything significant. They had found logs about illnesses, ranging from horrendous to mild. Warts that look like circles, warts that look like squares, warts that look like faces. Nothing about the loss of words. They stood up, and Gorre stretched his legs, unmoved since the morning.
"Well?" he said, starting the ending as he had started the beginning.
"Well. I have an idea."
"Oh, what is that?"
"We should talk to people. Books cannot respond to our question." The books would sit on their shelves, preaching what they had been taught to preach, and that was all. Shout, whisper, or coo, and still the books would remain silent.
He smiled, "Yes, that is a great idea. Where should we start tomorrow?"
She shook her head, "I'm not sure, I don't know any people in the town."
"Well no matter, time to meet them. We will start tomorrow."
Beeterswit smiled at Gorre and nodded, walking the opposite direction she had come that morning. There was silence again, as the night descended. It was as if the day had not existed, as if their search was not at all. But it was, the words hung in the air, hung and choked, back and forth, dangling from a string.
Table of Contents
Day 35
Beeterswit set out alone, deciding to meet with a few people before going to the library to convene with Gorre. She knew what to do, without his direction. She would put her foot in doors, her tongue on the line. She walked down the dirt path, looking left and right, noticing neighbors she had never before seen. The first house she knocked on did not answer. There was a silent murmer from the inside, but no one came to the door. Beeterswit waited a few beats of her heart, and when she thought she heard a whisper in her ear, low and seductive, she turned and left. Not yet discouraged, it was at the second house that she met Josephine. Josephine was old, as old as women came, though she burned with passion. She was regarded by most as a historian in her own right, things caught in the webs of her mind forever.
She walked up the creaking stairs to the house, and set her hand upon the door. As if Josephine knew she was coming, the door opened at the first knock.
"Hello." her greeting was quick, to the point, asking who she was, what she wanted, and where she came from in one word.
"Hello Josephine. I am Beeterswit, I live down the road, and I have a few questions."
"Are they good?"
"Yes, I think they are."
"Okay."
Josephine let go of the door and turned around, entering her house. Beeterswit was not invited, but after thinking on the doorstep, she followed her inside. Josephine sat down in a small chair and motion to another very plush chair, which looked like it had more than one person interrogated for hours within its soft red fabric.
"The questions?"
"Yes, yes. It has to do with a disease. I heard from someone about a particular disease that takes away your words."
Josephine smiled and laughed, deep and throaty at first, then cascaded up to the high and sweet ranges of a young girl, and then fell back to her age.
"Oh dear, that's funny, that's funny. Gorre?"
Beeterswit blinked, "How..."
"A young girl came here, about 10 years ago, asking that same question, the same way, with the same confused expression. It doesn't take an expert in memory to make these connections."
"I don't understand."
She laughed again, twirling her voice around her finger as she played with the notes. "She said that too! How strange time is to me."
"Please, maam, explain."
"Gorre told you about his wife, and perhaps a children or too for good measure. Right?"
"Yes."
"Gorre is about as solitary as solitary gets. Never had a wife."
"But...? He lied?"
"Did I say that?"
"I don't know, anymore."
Josephine took pity, "Yes. He lied. The disease is fake, as well."
Beeterswit had nothing to say, and no motion in her bones to even question.
Josephine sighed, "Now don't go limp on me. I'm sorry, but better you know. Knowledge is power."
Beeterswit started to well up inside herself as those words were stole from Gorre's lying mouth. "Knowledge is power." That's what he had said. Beeterswit, limp and unable to react, felt herself outgrowing her skin. At any moment she felt she would split her body suit in two, and step out, a gross demon ready to lick the world to death with her forked tongue.
"Why..."
"Wouldn't it be nice if we could know everything? Wouldn't it just be so pleasant."
Beeterswit had only the one word. "Why?"
He is the demon in her skin. He is there, with his forked tongue, licking the side of her stomache. Her licked her, burned her, from the inside. Beeterswit was going to be sick. But then she couldn't. Everything inside her could not get out. It would sit and ferment, she couldn't get it out.
"Why?"
"You know why."
"Why?"
Josephine nodded.
"I have sewing to do. Your why's are clouding up my room. So many of them, I'll hardly be able to see the ceiling soon."
"Why?"
"Yes, why indeed." Josephine got up, and took Beeterswit by the arm. It was a strong grip, the grip of a lioness. Far stronger than she expected, from an old woman who only moments before had sat on her small chair, teetering and tottering like a sapling in the wind. Josephine lead her to the door, was about to close the door, then thought once more.
"Go home, Beeterswit. Just go home."
Then she shut the door, and the smack rattled Beeterswit.
She followed instructions, and walked back home. The same road that had been paved with neighbors now seemed empty. Beeterswit went up to her room, not seeing. Then she went to her window and stared out of it, but did not see. She did not see anything but the Why's, spelled out with the W, then the H, then the Y. The letters he had taught her now seemed to turn on her. The Y licked her, licked up her arm and into her ear, speaking it's syllable and self over. Then Beeterswit stopped seeing, and stopped being. For now. Gorre, alone in the library knew. Knew it was the end. But still he sat down at the desk, took out a pen, and began to write. Began to write his words, his letters, himself. When he had exhausted the paper he wrote up his arm, up his chest, down his legs.
His words covered him. Hid him. It was enough.
Table of Contents
Day 45
Beeterswit went to the library the next day, in the vacancy of her life she resorted to the peace of ritual. She walked slow in the morning, the day filled with the sun, brimming with it, absolutely ready to explode with the rays. She covered her eyes, and walked blind.
Beeterswit entered the library through the front door, the metal hot against her hand. She walked into the room, and looked at the main desk, where she worked every day. There on the infinite wood surface was a square of paper. She walked over and picked it up. The following was written, in Gorre's precise scroll.
"There comes a time in lives where the liver looks up and does not see a day ahead. Where tomorrow is today, and yesterday has left for good. There comes a time when you realize that you have made too many mistakes, taken too much from the lady life. Hurt too many souls, injected too much sorrow, and gone too far. I am there.
Beeterswit I can only say that I meant well, but how can you believe these sorrowful words echoing empty, I'm sure, in that vast library. The truth is never clear, and in this case it is so. I lied, there is no doubt of that, but of what the true truth is, how can I know? How can you? I am not as I appear to be. That is to say, I am the good you saw, and the bad you discovered. No person has only light in their ethereal body. The day you find the person that is all good is the day you realize you have been in heaven all along.
My regret is that I was afraid. So fearful. You see the problem with intellect is that the more you learn, the more precise your fears become. The ignorant fear great dark gods, powerful in the night. The intellectual philosophers slowly whittle their fears down into little wooden trinkets that fit into their ears and whisper the secret. I am afraid of myself, Beeterswit. Nothing else but that has any power over me, and that is why I am afraid. I hurt because of me. I am kind because of me. How can someone who knows this not go mad with them-self. My only choice was to hide from you. Hide from me. And it worked, but now it does no good. No good at all. Fear, for you, for me. The dark started to eat me. Eat you. Eat us. I don't know if you can understand. The dark giant me gnawed on my bone. He came at me with lights. The dark giant me.
Can you understand this? The dark giant me.
The dark giant me."
Gorre's once precise scrawl turned sour and long, disgusted at itself. Beeterswit put the note in her pocket, and went to find Mrs. Jine. She was in her office, looking straight ahead.
"Mrs Jine, do you know a man named Gorre?"
"He lives in the third blue house, two blocks from here."
Beeterswit was unsure how she knew what Beeterswit had wanted to know, but Beeterswit jogged out of the library, and into the bright light of the street. The sun was bright, stronger now, than ever. She found the blue house, and it's door unlocked.
It was quiet. She found the dark giant me. She found what he was. How he was, what he could be. All in one moment, she found him, epitomized. It was the first shoe print that she left in the pool that stuck with her. The shoe print that was hers, left in his. She was part of him, she was there. Her life mixed with his death, in the same way her mud mixed with his blood. Beeterswit left.
She knew she was done. She could not live here, anymore. She could not return to the library, nor to her house. The one thing she remembered was Tremmor. Tremmor had left, he had gone. She would too. Beeterswit walked on the road, past her house, and away.
The dark giant me, there. Walking behind her. She would loose him by walking. He would go.
Table of Contents
Day 48
Beeterswit walked. She walked one foot after the other, which seems odd. Walking is a continuos motion, unlike one foot after the other which is set, staccato. They are entirely different. One foot first, the left perhaps, though the right one looks might sad today. Alone, all alone. The left likes sad too. Oh then they are both sad together, so they can rest. And so they did. Both Beeterswit and her emotional feet came to a stop, beneath a shaded tree. She sat, and pondered, giving emotions as they bubbled. The grass was quivering with fear, and then it was bouncing with the news of weddings. Then the squirrel flowed and danced, like her purple torn dress. The pebbles stood still, not wanting to be noticed, but Beeterswit, smiling wryly, noticed them all the same. They complained about being noticed, but she did not care. Then rustling, rustling, and a crack. A snap, a crackle, a snaffle. Or maybe it was a cradle? Oh the confusing tones of words. They were not as cut and dry as they used to be. She tried to form a word in her head, but she could not remember why. Or no, that wasn't the right phrase. What was it? How, not why. She could not remember how. Or perhaps she could not remember what. They all blur. R's look like K's. Why?
----
He saw her first lying beneath a tree. She was silent and still, though her mouth twitched occasionally into fleeting pleasures. She looked like she was day dreaming. It looked like a pleasant dream, he assumed, because of the half-smiles. But then there was a leg-jerk, quick like a jab through the air. Then nothing seemed pleasant about the sleeping state of the girl. The man didn't know her, though, so he waited more. Hesitating and watching, he waited for more signs to strengthen to choice to wake her. She launched her hand into the air, then cupping it like a gnarled tree branch, she give a slight, "ur" and the man needed no further prodding.
He walked briskly over to the woman, and gave her a tap on the shoulder. The right eye opened first, then the left. They stared into each other's eyes.
"You okay."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Open, close, open close. Like a fish. Sucking air. She opened once more, and then seeming surprised that nothing came out, covered her mouth. The man paused again, lost in what to do. His father had told him about times like this, times when you had a stranger on your doorstep. He was told that the wind brings horrible things to the man who leaves his windows open. They say there was a man who invited a poor beggar in for a drink. Soon as the host turned around, the cup of tea and the kettle was gone.
She opened her mouth again, like a fish he had just caught down by the lake. But this time there was no lake to release the fish back, should the feeling of guilt overwhelm. No great big basin of forgiveness. He paused again. She started to move her arms in frustrated patterns.
"If you kill me, let it be known that I died a giving man. Better to have gived and died than never gived at all."
Then he put his hand over her mouth and shushed low and gently, like a mother.
-----
Like a mother. Like my mother. Low and soft, hush hush. And I hushed, I did. He took me and I went, a child with a mother.
Table of Contents
Day 54
I woke up. I woke up not alone, as I had fallen asleep. I did not know where I was. I thought hard about where I was, tickling the floor with my finger tips to see the material. Wood, the floor was wood. It was hollow to my knock. I had fallen asleep on wood. Tree bark. Maybe the tree had had a growth spurt in the night, splitting its limbs into millions of branches, and those branches wove me a house, for which to sleep. The woods would care for me, cradling me to sleep. The trees creaking in the wind at night. My house. Then I remembered. Then I remembered that my eyes were closed. Sleeping people closed their eyes. That is right, that sounds right, it fits into place. So I opened them. Just like that, I opened them, and I saw. A small room. A wooden table. A window to the left. A ceiling overhead. A fire. It played before my now open eyes, warming the pupils of my eyes. Warming my mind. Things flickered in the back of my mind. It was warm. So I stared at the fire more. More fire, I wanted warmth and comfort. I stared.
-----
The man had carried Beeterswit through the forest, his boots dirty and muddy, his pants equally soiled. His shirt was white, or once was white. Though his appearance was ruffled and scruffy, the way his face had been placed together spoke of a gentle elegance. It was a Prince's face, with a Peasant's wardrobe. His bright blue eyes shown out of their sockets. His face incredibly weighty and strong.
Through the forest he carried her, a doll in his arms as she slept and did not even feel his touch. The man did not look down at her as he carried her, his arms roots around her, uncaring her appearance or state. In a way most unlike the sort of man that hides in bushes waiting for small females to pass by, so that they could fill holes to fill holes in their soul where years before the lion of expectation had chomped down. His hands, rather than digging into her shoulders with claws and teeth, supported.
He opened the door to his house with his foot, carefully undoing the knob with his large boot. It was a strange sort of twitch, as the door flew open before his dextrous big toe. He laid her in a corner, unsure what to do with her. He did not want to leave her in his bed.
He stepped back and looked at her. She wore a white dress, her brown hair messed, yet still she was a woman. He judged her age to be 18, or thereabouts. He smiled gently and began to remember his wife. He was lost in moments, reality fallen by the wayside temporarily. Then the axe tied to his back was remembered, and he left the cabin. There were other things to attend to. He had a job, no time for long drawn out decisions and intricate thoughts. So the axe-man left her there. Left her at the wall, soon to wake up.
And after she had woken up she stared at the fire. The fire he had lit in the morning that now burned into the afternoon. The flames flickered in the back of her mind. They flickered gently and allowed her to vacate herself, to take a step outside of her skin and explore the warmth and motion she had forgotten.
Table of Contents
Day 55
As Beeterswit stared steadily into the fireplace, there came the plunk of logs being stacked outside the cabin, every 10 minutes or so. If she listened, she would have heard the smack of the axe as he swung it into the trees, cutting away their tops. He swung and hit them, angry swings. But then once he had had his fill he would set his axe and lean over it, and his face would show his true emotion.
Sadness. True and deep sadness. What was moments before a mask of fury wiped clean with sadness as he looked at the sap seeping from the tree trunk, blood from the Earth. As he neared the end of the chopping, he touched one hand to the tree, whipping a finger along the sap and placing it into his mouth, sucking on the strong taste. His face scrunched together, perhaps on purpose or perhaps because the sap had a strong bitter taste. In this way the axeman took the hurt of the tree, just before he killed it with one final swoop. As he chopped the branches and the leaves, the tree was with him. The sap inside, swinging and growing roots into his veins and mind. His heavy boots crunched as he walked back and forth, stacking and stacking. The Sun ticked by to the time of his strikes. It slipped away as he repeatedly sang his one note song, with one melody, and one harmony.
When he was done for the day, he took his axe and wiped it clean, taking off the flesh and sap. Then he carried it gently into the cabin where Beeterswit had spent her day staring. He looked at the fireplace, empty and cold, with no fire in it. There had not been a fire at all that day, as he was warm when he awoke. He allowed her to continue to stare.
"No use troubling the dead." he muttered as he set about sharpening his axe for the next day.
"No use shaking my old grandma in her grave somewhere out back."
He looked back towards the door. Waiting for someone, maybe. Maybe he was afraid of the night. His eyes were not fearful but apprehensive, expecting something coming.
Beeterswit waited too. Cross legged on the floor, her hands her knees, slouching a little forward, she was ready to jump up and run into the forest. But the fire that was not fire kept her busy, kept her tethered with its chains twirling and twisting in its stone prison.
The two of them did not speak: the man sharpening, the girl dull. Once the man finished with his axe he did not start on the girl. Then silence, as the man blew out the candle he worked by and went into his bed. Beeterswit did not sleep, nor did the fire go out with the light. It burned strong and pleasant, in a room full of dark.
Table of Contents
Day 56
I don't remember when the fire stopped floating, but it did. Then I realized that it had been gone for a long time. But I had not moved. Not an inch. Then I heard voices. Was it the fire? No. It was others. Manly, womanly. They talked like... like... No memories to explain it. I listen.
Hey, Jursd.
Is that my wife? No, it could not be. I thought she had left me she had been gone so long.
Laughing.
Of course it is me, my sweet man. You are well?
Better now.
I have stories by the dozen to tell you! I will pluck them from my ground and hand them to you. Later.
Later?
Yes yes.
Silence.
Who is that?
I don't know. I found her in the woods.
Your heart got in the way again?
Yes. It started to thump and whine. It could not be ignored.
Oh your heart. It is the reason I love you. It is the reason I cannot stand you.
I should have left her?
No, no. But I wish things did not appear. Things that need picking up. When will you have only yourself to pick up?
I will be fine.
You carry a platter of tea cups. When you fall, they'll break too.
I will be fine.
Okay.
More silence, more dripping silence. Then I turn my head, and I see two shapes loving, hugging, loving. Together. I am alone, like a dagger through my heart the realization comes. I am alone. It heard me, the manly voice calls out to me. "Are you there? Are you there?" No. I want to say no. I am not here, I am somewhere else. They forgot me somewhere. But all I can do is stare. Stare at shapes and squiggles.
-----
The axeman kissed his wife a final time, on the cheek, and then began his labor. He walked outside, kissed the tree on its cheek, and then began to cut.
The wife stared at the girl. She did not know how to say to her husband that the world was not his to care for. It was not his. She felt jealous of the little poor girl on the floor who did not see did not speak. She was blank, and there was nothing there.
"You don't hear me, you cannot speak to me. Hm. You are hopeless, perhaps. But you are living, and that is worth giving you food, I suppose."
She looked down at Beeterswit. If only for her husband she would cook for the vegetable that occupied floor space. And so she began, chopping up little onions as outside her husband cut down big ones. The rings of both the onion and the tree grew. The wife did not look down at the onion, for she knew she would cry from the scent. The husband looked at the rings and started to read the words inscribed there. He ran a finger along the rings and closed his eyes, feeling the history of the tree. He felt the rings with his fingers and saw. And then his eyes could not see anymore, for his vision was clouded by tears. The wife wiped the onions into the sizzling pot, and they snapped and crackled at first and then fell silent. "Oh I hope I don't cry" was all she said. "Oh, I cry, I cry, but I hope I never run dry" the husband said outside. Two souls in a wood, and a third somewhere else, where fires went on and off between the blinks of eyes. And the third is the only one whose tears dripped down not from her eyes but inside. Tears, all three, things there, things not, all realities all real.
Table of Contents
Day 61
They woke up, all three, at the same time. The bird that woke them was red, and small. It's black beak curved, it let out the note of the mourning morning. The dew dripped from the trees and the mist did not allow for any sight, but still the axeman and his wife arose, without one more call from the bird. The axeman sat down at the table and began to trace his finger over the wood of the table, as he did every morning. The wife opened and closed cabinets, with noises of clunk and clang of the metal pots. Her husband looked at her, and she apologized for the noise.
Beeterswit did not get up. She did not feel underneath her, and so she had no reason to feel above her. There were the clangs for Beeterswit, but they did not move her. They were clangs in quiet, and it sounded as loud as the quiet itself. Quiet and clang, songs all sound the same when sleeping.
The wife cooked quickly, her hands flying over the metal and materials. She cracked eggs with no mercy, mixed them up quickly, her wrist making tight circles in the air. She took a deep breath of the cooking eggs. Her husband looked at her back as she cooked, his fingers continuing to explore the wood. He traced one dark line, which formed a circle on the table. He always rubbed clockwise. When asked, one day, by his wife he told her that the world revolved this way, it would go against the world to do it the other way. And so he didn't, he did it just his way, and watched her do it hers.
She finished in a few moments. She put the breakfast on two plates and then set them down on the table. The husband stopped his movement and looked at her. He looked at her, and said, "You move quickly, sometimes. I worry that you will miss the egg's gift to you. The chicken that never was."
"Oh, I do appreciate it. I do, I just can not let it go into my skin. I can't let it sink in there, or I will sink into the ground."
He sighed, considering whether she was right. He took the first bite after he stopped considering, and said to her "I love you, because you create beauty. Whether your eyes are open or not, your hands knit the most wonderful coats."
She laughed at his words, "I do. Speaking of which, what color do you want for the undershirt I am making?"
It did not take him a moment to respond, "Green or brown."
She sighed, "Like always. Not a red?"
"Not a red, no."
After finishing his meal slowly, he rounded the black circle on the table one more time and then left, to do his job. The mist had not left, which was unusual, but not surprising.
The wife looked over to the corner at Beeterswit. "Hello. What do you want to eat?"
Beeterswit did not listen, but she did hear.
"Then bread. The grains will grab on to the sand in your throat and pull it down."
Beeterswit sighed, and the wife thought it was a yes, and so she took out the bread from the cabinet. Cutting off a slice, she brought it over to where Beeterswit lay on the floor. She placed it in front of her, then left, to go about her duties and to work on that green and brown undershirt.
The bread disappeared. It went down her throat, but it did not knock of the sand that scratched her throat. That sand continued to itch and grab. Beeterswit thought she was choking, but did not cough. She let herself choke, and it went away. The three worked in their circles, tracing their hands around their lives. Beeterswit was lost in her circle, though, moving forwards and backwards on her table like there was no world spinning around her. And for a moment, just a moment, the world did not spin around her. Then it left, and she choked more.
Table of Contents
Day 62
I woke up in the middle of the night. Something burned, right in my lungs. The smoke was suffocating me. I couldn't breathe. I needed to leave. The fire in that stone wasn't there anymore, and I knew I needed to leave. I got up, I walked with the coals under feet to the door. I breathed heavily, and then went into the woods. Past the trees half cut. Past dirt. Past more dirt. Past more coals. It was hot, like a furnace. I thought back to a time when I was told that there was a place were people went to burn, like bread in an oven. I didn't want the yeast in my skin to rise, so I had to walk. And I walked, I did. I smelled for the cool air, the water to douse me. I found it, right there. Right by that rock and by that dirt. It was a river, cool and soft. I took of my smoldering clothes and got into the water. It started to boil around me, but it was cooler. I sighed. And I rested, me and the bubbling watering, and the trees bent away from me in fear. FEAR ME.
-----
The axeman woke up, because something was missing in the room. He checked first his wife, then looked over to where Beeterswit went to sleep. He looked at her spot, and it was empty. He sighed, rolled gently out of the bed, and slipped on his boots. Wearing nothing but small night-shorts, he walked outside, his chest hair curling in the wind. His body got goose bumps all over it from the cool air, but he walked on anyways. The dirt was muddy, so he followed her footprints from the door.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he said quietly, just as he found her.
He saw her by moonlight, naked, in the water. He stopped walking and stared, for the second time unsure what to do. Most often things clicked like clocks in his head, but she was like an insane springing bouncing. He had to make a decision, so he walked gently over to her, trying to stare at the moonlight around her rather than her.
"Girl, girl. You will catch cold."
She did not hear him, or at least pretended not to.
He said it again, "Hello, girl? It is freezing in there."
She still did not respond.
Testing to see if she was awake, he reached out an arm and touched her gently. She did not react to the touch, so he wrapped his arm around her back, and his other under he knees. Getting his arms wet, he lifted her up. The water from her body flowed down his torso, down his legs, and onto the ground beneath. Walking with her naked in his arms he once again saved her, as he had once before.
-----
I knew it was not hot anymore. The river fell out from beneath me and it was perfect temperature. It was night, too, and I was naked. I don't remember taking off my clothes.
-----
Once inside the cabin, he put her on the floor, and then went and got a towel from a drawer. Gently he dried her off, occasionally turning red at the prospect of what he was doing. She muttered something, more a groan than a word, and he stopped for a moment to let her speak but she did not say anything. Once she was dry, he wiped up the small puddle around her. He noticed as he got to her head that the puddle created a halo for her.
"What are you? You illogical woman whose clothes fly off. Are you an angel? No... they don't existÉ"
He shook his head, wiped up the puddle, and went to put away the towel. He then took the blankets and wrapped them around her again, as she was before going to sleep.
-----
And then I was in the womb again, my mother's. Her heart beat quietly, and she fed me. I remember my birth, do you?
-----
He went back to the bed, and got in next to his wife. As if to reassure himself, he gently rested a hand on her leg, then went back to sleep.
Table of Contents
Day 63
The man woke up first in the morning, after Beeterswit burned in her own rivers of fire. He left the house without breakfast. His stomach did not grumble this morning, it was full of other notions of light infused with a touch of anise. He picked up his axe, and he looked at the blade. The steel reflected back into his eyes. He dropped his axe into the ground, and said to himself, "No. Not today, I cannot cut today."
He looked right, and then he looked left. Which way would he retreat on this day? He took of in the right direction.
-----
I was cold again. It was that cold fury, the raging firing of ice. And I knew I was no longer protected. No one peeked into my heart anymore. I was alone again.
-----
The wife woke up second, and stared at Beeterswit standing naked in the middle of the room, arms at 90 degree angles, and rotating slowly. She looked around and did not see her husband. She cursed under her breath, "One of those days. The days he cannot cut. What will I do with my husband? The axeman who likes his trees more than his blade."
She grabbed one of Beeterswit's hands and lead her over to the bed. Beeterswit made a noise, but followed. She pushed her onto the bed.
"You need to be clothed."
She went over to her dresser and took out a pair of well used clothes.
"Take this."
She put the clothes on her lap. Beeterswit did not look at them.
"Take them."
Beeterswit did not move.
"Ah! What am I to do, what am I to do. First he leaves, and I know where he goes on days like these."
She sat down next to Beeterswit and stared down at her knees.
"Then you sit there, and you were spinning naked. Just naked. And it makes me thinkÉ" her throat began to tighten, ".... I'm old! Yes, I said it there. Here you are, the very image of beauty, and you cannot even talk!" she looked at Beeterswit, but Beeterswit did not look back.
She began to cry. "I hate you, I do. I hate what you are. You're seducing him, I know it!"
She collapsed into a ball next to Beeterswit and began to sob helplessly. Time passed, and her sobs grew more heavy, then soft, until there were only dry heaves left. The room were filled with them, like a monster sucking in air. She breathed until she had her fill, and then she sat up, her eyes red and her nose runny. Sniffling, she looked at Beeterswit. She had not moved the entire time.
"Ahhh" she let out a cry, and threw her arms around Beeterswit.
"I'm sorry. You can't know, you don't know. You don't hear me. I know you are just a baby, babies love nudity. You are just little and young inside. I'm sorry... I amÉ"
Beeterswit did not move.
The wife began to cry again. On her shoulder, she cried again, and her heaves echoed in Beeterswit's chest. Her tears gently rolled down Beeterswit's chest. Something stirred inside of Beeterswit. The echoing wails knocked something awake in her chest, and she let out a little moan, and put her arm around the wife. The wife cried in Beeterswit's arms, Beeterswit naked, beautiful, the wife beaten and ground. Despite this, the wife was full of motion and sadness, Beeterswit full of nothing.
-----
I heard her. She thought I didn't but I did. I knew. I knew what it was to be ugly.
Table of Contents
Day 64
Beeterswit was sitting on the bed clothed. The wife was cooking breakfast, eggs with some lightly browned bread. Beeterswit was taking one hand and intertwining it with the other, and then untwining the two. The wife was making it even more hurriedly today, and as soon as she had the food on Beeterswit's plate, she left it by Beeterswit's feet and then went out the door. She knew that her husband was having one of those days, and though she could not do much, she needed to be sure. She looked at the foot prints in the ground, and the axe resting in the ground. She put a finger down to the mud and felt how much of the water had evaporated. Then she closed her eyes and started to jog off after her husband. Her stride was long and hard, her legs strong.
----
I was left again, and I was alone. I did not know what to do but start walking, so that is what I did. I copied her. But I got lost. I did not know where I was. But I kept walking because that felt right.
-----
Her breath started to come heavier, running over the hills he had walked away in the early morning. She did not know the route he was taking, but his footprints guided her. His footprints began to become stretched further apart, like he was running faster and faster after something. As he lengthened his stride so did she, and after a while she began to put her feet in his prints. The footprints got wider until they stopped. Abruptly, there was not another right foot to follow the left.
She stared down at the foot print with intent, and did circles looking for the matching one. Then she stared at the footprints, and looked up a little. There was a crack in the tree, just in front of where the footprints ended. She looked up and there was another crack, and another. Following the treeprints, she saw that they went higher and higher. Sighing to herself she began to climb the tree, her arms and thighs working together to pump her torso up the tree.
-----
I was alone. I don't know why, but I felt that someone was watching. But I was alone. Somebody behind that tree? Somebody over there? What is this? Is somebody there? No, nobody.
-----
Once she had climbed up about 20 feet the treeprints started to walk on a branch. And then two branches of separate trees intertwined and the tree prints crossed over them. She followed them, moving carefully from limb to limb. She kept looking for moss to avoid, so that she would not slip.
-----
Somebody? Are you there? No? My questions reverberate like peas in a can, like the old days with nuts and nuggets. Like little white blinks.
-----
And there he was. Swinging one knee, his back against a tree. He had been listening to her approach for a few minutes, and said, "This is where the tree road ends. I don't know why. Why does this not reach to that one? Why are they not connected? There is a feud. I feel it. They hate each other."
The wife sighed and sat next to him. "You are right. But look, maybe it is because they wanted you to stop right here."
He looked over at her and followed her eyes into the distance. A mile away a mountain rose from the earth, and at its peak there was a shimmering spot. "What...?" he started, but then he knew.
There was a small man on that mountain, and he was holding up his metal shell. He had plastered them to trees, and the sun shone on them and reflected all over the world. His metal on his trees, and all that light reflecting and bending like they were little waterfalls in the daylight.
"Today I could not cut. I do not know why."
"I do. It is because today you need to cut the weeds."
"Weeds?"
"Yes. Right there." She gently pushed his temple. "And it is a good thing, they were getting extremely difficult to deal with."
He laughed, and so did she. "Thank you, for bringing me to real."
"Your head is too small to contain the story of all these." she motioned to the forest. "Sometimes, just take in your own story."
He smiled and nodded, and looked at the light that belonged to that little man.
------
I was alone. All alone.
Table of Contents
Day 67
I am alone. I am positive I have not mentioned that until just this minute. Every few minutes I walk through the door lost-hood again. But I never walk through the door of foundage. That makes perfect sense to me. I am walking back and forth through the door of losthood, while the door of foundage is somewhere over there. Yes, yes.
But I am still alone. I don't think I've mentioned that until just now. Until just this minute, I haven't said that to anybody. Oh! Look, I am alone. That is quite the phenomena. I walked through the forest and the trees, because he left first and then she did. But it's okay. It is. I will walk, just like they did.
-----
"Thank you, Ilian."
"Your welcome, Jursd. Can we go back now? I have to say following your footprints through the trees was no easy task."
"Oh, you didn't need to do that. I would have come back, I'm fine."
"You are better now that I am here."
He smiled, having no way to fight her powers of logic.
"How will I cut? It hurts so much."
She sighs. She wants to tell him that he doesn't need to, that they will find another way. That there are always options, and they can live life they way they want to. But instead, "You will cut because you don't have a choice. And it will hurt, but you have me."
He nods, "And though you cannot hear them like I do, cannot feel them, you can still tell me which way is right. Thank you for telling me necessity."
"The days you cannot cut, take walks, and talk, like we do. And then I will bake your hurt into a pie and serve it for desert."
His stomach growled.
She laughed, "Tonight, tonight. I will bake that pie."
He laughed, "My stomach did the talking."
"Just like your hands will do the cutting, just the same. Everything dies, it is only a matter of time. And you give the trees a blaze of glory."
"How so?"
"They do not die through old age, needles browning and falling off, and then die standing. You let them down in a crash, and then take them for good. Give them a purpose in death."
"I am not sure."
"Then let me be sure for you. Cutting is sad, but it is."
He said nothing.
"Okay, I have another idea." She paused, forming it fully. "For every tree you cut down, take a seed from the highest part of the tree. Take that seed and plant it into the ground, right next to where you killed it."
He didn't respond so she continued.
"That way you will be removing one and giving one, allowing for the tree to live on."
"I will store the tree in myself, and when the little one is ready I will give it back. Life will be circular rather than linear."
"Yes. But speaking of circles, the sun is ending one of its own circles."
He looked up at the horizon, and the little man on the mountain had stopped reflecting.
"Yes. Let's go home."
They both climbed down the tree together, and walked back. Jursd knew his way, and so he led Ilian, who was not as familiar with the trees.
-----
I just discovered something, oh the brightest little trinket that was just waiting in my soul for me to touch it with my little fingers. I am alone! Oh yes, I am. Isn't that interesting? It is like something you have never heard. It feels like rain after a draught. Except I feel dry, rather than soaked. I am alone! Oh the things I discover. Oh the things. Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh!
-----
They walked through the dark, Jursd occasionally putting his hand on a tree to get a bearing for where they were. They walked slowly over time, and both were exhausted. Emotions had stole from them what motion usually did. Jursd touched another tree, "We are... here." They walked quickly into the cabin, and without thinking of food or life slipped into the sheets. They were together in warmth at last, and they forgot life and themself, and all things but each other. Something nagged at Jursd, but it did not call enough attention. A little something of lacking, but he attributed it to the lack of food and moved on. Her scent was in his nostrils, satisfying.
-----
Oh! Why hello rock. I am Alone. Yes, with a capitol A. Isn't that just the most out of the ordinary thing you had ever heard? I know, me too. Me too. Alone.
Table of Contents
Day 71
In the middle of the night she called to him. A tiny twinkling in his ear, and the scent of Ilian did not mask it any longer. She was missing. He sat up in bed, awake. He called over to Ilian, "Ilian, we are missing the girl." As she processed his comment, he had already put on clothes and his feet were struggling out the door.
Jursd walked after the footprints. So many feet have followed so many other feet. The tracks around the cabin were all in pairs, Jursd with Ilians, Jursd with Beeterswit. All little dainty feet try to make paths in the mud, from the dew in the morning. The ground had dried, and now Jursd's feet did not leave imprints but instead scuffs in the ground. He followed them, as Ilian did earlier the day before. He was astounded at the seeming random pattern. They would go forward, stop as if pondering, then take off in a bizarre direction. There was a sort of rhythmic beat to them, however, like Beeterswit's feet were humming to themself a slow soulful song, full of long beats and low belts. Jursd started to imagine the song, and found himself welling up with tears, for the song he imagined was that of the morning songbird on the day it knew it would perish. Bittersweet in its love for life mixed with its regret for those it did not touch and sing to. Jursd found her just as the last note of his mental song began to crescendo and fall.
He found her like he had found his axe, sitting in the ground. Beeterswit was sitting with the flats of her feet together, staring at them. She held both of her feet in her hands, and because her back was to him he could not tell the emotion written on her face. She wore the white linen he had given her, but it was no longer white. He approached her from behind.
"Hello, girl."
He tried to find a way to make her understand, "I forgot, I'm sorry. I did not feel myself, and I forgot you."
She twitched and turned to look at him.
-----
Forgotten? How dare. How could. Forgotten.
I suppose that is all I am. I am not worth being remembered? Not worth? How dare.
-----
There was something in her eyes, and he knew he had said the wrong thing.
"Come on, we need to go back. We need to go, Beeterswit."
She twitched again.
-----
What was that. Something just touched me. Right in my chest, right where there has been nothing. It is familiar, something of past.
-----
He saw her reaction and realized he had said something wrong again. This time he did not understand until he realized he had said her name for the first time.
"It was on the back of the clothes you arrived it. I assumed it was yours. It doens't matter, come on, Beeterswit. Come on."
-----
That was mine. He had me. I have to give in, I don't have a choice. He has me in the palm of his hand, that little crystal that I kept inside, he just reached in and took. I have to go, I suppose.
-----
Beeterswit got up and walked with Jursd. Jursd did not say anything more the entire way back. Beeterswit walked a few paces behind him, and he did not look back to check if she was there or pause when she took a little longer climbing through bushes.
Ilian was sitting in the cabin waiting for them. When she saw Jursd and his solemn expression she took in a breath. Beeterswit walked through the door after him, and Ilian let out her breath. Ilian smiled to Jursd, "I'm glad we didn't lose her."
Jursd nodded but didn't smile. "Make her something to eat, would you?"
Ilian jumped up to fix food.
That night when Beeterswit had gone to sleep Jursd spoke to Ilian, "We need to think of something else to call her."
"Why is that?"
"She doesn't like the name she arrived with."
"Okay."
Ilian thought for a tick of the world, and then said, "Johanna. It is a neutral name, isn't it?"
"It'll do fine."
-----
I don't know what it is, but that was my little crystal and he took it. Maybe he will fix the crystal he took, and give it back to me when it is fixed. Until then I wait. That's all I ever do, wait. Maybe someday someone will wait for me.
Table of Contents
Day 73
Time is going like a clock for me. My hands go in circles, left to right, and I find myself back in the same place I started. I remember once someone telling me that recovery is like a slow upward slope. Baby steps, was the phrase. But I don't know. I feel like I'm baby stepping in circles around the clock. I don't know what I want, I don't know where I'm going, and I still can't shake the feeling that no one can reach me. No one can hear me. I look around and I see things, but I reach out and they disappear. I shout things but I do not hear my own voice. Maybe what I need is a thick hammer, to break my clock. Forever.
-----
It has been two months since the night when the axeman picked Johanna out of the mud. He promised her he would sharpen her, and that is exactly what he did. Each day he would bring something back for her. Some days it was the needles of the trees, the flowers. Others it was the scent of a newly made roll, or a smooth stones. All the most beautiful thing he brought back for her. He brought her back a spiderweb once, and even a small flying bug, still alive. None of these things she saw or heard. There was no response. Ilian began to help to, baking with as many flavors as she could muster. She became enthralled with Johanna, and at night they spoke of new ways to awaken her senses. But nothing worked, nothing at all. The one time she fluttered her eyes was when the time they brought a small lightning bug, and as it flew around the room she twitched and swerved her head in patterns. The patterns of her head complemented those of the bug, and the two did a small dance. But the next day when Jursd brought back a piece of bark, Beeterswit sat as a stone. Jursd was confused. He saw the threads of life, but he could not understand Beeterswit. Or, as he knew her, Johanna. Jursd confided in Ilian his confusion, "This girl does not follow the lines and grooves that my past experiences have made in the soft soil of brain."
"Well, this isn't the first time you've been confused, is it?"
"No, it isn't." he admitted.
"How did you solve it in the past?"
He considered, and lost himself in the past. When Ilian saw he was not going to respond she turned back to baking a sweet-sour-hot pie.
He remembered the time that his blade did not make sense to him, when he first was enlisted into the job of Axeman. That time he had sat down and stared at it. And as he stared, his eyes drooped, but the blade remained in his mind. He saw threads coming from the blade, and he understood. It was all there. One morning Jursd woke up before Ilian and sat down next to the sleeping body of Johanna. She was silent, unmoving. He sighed and looked at her, until he did not look with his eyes anymore. What he saw was both shocking and revealing. Her threads did not reach out to anything else. They wrapped around her like a cocoon, and they pulsed with a bizarre harmony. Except for one thread. One went straight upwards, through the roof, into the sky. He stared at the pulsing capsule for a while, until a small bird called, as it did every morning.
That day while he was cutting he planned. He knew what to do, and he knew how to do it. He would reach her, and he would fix her. And when he did, he would give her back the name she could not hear.
Table of Contents
Day 74
He woke up Ilian in the middle of the night. It was important, and she could hear it in the tone of his voice.
"I need you, Ilian, to do this with me. I cannot do it alone."
She did not question. "Okay."
They picked up Johanna together, and carried her. Jursd held the torso, and Ilian the legs and pelvis. The two walked side by side, Johanna out in front like an offering to a God. The three of them walked upwards, through the trees that were invisible in the dark. The steps in synch, it sounded as if one large echoing beast was lumbering through the trees, and instead of absorbing the sound they whispered it to one another. This is the day, she is good, life is good, good, good. They whispered to each other. They arrived at their destination, a small clearing on the top of a nearby hill.
Ilian looked at Jursd, perhaps expecting more words, but he gave none. Jursd did not set Johanna down, and so Ilian heard her as well. As the darkness began to fade, the three rotated slowly so that Johanna's face would be pointed toward the rising sun. As they waited, their arms wanted to drop down to their sides. They felt flowy like water and hard like rolling stones, but still they held Johanna up. Jursd because he saw the threads, Ilian because she knew Jursd had sight. Johanna rested because she trusted, in a way she had not for a long time. Time cures, or so the saying goes, but time could not open the door to Johanna. More of the darkness was banished to the land now behind Ilian and Jursd. Their backs watched the retreating shades, and their fronts watched the inching blue sky. The blueness precedes the sun, as all things, warnings of the day and of the surrender of night.
The Sun rose.
In a fury of light, the top of the hill was the first thing to be struck, and it illuminated the three of them. Johanna began to be warmed, her eyelids first, then her hair glittered and flattered in the wind. Her forehead felt the warmth. Her chest, her legs, her hands. She felt the warmth. The two supporting hands held her, and they did not falter. She began to blink, blinded by something not the Sun. Then a rumble. Rumbles start quiet like in the distance, but this one began deep and hard with a bang and groaned and creaked up through Johanna's ribs. And then it came up through her mouth, the words she did not have.
"My name is Beeterswit. And I am not alone."
-----
As I sat in my small dark room I drew patterns in the dust and shadow. I drew them, but I did not know what I drew because I could not see. Then I was blinded, by something, and I felt. Four arms, two hands, and one enormous eyeball. And what I wanted to say, I could say. I formed the words, connected them together, and as they grew in power I knew I was new. And I had awareness of what I was before I was not. I am Beeterswit. I am not alone. I never was. My name, it is Beeterswit. I am not alone. And then I no longer needed phrases to speak, I no longer needed to connect words like the bricks of a building. I no longer needed to think. I could be. I saw all the others that were with me. That were being too. And we were being together. And I knew. I did know, something I did not. And I can tell you what I knew, as sure today as it was then.
"My name is Beeterswit. And I am not alone."
-----
Ilian and Jursd turned their eyes down, away from the sun and said, "We know. Welcome Beeterswit."
Table of Contents
Day 77
Beeterswit sits on the Porch of the house. She has her hands around her knees and is staring at the patches of sunlight on the ground, illumating and folding as the sun shines through the blowing trees. She hears the birds singing, or talking. She hears the creek where she burned. She smells the hard scent of sap, of new life and a beginning. Her father once told her that listen and you will hear. Hear secrets held deep for only those who knew which way to turn their ear. She smiled.
-----
There was a pine cone, right on the ground a few feet from me. I had not noticed it until just this moment. It sat there, no doubt fallen from the tree high above. As I stared at it I went backwards, into the past. Back to when I walked along the beach and picked up every sea shell I could find, listening carefully. But not one told me things. I had to throw them all back. So many things have been thrown back to the Ocean. So much as been nabbed from the air in front of my nose, I undeserving. So much, and yet they have not taken me. I have not been thrown back, and perhaps I won't.
I got up and walked over to the pine cone. I picked it up, and put it to my ear, listened carefully, positioning my ear at the perfect angle... andÉ
-----
Beeterswit smiles.
Table of Contents
Day 78
By Handy Pockets
There I stood after I set my defense
I thought the battles would be intense
of the labyrinthine sense.
As my mind wondered whence
I tried not to sit on the fence
But set my creatures with good sense
to avoid the battle scars so intense
Yes,Some seem to have a sixth sense
when they set their creatures defense
my ideas come from my heart hence
the battles are not immense
as I struggle and not condense
There I stood after I set my defense
Table of Contents
Day 79
I walked up to the peak of the island, the echoes of the cave and of death still in my head. I was on a mission, and to return to Abra with his knator was primary. I had thought death was the answer, and for the Knator death was the solution, but I now knew otherwise. This Knator was Abra's, a gift, and as Abra is special and to be held like a gem glimmering in the light, this Knator was to be kept and preserved. My blood was worth his life, and so I gave it. The bandage around my arm, given to me by Kets, reminded me of that. I saw him, a large aramor in a sea of tiny men. He looked at me, and then looked at the Knator at my side and shook with excitement.
"It is you, it was not a dream," his metallic voice came from the folds of his armor. How an aramor talks remains a mystery, but talk it does.
"No, it was not a dream. I am here."
"I recognized you because of my Knator. He is well?"
"Yes, he is well." And I knew he would always be well, always be secure. More of my blood would be spilled before that was a lie.
"I hope I am not intruding," a female voice. Looking around I found Pamplemousse, who I had missed in my focus to find Abra.
"No not at all, Pample. Perhaps you can help. Sometimes it is difficult to relate to Abra." She walks over to me and Abra.
Abra gives Pamplemousse a look, or at least his armored head glances at her. "This is Pamplemousse. She is a nice woman."
Abra gives a little shake and says, "Woman? I have heard of the she's and he's. So Pamplemousse is a she?"
I nod to him. "What does that make me?"
Our worlds do not commingle, how can I explain to Abra about male and female. He is an aramor, but I can try. I fumble, "I don't know if you are a he or a she."
Pample offers, "Do you have some other defining characteristics?"
Abra crackles and clinks, "We have a lot of ways to identify ourselves! There are chinks, and dentsÉ"
I know Abra by a small discolored splotch on his left shoulder. Otherwise all aramors look the same. All of us look the same to him too, we are all one blurry army of gray faces. Seas of gray, and trying to communicate across the chasm feels like shouting into a hard wind. We talk of Genders, of humans and aramors, and whether or not Abra can hear the emotions of others. He explains to us that of course they are living and show some emotion, but they do not speak. Never using words. And then he gives Pample and I a funny look and says, "Oh, have I shown you this?"
And then his armor is a sea of colors and textures, and standing before me is a man.
"You look like us" I say, and he chinks, still the aramor underneath the skin.
"Yes, I do."
To be able to mold and quiver into the body of another, it makes me shiver. But I must ask the question I came to ask.I came to ask.
"Abra, I still have to ask. I promised I would allow you to return to the world of people like me. Do you wish to come? I will take you back now if you like."
He shivers and clinks more than usual, and the metallic rings out, "No. I cannot come now."
I nod, and say, "In another week I will return."
I am reminded of time, and how for him it does not exist. He has explained to me that before I introduced him to it, his world did not have a measure. So I take the watch off my hand and explain it, "When this smallest hand reaches the top 14 times, you know I am coming back."
I place the watch in a crevasse, so that he may come and see it any time, quite literally, he likes. Then it is time for goodbyes. I have done my duty to this Aramor who gave me his Knator, his slice of treasure. And I wave goodbye, to the small little figure clinking and clacking, who changes quickly back into an aramor before saying simply, "Goodbye then" as if I did not matter, and I don't. And then I fly away, back to the mainland, to return. In a week, when that hand reaches the top 14 times. Abra and I are intertwined in time. A duty to be served, perhaps by accident.
Table of Contents
Day 80Told by Handy Pockets
Marko rose from his chair by the fire and walked towards the hooks on the wall. Catching his toe in the corner of the rug, he fell towards the sounds that whispered through the door. He steadied himself and started for the handle. He found the door heavy as he slowly pulled it open. The sun beams, hot and intense, came through the open space , filling it with light and sound. He shielded his eyes from the blinding light as he walked out onto the porch and through the sunbeams he watched his sister as she, screaming in delight, ran up to greet their Aunt Zora. Aunt Zora was carrying a bundle in her arms and Ana knew that it was the red maramica, large enough to cover her shoulders when she went to town, that Aunt Zora made for her birthday. As he stood on the porch, Marko laughed as his sister spun a story of color and sound, as Ana danced a joyful dance, giggling and spinning around with her new maramica flagging behind her in a whirlwind of mesmerizing color, speed and texture. He heard his Aunt laugh with happiness. Slowly, the colors and sounds began to fade, the sun beams rushed back to darkness, he stepped back through the open space, closed the heavy door and fixed the corner of the rug with his toes. He carefully retrieved the faded red maramica from the hook. He walked back to a chair by the fire, and laid the red maramica in AnaÕs hands. Ana took the much loved, but faded maramica and placed it over her shoulders. Marko told her what he saw, of that day of long ago. Ana listens now, as she can only see what he remembers.
Table of Contents
Day 81
I stood on that little rock jutting out of the ground. I was looking into the distance, because only then could I find the determination to do all that I need to do that day. It was in this state that I was at my most susceptible. With my eyes closed, my skin tingled to sleep and did not feel. My mind occupied with the planning and the weaving that he could creep up right behind me, and tug on my pinky finger.
He did so, the little man with the stoop in his back and his eyes all ablaze with ticking clocks. You can hear him coming, with the tick, then the tock, and it is such a drawl you could hardly miss it. But in the state I was, all ablaze with passion and energy, I did not hear the tell-tale sounds through the inferno of myself. He crept up right behind me, and he reached his green hands up, and he tugged on my pinky finger. The hands in his eyeballs rolled with ecstasy as he drained me of my time. They careened about in circles, faster and faster like a flock of seagulls over dinner. All the while I planned, and time was slipping away from me, through my little finger and into the eyes of the Timed Little Man.
He burped suddenly, having his fill, and he let go of my little finger. Stretching back, he sent a series of pops and cracks down his spine, and together with the ticks and tocks of the eyeballs it was quite a series of minuscule cracklings. I was ablaze, a burning bush on a silent hill. He looked up at me one more time, put his hand to his eyebrows in a salute, then tick and tocked off, fat and satisfied with his newly acquired minutes and hours.
A timeless time passed, and I awoke. Looking around, I felt that my beats of time had passed faster than ever expected. The reason for such an occurrence eluded me until I climbed down from the rock, and there at the base were the signs. Imprints, the shape of the hands on a clock, coming to my rock, close together as if walking slowly. They continued, into the distance, growing far apart, as someone skipping with time. With his scarf full of my notes, that man ran away, with all my time, and I had only words and curses to throw in his direction.
The Little Man full of time, he had escaped again.
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Day 82
By handy Pockets
They come and go, touching the dark bookshelf
looking for stories to read, I've done it myself
With gloomy stories where madness can loom
each new word wrapping its teeth to consume
Beware, scary stories can take a toll.
Better to read something soothing to the soul.
Table of Contents
Day 83Told by Handy Pockets
The sun inched closer to the horizon, its rays hot on my face. It was peaceful and with only the sounds of a hot summer day. At first, it was just noise, and I could not tell from where it was coming. Then it grew louder and louder. "Run,Run".
Finally she focused into view. My neighbor was running through the field that divided our houses, she ran with her legs and arms flailing about, as she jumped over the piles left by first her horse, then mine. She leaped through the first fence she ran up to, then yelling again as she continued to run towards meÉ"Run".
I started down the stairs that led from the door, the only thing I can think to do is run towards her. "No" she yells , and directs me towards the open field of hay that was yet to be harvested. I run, I don't know what it is I am to do there, but I run. She stops for a moment to try to catch her breath, with her hands holding her body at a strange angle , resting on her knees, she tells me. " I see them coming" and then "quickly lie down in the field, only flatten the hay you are lying on and look up oh and shhhh". Finally my breathing slows down and I lie there and watch. I don't know what I am looking for, but I know to just watch. Then it happens.
First one, then another and another , an army of dragonflies flying back and forth working the field , grabbing insects and holding them in their two front legs, eating as they work . Back and forth, over and over again. Soon the sun sets and the dragonflies disappear.
I will never forget the day I witnessed the dragonfly army.
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Day 84
I had known her for some time, this girl. Grew up with her, and played with her in my youth. We were that pack of children, the one you can see catching butterflies. We played adventure, with great big imaginary trees and dark fogs. I always liked being the lion, because I loved to roar and walk on my hands and knees. I would scramble around in the taller grasses, looking for the famous Adventure Dan. The rest of them always fought over who was to be Adventure Dan, because he was supposedly the "most importan charactur." I never wanted to be him though, I wanted to sniff and roar and crawl among the weeds, getting my knees all soggy in the nonexistent bogs.
We grew up, both of us in this pack. I don't remember precisely which she played in the Adventure Dan, because I didn't care about her. I think she sometimes played the Damsel, the one that screams and faints. Flopping her hands to her forehead like those wealthy ladies who could not bear the sun. I even overheard one lady telling her husband that it was downright poison to her skin. Imagine, poison. What silliness wealth creates.
Anyways, her name was Delia. Delia... Delia... This first part is short and hard. Del. That is the part that snatches me like a hook nowadays. Then the end of it just lets you slide down like a waterfall. Lia. Lia. You see? It's quite wondrous. I don't know how I missed that when I was young. That name, it was a hook alright, and it had me by the scruff of my neck before I even felt the prick of blood tracing lines down my back. That's the thing about love. Well, not that I know much about, but how can it be anything but love? No other name sounds so nice. It's love, I'm sure. Yeah, she had me with her hooks. Like the claws of the lion I used to crawl around as a kid. She picked me up.
It wasn't without signs either, no. She would look at me that particular way, like I was the only one in the room. Even when she was looking at other people, I knew she was thinking about me, and not listening to the way their lips were moving. When I caught her eyes, I could see the glint, right there next to the brown diamonds. Love, too.
It was meant to be, Delia and Joe. It just sounds so nice together. Besides, everybody knows that people's lives go on without wrinkle unless they do bad stuff. That bad stuff puts all sorts of wrinkles in the fabric of one's life. But I never did anything bad, so I have no wrinkles. Yeah, it was meant to be.
Just yesterday, we were sitting in our small circle, talking and laughing. We don't play Adventure Dan anymore, because we're bigger and don't need to get lost in reeds to have fun. All we need to do is talk. I think we were talking about other people not in the circle that day. A sweater that was particularly ugly, that was probably it. Yes, with lots of red yarn that clashed with the bright green zig zags. My attention wasn't on that ugly sweater worn by the poor kid who wasn't in the circle though, it was on Delia.
It's one of the side-effects of Love, to see all the movements and twitches. I watched the smiles, the adjustments of her hands planted in the grass. And I thought she was watching my movements, how could she not. We're meant to be, you know? I had to make an excuse to go over and sit next to her. I wanted to touch the end of her index finger to show her that we both knew what we both knew. I didn't have an idea, until I felt a small itch on my lower back, and got this great idea.
A few seconds later I was jumping up and down trying to get the giant ants out of my pants. I did it elegantly too, with some grace so I wouldn't disgrace myself. None of that foot stomping business. I just shoved my hands right up my shirt and started plucking air out of it, throwing it on the ground.
When I had enough of my little act, I smiled innocently and told them I got them all, and then sat down next to Delia, as natural as anything. I saw the sideways glance, too. Maybe she caught that it was an act, I don't know. I was pretty convincing.
So I sat right next to her. I waited, patiently, for the time to come when other people were focused on their sweaters or something. The seconds were measured by her small movements and adjustments, the flicks of hair, the twitches of muscle, and the changes in leg positioning. Then it came. They were talking about... I really don't remember. Love wipes your memory clean. She does that, with the handkerchief in her pocket. Oh, I haven't mentioned that handkerchief. It's something, embroidered with a little D on the corner. A sort of lavender color. She took it out once when she had to sneeze. Took it out, and placed it on either side of her nose and gently blew. It was the most graceful thing. And I know that blowing your nose is a pretty crude exercise, but the way she did it, with the handkerchief fluttering like a Knightly flag in the wind... well.
But they say Love changes even the most boring acts into treasured moments. I agree with them, because that handkerchief is just the daintiest little item I have ever heard anyone speak of.
Speak of... right, so they were talking about some other sweater or clothing, and I got all ready.
I crept my hand towards her, and we touched. Gently, but it was a spark. Full of meaning and she looked down at her hand and then at me. It was right there, in those brown eyes. She knew it, and we could just whisper it back and forth with our little touches of fingertips. She took her hand and moved it a few inches away, so we weren't touching anymore. I caught that she didn't want to do anything in front of the group of people. But she also wanted to talk later. I think that later is going to be tomorrow, if I can manage. She always walks back to her house on this one path that goes by a strong iron bench in the woods. I think I'm going to go there, and have some sort of a book, to make it look like it's destiny and chance. That appeals to a girl. They're constantly asking people to tell them their destiny. I don't need stars to tell me what her eyes already do. We will sit on that bench, and I will kiss her. That's what they say people in love do, lots of kissing. Well, I'm in love, so that's what I plan to do. And then we'll get married the day after, or thereabouts. It will be the prettiest little thing. Ah... Delia.
-----
You know, they never told me how complex love was. They never mentioned that eyes can lie, and so can fingertips. I leaned right in, like I heard a gentleman in love should do. She goes bounding off, running faster than I ever could. They tell me love is confusing, so I go after her. I run all the way back to her house, and knock on her windows and doors. She at least had the decency to yell out from a window, "Joe, you are ugly. I don't want any boy! No no NO!" They never mentioned that these little things I saw lied. I'll be sure to pass that message along. Well, Delia is a sweet name, but I guess it concealed that bitter thorn just underneath it. I should have knownÉ
Love is a complex deal, I know that from experience. Be careful with those throned women, they'll take a chomp out of your heart. There was this other girl, Jime. Oh, she has a sweet aftertaste, not like this Delia. Let me tell you about her.
Love's complex, though.
-Joseph Adler
Table of Contents
Day 85
I walked, in silence I did not talk.
While I moved my two feet I looked up, and heard a screech.
Two birds sailed, intertwined and vined their way across the sky.
They careened and carelessly leaned, as if there were no land.
No earth, no dirt, and none of us walking slowly upon it.
We danced once, like that. Once without the earth beneath our toes.
In the silent Gazebo with flowers sublime, we did a tango so shy.
We slipped and tugged, until I considered you mine.
The birds separated in flight, one to the left over the sand, the other to the mountains so high.
But I did not forget, how they spun under the nose of the sun.
I did not forget our tango. And the flowers I hold in my hands attempt to sayÉ
Something I cannot quite.
Where are you, and where am I?
Table of Contents
Day 86
They'll return, in tow birds winged and burned
Opening the shutters of my window, just a crack.
It's a small slit, but the wind blows so hard these days.
It hustles and bustles right into, rigid little ripples in my wallpaper.
It freezes the ornate purple flowers on the walls, blue and stone
A hand scraped down the side, the soft skin.
They'll come tomorrow. Those birds, charred and ashes.
When they do, I will be ready. A small bell hung on my trembling figure.
With each reverberation of fear I will shout out a high pitched metallically defiance.
A stumbling and shivering. The chills come. Those birds come.
Ring, do you hear? They're here.
Table of Contents
Day 87
"You don't know. Stop it."
I gave her a look, she was just trying to avoid speaking about what troubled her. I had seen this before, it was nothing new.
"It is fine, just tell me what happened. I will keep it between you and me."
She folded her arms and continued to sit silently in the chair and look out the window. She was dirty, the only brown mottled thing in a room full of sheer brilliance. I had the walls polished just a few days before. The floor was a nice marble white, and the table at which she sat built from the finest cherry tree you had ever seen. Byorn, the carpenter, had told me that his hands have never touched better, and of course I believe him. He did not tell lies. These people with dirt on their hands, the kind of smudges that fill up their eyes, they never lie to me. They know it's useless. I will instantly discern the truth from their statements so they might as well come clean. I looked back at the dirty lady for a minute, at her poorly woven dress, and the small baby she held in her arms. Perhaps the reason she was so reluctant to tell me what her husband had seen, before he left, was because of the window pane. She is probably not used to seeing such fine. That I had imported, from far away. I cannot quite recall where... but I assure you, it came at a fine price. I needed to know what her husband saw. I wonder why she would not divulge the information I required.
"You can say anything, it will just rest here in this room. Why will you not tell me?"
Her little blue marbly eyes met mine. That was an insult, I was sure of for a moment, but then it could not be. She would not have dared.
"It is none of your business what he saw. None."
"I think it is my business what I say is my business."
I did not want to have to do this, but... if there was no other choice I suppose she could be loosened in other ways. I toyed with the idea of fear, but I was not in the brutal mood. You have to be properly ready for such shows of aggression. On sunny days, where my marble floors have just been polished, I have no desire for violence.
"Could I interest you in something in exchange?"
"No," she said far too quickly, and I could tell she did not mean it.
"I heard the other day from a fellow man, a good one, that just recently your baby has gotten ill."
I waved a hand gracefully at the tight bundle that rested in her arms, and she lifted it to her chest quickly.
"Yes. That's right."
"Well, I know doctors. The best doctors in fact. He could probably help you with your baby."
It was in her eyes, and in her slightly quivering frame. I had her now. There was not a doubt in my mind, I would get this information.
"Doctors?" she posed the question, obviously bartering for time as she slowly gave in to my proposal.
"Only the best for your dear little... son?"
"Daughter"
"Yes, the little girl. How her mother loves her."
"I do."
I let the phrases sink in. I looked briefly around the room. How pleasant it is to look out over the white marble floor, so clean you could always swear it was a sheet of liquid. Something to skid and skim upon, a lovely little lake of shimmering stone. I will have to remember the man's name. I want him to do it again in a few days. He is a genius with a rag and oil.
"So?"
"You said the best?"
"Oh yes, the very best."
-----
I asked the little man to show her out of the room, as a pondered what she had said. It was quite a problem.
"These things keep happening. Now I have more work, and how Joseph Adler despises his work."
The little man came back into the room, his feet making small thuds on the ground beneath him.
"Do you want me to contact the Doctor?"
"No, that will be all. Call me when my soup is ready."
I did not turn to see his expression, but I am quite sure it was ambivalent. A blank slate of marble, just like my floor. He never felt anything. That's why I hired him. He is just like my lovely floors, quiet, unmoving, and cool to the touch.
-Joseph Adler
Table of Contents
Day 95
How could she? All she left was that little silk coat that I gave her once when it was cold. She left the fire on, the chicken in the oven for the dinner tonight, and the baby in the crib. She left all that, and yet she did not leave herself. I knew about her absence the instant I walked in through the door. It was like a mist has descended on the valley, and all I could do was shake my fist at its fuzzy edges. I don't understand why, but all I could look at was that silk coat, it's shimmering white sides frontal in my mind. It was hung over the back of the chair, I bet that she knew I would walk in and see it first. I bet she wanted to show me that she did not need my warmth or my gifts. I suppose I saw this end, and I looked with dim eyes at the future and what it held. I knew she was unhappy. The way she cracked eggs over the frying pan every morning, and wiped her hands mercilessly on her apron. She must have been thinking of my head, cracking those eggs, and my blood wiping off of her white hands onto that white apron.
She didn't talk to me at night. She rolled over and found more interesting conversations in the blank creases of the sheets. I heard her breathing, and it was shallow. She was awake, but when I called gently at night, she snored. I can tell the difference between the real snoring and the fake snoring. The fake snoring is executed in the nose, like she suddenly shoved a small whistle into her throat. It wheezes and whimpers. The real snoring is a deep thing, an emotional exercise. It is beautiful and deep, like an old wife crying at a funeral.
I began to cry like I was at her funeral, right there in the living room, with the soft rug before me and the silk shimmering before my eyes. I collapsed on the floors, and let my shins crack on the ground. I cried like that old lady in my head, wearing all black, her tears trapped in her black veil like flies in a spider's web. She was gone, and she did not want my warmth and my affection. When I reached out my hands at night, to rub her arms when it was a frigid night, she pulled the covers up so that I felt only fabric.
I cried. The baby in the next room joined in my paroxysms, and together we wailed like we were just born out the uterus, because we were. That fresh blast of air hit me, full force, and no more was I breathing the silky smooth liquid that was her presence. The air came tough and dry down my throat. As I cried she galloped away in my head, around her shoulders a wool scarf, black and red, flowing like the blood of another man. The silk coat slipped from where it had and bunched itself in a corpse-like huddle before me. As a final testament, I lifted it, and tore it. I tore it two, in three, in twenty four. She was dead, and the nips of air were all that remained.
Table of Contents
Day 96
Told by Sagewoman
Once upon a time Dark visited the Light. Greetings Light, said Dark. I have come to over shadow you and block you from reaching souls. The Light just laughed and said oh really? This disconcerted the Dark for he was expecting a different reaction. You do not Fear me? he asked Why no said the Light. What is Light without Dark? You are nothing without me as well. Then Light beamed a Smile bright as the Sun at Dark and he was blinded by her Beauty. Not to be out done and fearing for his Soul, Dark grabbed the Light into his Embrace. The Light giggled in DeLight and said, Why Fight when we can be One? From there on out, Dark was always by the side of Light.
Table of Contents
Day 101
My father sat down wearily next to the fire, his chair creaking under his weight. His hands made small circles over his eyelids as he tried to wipe away the fog of the day. It was a long tradition that we would gather in this room when he returned everyday, and he would tell me a story. Sometimes he fell asleep before I did, and when that happened I finished the story myself. Most of the time he managed to keep off sleep though, and his stories would wind themselves to a halt.
He motioned me over. I walked briskly to his legs and then jumped up. He gave a faked "Oof", which I knew wasn't real because I wasn't big enough.
I giggled and said, "Too much boy!"
"Yes, too much boy. Soon you will try to jump and me, and my legs will break. We wouldn't want that so you'll just have to stop growing"
I frowned, "No, I will grow forever and ever."
"Not forever, I hope. I can't feed a giant."
"You will feed me, won't you?"
"No, I won't," and he laughed at my silliness.
"Well I want to be fed now!"
"Okay, yes, yes. A story."
He sat back into the cushion and thought.
"Come on..." I said as I grew bored.
"Yes, okay. What about the Balloon man?"
Who?"
"The Balloon man."
"Who?"
"The man who lives on the mountain."
"I don't know him."
My father smiled. "You will soon."
-----
The balloon man lives on the top of a hill, in a small cubical cabin that is constantly battered by winds. You see, the balloon man lives at the convergence of the wind streams. The wind blows from the north, west, south, and east all at this one point on the tip of this little mountain. You might imagine that the very cabin would be blown right off the tip of that rocky crag, but it does not. The wood creaks and bends as if it were to take flight, but it stays true to its roots. You might be wondering why people call him the balloon man. Have you ever wondered where your balloons go when you release them into the air? You see them grow smaller until they vanish into the distance, but you did not think they simply vanished did you? No, they do not vanish. Nothing can vanish for long. Instead, the balloons blow themselves to the cabin on this little crag, and to the squat little man who goes by the balloon man. He has a red nose, which he constantly rubs and sniffs, and large round glasses. His clothes are often worn, but it is only because it is hard to attain a tailor on top of a crag. This is the story of that man, the one who lives on the edge of the sky, with the balloons floating and bobbing in his living room. As this is his story, I will let him tell it.
----
I can remember clearly the first time I found one of these wayward balloons. It was a small blue balloon, and at first just a discolored splotch of sky, it quickly grew closer and closer, until it hovered just outside my kitchen window. I reached out and plucked it, taking in the small note that was on the bottom of it too. It read, "Please, please, please. I need help. Do not let Kiera get worse."
I took the little note off, and pasted it to my wall, because it was important, but I did not know what to do with it. That was the first, and soon many more came. They came in different colors: shimmers of silvers, magenta, violet, and all sorts of fascia. Always bright, and often with a note attached to the string. Each note I took and pasted to the wall, next to the other, until I found that I could not even seen the wooden grain behind all the wishes and desires. There was Jimmy, from somewhere, who wished for a few coins. There was Larissa who just wanted to be a child once more, and was afraid that her friends might see that she was still afraid. There was Kippler, who didn't know what he wanted, but wanted and desired such that there was a hole right through to his spine. There was Jonas, who still waited for his mother to return with dinner. All these people were on my wall, smiling, crying, or frowning, depending on their mood. But I am just a man, I could not take it. Their stories weighed down on me, and I drudged my feet, and closed my eyes each time I saw another balloon.
I tried to ignore the balloons, but they tapped on my windows and rapped on my door. Grudgingly I took each in, and pasted it on its proper place. Their hurts echoed in my heart though, and I was lost. The wind blew at me from all directions, and their requests fluttered on my wall in the afternoon breezes. I slept the night that I received one note, that said simply, "Living is too hard, so I will let too hard live for me. I will be more appreciated under 10 feet of dirt." I slept, but I did not dream.
I knew there was something to be done, but the route did not present itself immediately. The wind, my once cell guard, became my savior. The wind gusted not towards me, but upwards. First I noticed that the pressure on my walls had ceased, and a strange silence took over. I raced outside and felt the updraft, going straight into the sky. I ran back inside and started ripping note after note off the wall. I gathered them all and threw them out windows, out doors, off porches, up chimneys. I shoveled and raked those notes out of this world, up into the sky where they were sent. The last one, the one that told me life was not good, sat on my two palms as I reread it for the last time. Then it flew into the sky, a bird diving in reverse.
I collect notes still, because if I do not they will not stop knocking. But I now give them to the updraft, every day. I wave goodbye to my tiny white paper cranes. I am the Balloon Man, and your note might just end up with me.
-----
And there he remains to this day. If you were to send a balloon up this minute, it would trace a little path through the sky, straight to his little cabin. And there it would be pasted on the wall, until another updraft came, a sweet salvation in a sea of breezes.
-----
My father lifted me up, slowly, and carried me as a slowly fell asleep back to my room. He lied that day, but I did not mind. The lie was only there to conceal the truth. The truth of the Balloon Man is the beauty, and though I believed in him for a whileÉ
I know the secret.
Someday I will be as important as that Balloon Man. People will send me there requests, because they have no hope. I will take their little strings, tie them in bows around my fingers, and together we will go up.. into the skyÉ
Those far below will call, "Joseph... Joseph..." but I will not hear. I will be high.
-Joseph Adler
Table of Contents
Day 102
I carried my radishes, that I had been growing all season long. I had planted them as the warm glow of summer began to fade. I planted them in arcs of scattered seeds. I gently kneaded them into the ground with my toes, to be sure that they had protection from others. I had watched from my window as they grew, watering when need be. I gazed lovingly at each and every patch. They provided me with life.
Well, perhaps that is an overstatement. At times I was rather harsh towards them. I ignored them, at times, because I had other cares to think about. I often was frustrated at their slow rate of growth, dismayed at the length of the winter. Most of the time, however, I accepted my burden and the extended burden that time had placed on me with a reserve known only to those who till the earth.
The time came when the leaves had the telltale signs of readiness. The signs I recognized because as a child my father had taken me with him and pointed them to me.The slightly browning edges, a strong green stalk: these pointed towards ripeness. I took my children and wife outdoors with me, and our bent backs marked the week we harvested. We harvested many radishes, more than you would have ever seen. We piled them into the wagon, a sea of radishes. We threw them from the field, playing games to see who could get the most in the wagon in a row. Racing through the fields we bent, stood back up, and then bent again, like a wood pecker.
We finished a day earlier than I expected, and so we had a day of rest. Together we spent the day on the porch, gazing out over the fields, now empty, and played cards. I won a few, but my children whose brains are not full of dirt won the majority of the time.
On Saturday I hitched up the horses, and waved goodbye to my family, off to sell my vegetables. I rattled through the dirt paths on my way to the market, smelling the tart radish in my mouth the whole way. The day was bright, the horses strong, and the trip eventful. I set up shop in the square, the same place I had for the past 30 years. It was a little corner plot, fitting in all ways. I sold my radishes, one by one, and though the leaving of the fruit of my labor had a vibe of sadness, the money that jangled in my pocket was far more useful to me. So it went, that every radish had gone but one. It was a rather ugly looking one, and I could not blame anybody for not buying it. It was destined to be thrown to the ground and decompose. But I took it, and put it in my other pocket, the one not filled with jangling coins.
As I was taking down my stall two men walked over to me. They had stern faces, but perhaps they just wanted to talk. I asked them how they were, if they thought anything of the next season, but the did not change their expression.Instead, they launched into telling me how I owed 34 coins, a charge by Joseph Adler, who had bought the square from the Mayor in times of trouble. How ridiculous! I had never paid a sum such as this before. I told them I could not pay it, there was no way.
One of the men glanced toward his hand in his pocket, and I saw the sharp metallic bulge rested squarely there. Death is not worth its weight in coins, so I took out the jangling bits and I counted them out, all 34. It was every coin but one. They took the coins, and as I scowled at the backs of their heads they walked away.
High headed hooligans. They will get theirs, I hope. One day. But until that day comes, it is hard to bear. I took the coin, put it in my pocket, and walked out of town. Just as I got to my horses and my wagon, I reached down, feeling lighter. Sure enough, someone had slipped a wayward hand into my pocket and taken the last coin. An overwhelming sense of desperation consumed me as I considered what my wife would say. I could not return to her, but I had no other option. As I was considering, my left hand brushed against the other pocket, and came across the other lump that I had forgotten about. I took out the radish, and looked at it.
As I headed back home, the radish sat in the mud on the side of the road, considering its troubles as I considered mine.
-Ragador
Table of Contents
Day 116
Two players, one full of hustle and bustle, the other pondering the lilly pads as they floated across his mind. Two people, traveling in opposite directions along a very small path. Too small to walk by without some exchange. The first, the rushed and the hurried, said, "Hello there. Nice day." and made a move to brush right on by the second.
As if from a daze, realizing that his feet were moving and his eyes were seeing, the second said, "Oh, yes. Hello. Very nice day. But they're all nice, wouldn't you agree?"
A touch of color came to the first's face, perhaps out of impatience. "Well no. Today has a particular temperature that is good for walking. Not all days are so fortunate."
The second man considered this proposal very carefully. "Oh, but when it is a bad day for walking, it is a good day for something else. Yes?"
"I suppose. If you'll excuse meÉ"
"But then I suppose there must be some days that are good for nothing! That would be most unfortunate. But even then, the day would be good for nothing, which must surely be a concept. Nothing is.."
"Excuse me"
"... something. I think, anyways. It has always seemed to me that black is a presence. NothingÉ"
"Hello? I need to go."
"... is something quite present. Like you or I. Some people feelÉ"
"Please sir."
"... like nothing." Here the second man realized that the first was speaking, and pondered for a moment, replaying the last moment to capture what he had said.
"You have to go? Where?"
"Well you see, a client of mine asked me to retrieve a certain object of value. On the way my family asked if I would pick up something for the son. He is sick. There is time that does not stop."
The first man continued to enumerate his issues and problems to an incredibly receptive second man. The second nodded, dotting each complaint with a period of motion. When the first man had finished his tirade of tasks, the second said, "Eh. So. I have a question... you seem to be doing a lot for others. What do you want to do?"
"Well, I want to get them done!"
"Are you sure? Nothing else?"
"No. Not at all."
"That is rather sad. Are you positive?"
"Sad! No! There is nothing sad about desiring to finish the tasks prescribed to a man. It is honorable."
"That is one word for it."
"Oh ho. And what would you say about it?"
"I would say that tasks are all fine and dandy, and to get them done is equally brilliant... but there is a special piece of joy I receive from planting myself firmly in my mind."
"When do you have the time?"
"Well, all day."
"Don't people ask things of you?"
"Sure. Sure."
"And do you do them?"
"It depends. Sometimes I tell them I cannot. Others I do."
"I can tell you that I cannot do such a thing and get away with it. It is lazy."
"Oh? I always thought laziness was the absence of motivation."
"It is."
"Well I can tell you that I have a good deal of motivation. I get a lot done. Lots of thinking."
"I would call you lazy."
The second man laughed gleefully. Pleased by the challenge. The first man grimaced, angry at the distraction from his path.
"What."
"It is silly! In the face of evidence and fact, you refuse truth."
"Truth? Hah. Truth doesn't exist."
"Perhaps not."
"If you suggest so highly taking time and thinking whenever the need urges, what would you have me do?"
"What you're doing right now."
"What?"
"What you're doing right now. You are deaf?"
"No, no. I mean what am I doing?"
"Talking to yourself."
"No, I'm talking to you."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes.... no. Yes, I am sure."
"Well! As long as there is the slight chance one man has convinced another of something absurd."
"Absurd?"
"Quite. It is absurd. Absurd is the way you walk quicky to a job and forget to finish the one that takes little effort."
"That job is to talk to myself?"
"You said it, not me."
"Well. According to you, I said both things."
The second man laughed at the first, again, in a slightly more harsh manner.
"Yes! We all say such things. Such things."
"Well, if you'll excuse me."
"Yes, of course. Enjoy your work."
"Enjoy yours."
"Work has ceased to be a relevant subject of conversation. It is the duty to life that precedes the duty to the living."
"Good day."
"They all are."
"Perhaps one day all life will be good for, for you, is death."
"And what a nice day that will be. Goodbye."
The two parted, the first lowering his head and walking quickly, the second strolling off the path into a few bushes. After a few steps, the first looked back and saw no one. He was alone.
"A good day... for nothing. I think I willÉ"
"Finish."
Table of Contents
Day 117Part 1
Today was the day for it to go, I had been preparing myself for weeks. I set it on the shelf, and prepared myself. I stared at it during the mornings when I ate. At dinner, when I ate again, slowly bringing food to my lips. Pitifully I would stare and implore it to leave. It wouldn't go unless I took it, though. I wanted it to sprout legs and leave. Perhaps flight would overcome its sensibilities and it would go out my window. But it did not leave. I knew that I had to carry it out and let it go. Like something... like... I don't know what. Just let it go.
So today was the day. I took it, down from its place that it held for so long. I took it down, and I looked at its pitiful face. The little porcelain pot, that had held the ashes. The depictions of curving glass and shapes on it so surreal. This did not represent anyone's life, it couldn't. It was just ashes. The dust in the room was no more representative than was what the pot held. There it was, right where I had taken it down, a little ring of brown. The empty hole that was left by my moving. That hole clawed at me! I didn't know!
I panicked. I panic now, too. It makes my heart race, and don't you know that there was just so much dust in that room. It scattered at me and told me to put it back. Let it have its friend. I put the pot back, matching precisely the ring that had once been exposed. There was no rest for me. I would look at the pot, and it would ask me to take it down, because the dust I sneezed. And then once I had taken it down the little circle would stare up at me like an eye, and I would put it back, just to cover that spot again. That spot was so awful.
It sat in my hands then, the blue and black porcelain curving shapes and figures into my palms. What did I do? I started to hold onto the pot tighter, because I felt that I was going to drop it, that it was going to plummet to the earth like so many stones thrown over a fence. I clamped my hands onto it, and I started to sweat. My sweat was going to make me drop it, I know it would. But then something strange. As if my hands met each other in the middle, and I don't know how, but the dust swirled everywhere. It was all around, and it was gone. The little circle stared at me, just like the pot once did, but luckily I was able to pick up the shards of pottery and throw them outside.
I bought a small little figurine of a bird, a little glass thing made by some man in town. I put it on the brown ring. It didn't stare at me anymore. No, it didn't stare, but I did. I stared right back at it. Something wasn't right, but maybe this wrongness will eventually feel like home. I will get used to my little tin can hut of a heart.
Part 2
Today was another day. I told you about the last one, do you remember? The one where the dust invaded my nostrils and just would not allow me to breath. Well this day had a breeze, a draft that came in one window and sunk its way out. I also remember how I bought that glass figurine and how I covered the brown ring that stared at me. I remember that, and yet I cannot remember what happened to her. I remember breaking the pot, I remember the little blue and black shapes and figures. But where is her face? It is not here in my head. It might have vacated me when I broke it apart and threw it down.
Today is the day though, that I also forgot other things. I forgot why. I forgot who. But that is another day's day story. I took the little glass shape and I took it down. I moved it from a place where it was fulfilled a task I had asked unfairly. I moved it, and I put it on my desk. It sits there, in a new spot, and covers no brown ring. The brown ring is still there. Perhaps it always will be, but as the wind blew, a piece of it was smudged. It was broken. Still there, still staring, but now it seemed to have a tear in the corner of its eye. I found I did too, and so we sobbed together, the little brown ring and I. Here is what I realized though, here is what that tear in the corner of its eye meant to me. She was dead long before she became ashes, and long before her pot came to have an obsession with giving me guilt. She was dead long ago, even though her body lived on. It was set for her and she met it with bravery. It was only I who was the coward. I was forcing that glass figurine to be my shield, to brave what it was my duty to brave.
The teary eyed brown ring continues to stare, but I am something to stare at. Something absurd and silly to observe. Then I had a thought: this little brown ring was here eye, watching my mechanic motions. This was her crying for the time I wasted. Death! Hah. Death laughs at the life spent on it. I realized that I had died too, and that I just had not figured it out yet. I realized that all of life was cheating death, that in truth we were dead the moment the fresh air hit our faces. We were dead, and we just all come to the realization at different times. Once we get there though, this process of being dead becomes a lot easier. Although I am dead, I still have life, because I need to make up for my acts towards that birdie glass. I have a couple more motions to fit in, but the day I come to my desk and there is a brown ring that has formed around the base of the bird I will know it is time to stop running from what is here. Then, though. Then, and not now. For now I will enjoy my little sobs of futility.
And I suppose this is what life is all along, eh. Death in a cheap coat of sequins.
Table of Contents
Day 120
The smile was what you would notice first. It was warm, it was sunny. It reached your eyes first, with sparkling teeth. They were like pebbles, bleached white by the constant motion of water over them. Those pebbles in the streams, they are tossed and turned around, and carried from one place to another with no control over their hurtling bodies. She was that way. The only thing she had control over was that skin she wore, and those sparkling teeth. Truly, they were a work of art. Perhaps she brushed them diligently every day. Perhaps she woke up in the morning just so that she could look in the mirror and see them winking back at her in the soft feel of the morning.
When you first saw her, it seemed that the world was going her way. I imagine her like that sunlight directly after a cloud has passed. It is a bright day, but there are clouds in the sky. Then you look around and everything looks dull, and it is because a large cloud has obscured the day. You don't notice the onset of the black, but the reapparance of sunlight is apparent and stark.
So she was like that. Like a girl who had things in her back pocket that she knew and you didn't.
I said hello, and I smiled. Soon after I opened my mouth to copy my gesture, I stopped short and hid my teeth again. Mine were yellow, and too sharp at the edges. Good for chewing, bad for spewing. Instead, I had the edges of my lips fly upwards. My eyebrows mimicked the motion.
It was as if she didn't even see me. Her teeth continued to sprinkle joy and relief, and I continued to stare diligently at them. That was the danger though, I see it now. She soon walked past me, and I was left staring at the darkened places left in my field of vision.
They say staring into the sun too long can make you blind. I didn't believe them, so I stared into the sun, because I was certain there was some sort of beautiful object to be seen. Everybody was going to miss it, and me, I was going to catch it and tell everyone of my cleverness.
A few days into my determined adventure I gave up. Instead of seeing something beautiful, all I could see when I blinked was a black hole in the middle of my vision.
Gaping and guffawing at my foolishness. That's what I thought it did. So I stopped staring at the sun. And staring at her teeth was like staring at that round circular object.
I've said once, I'll say it again: that was the mistake. Thinking back a few days later I realized that I had not the slightest idea what her face looked like. Not her hands either, or her feet. But most starkly, her eyes were blank to me. I didn't meet her or see her. I just met her teeth, and even those now were just dark splotches of memory, fading fast into dervishes of dust.
It wasn't until later that I had the chance to meet the woman I had once knew intimately through the white pillars between her lips. It was when I looked up, and saw her. Looked into her eyes, this time. She cried to me. That was when I knew, that everybody just looked at her big blazing glory of ivory. They didn't see the small globules of water forming just as the tips of her eyes. As she passed with her bright beaming, I smiled again. With my teeth. I showed her my yellow ugly teeth that looked like an old man's fingernails. I was proud. I was proud, because she looked at them, and quickly looked into my eyes. And there she stayed, as a little dash on my pupil. Her teeth stayed black dots of nothing. My smile stayed haunting. I laughed a short guffaw.
Maybe now she knows what happiness is all about.
Table of Contents
Day 123
There are things that I never want to forget. There are moments, just like this one we are in right now, were there seems to be a silvery globe of rainbow surrounding us. Moments held in a little soap suds bubble, something shimmering. I used to watch little bubbles as they glowed and faded. I would place my finger against the side of the bubble and watch as an eruption of rings took over the bubble. Soon after the rings had vanished, the bubble was destined to pop, and my hand was spattered with the remaining liquid.
I can remember perfectly scenes like that. Snapshots in time that have no meaning. I can remember the time when I dipped by big toe into a particularly cold part of the lake, and I thought I had lost it. It was so frigid, it seemed as though a fish had been hiding in the sand, and the moment I broke the surface it had bitten and swallowed my toe. Exclaiming I pulled my foot out, shocked to find the toe still attached and solid.
I can remember quite clearly the smoothness of skin, the feeling that it was not somebody but some thing. Running my hands down the back, not skin, not silk, not anything. Air.
The effervescent smells of baked bread come back without a time or a place. It wafts beneath my nose, as if it always were here, and never will leave. Then, when it does in fact fade, I forget it, and it was as if it never was.
All these wonderful little trinkets of self I have packed away in my pockets. Sometimes they feel just brimming with squares of past squabbles and spheres of splinters in thumbs. Other times I grope erratically for the thoughts I desire, internalized somewhere, if only a light switch to see where. These pockets are cruel, though. They do not let me choose what to put in. I throw all sorts of bizarre memories at them as I pass through my lifetime, and some of the best memories fall out that little hole in the bottom.
Another memory: my mother softly cooes to me as I receive a present. It is small, too small to hold anything of value. She says, "the best things come in small packages."
Maybe my little pocket full of awkward shapes is like that snippit of motherly advice. Those precious memories are small, marbles that can bounce and roll around in my pocket until they fall out.
For instance, I cannot remember the first time I met Handy Pockets.
I cannot remember the first time I smiled.
I cannot remember the feeling when I lost someone I loved.
I cannot remember what it felt to stand on top of a mountain and to feel alive.
All these and more I forget, lost somewhere on that path I walk, as those marbles jingle in my pockets
Yes, all of these I lose. It is tragic, but at the same time there is a small reprieve that I will share with you know. A secret, unlike many others have told before this precise point. The best memories are not marbles or pieces of glass, left carelessly in the large pocket of memory only to slip away into the seems. Oh no, I cannot allow my mind to be so careless. The best memories are rings. Rings of silver, and as any piece of jewelry, they are stored in a box, made with tight junctions and firm wood. All these rings exist inside the box. Distinct memories of precise times and just-so days.
But you see... I have ten fingers, and ten toes. How many rings can I put on at once? Surely not too many. So each morning, I reach blindly into the box, as you would to turn off an obnoxious alarm, and I retrieve twenty memories at random. Which memories did I retrieve today?
All of my secrets are not meant to be revealed at once, that much I know. Rest assured, however, that the memories are sweet. They drip with delight. My silver rings rest, secure. Some memories are too precious to lose. And so you are. Yes you. Too precious to slip away. Whether we remain together, you will rest as a silver ring with a small engraving.
I will ruin another secret for you. The engraving is as follows:,
"For days, for nights, for all of the above without fight or flight. For hearts, for starts. Most of all, for growth. For the most. For things never lost.
The petals may die, the tree may fall, but the beauty of blossoms rests firmly implanted on the soul. Forever."
Table of Contents
Day 133
It was a sundried evening. The earth looked like someone's chapped lips. Too many gusts. I remember thinking that the rain had better come soon. These dusty praries cannot take much more. It felt as if everything was sitting on a tiny needle, about to go careening off into space. I had felt that way for a while, but most of the time it was on the inside, in that scratchy iron wool part. You know the one. It gets caught up just as you start to cry. Or when death strikes. But now that the teeter-totter instability was not just internal but also environment... I hardly knew what to do.
It was perhaps because I was as sundried and pruned as the ground on which I walked that I went into the woman's hut. I was walking along, primarily concerned with nothing, but staring at my feet, and a piece of dead leaf flew into my eye. At first I did not notice, but soon I was rubbing my gently sobbing eyeball. Gently massaging, but feeling no better. Directing my gaze upward, I fingered the eyelid, trying desperately to alleviate the source of my discomfort.
It was in this heavenward position that my good eye made the shack out of the haze. It was bitterly built out of redwood and oak planks. There were a few nails sticking out of the sides, but against all odds it appeared to be old and long-lasting. Perhaps a good deal of tender care went into its upkeep, making sure it looked ugly enough to avoid notice, but not derelict enough to collapse. The reason it caught my attention was the fact that it looked too perfectly misshapen. True random chaos is something I have always considered impossible to be built by human hands. Our body works in such methodical and patterned ways, that anything we touch organizes itself under our slightly sweaty palms.
This shack did not fit in the natural landsape. My considerations were curtailed by a large cloud of dust, which encompassed my self and painted the world a dull autistic brown. Remembering the direction and distance to the hut, I closed both eyes and felt with my feet, until my right foot hit something solid. I reached out, and by luck happened upon the doorknob.
The inside smelled of the earth. Not just any earth either, but a taste of earth that had long been elusive to my palette. It was the smell of wet clay. I opened my eyes, which had rid themself of plague, and found myself in an artist's workshop. There were figurines of the most beautiful scenes our landscape and personel had to offer. Among the mournful red faces that looked back at me, I recognized a few people from the town. The shapes were not correct, but the essence could not have been more clear. It was if even if that piece of clay was molded into a shapeless figure we would still be able to tell who it represented. It was powerful. A shock to my senses was quickly coming. There in the corner there rested a pale face, human and made of flesh.
The artist herself, with a grimace and a grin told me, "You can't be here."
Trying to be polite, "Your piece are beautyÉ"
"I didn't invite you. You didn't knock."
"I'm sorry, I didn't think anybodyÉ"
"This is private property. Can't you see that? Are you blind?"
"I think that's a rhetorical quÉ"
"Stop talking. About anything."
She got up from her stool and walked stiffly over to me, her wispy hair making smoke lines behind her. Pieces of red clay were stuck to her face, as if the residue from a glued on mask.
"You are not to tell anybody. You are to leave. Goodbye."
I made a motion to stop, but she had strutted over to me, and was pushing me with surprising force towards the exit. As I was turning around to combat the newfound motion, I saw on the shelf myself. The minute I recognized it, she knew too, and we paused, as if clay figures made by her own hands, caught forever in life. Then she broke our mold, and pushed me out the door.
I was standing out on the thirsty earth again, knowing full well what had occurred. I could not help but think back, standing outside that hut, of an incident I had witnessed previously.
A visiting painter had come to town, and hung up their works in a room. We all came to see the rare treat of art, and as I walked around and looked I mentioned to a woman that I admired these paintings and thought they particularly masterful. She turned to me and said, "They are mediocre. Do not flower them with compliments."
I then pondered her critical nature and said, "Why don't you paint?"
She laughed and said, "I let the art to the artists."
She let the art to the artists, because what she created was apparently only good enough for a few pieces of old wood in a dusty wasteland of thirst, dying to be her next piece. She picked up the dirt and molded it. Picked it up and molded it into a figurine of pain and suffering. She hung it by the rafters in her heart, and whispered to it, "You are ugly. Ugly hands make ugliness. It is a disease."
And with their mobile of disease and famine created, she spun it and was swept away in the wind of the turbine. Don't you see? Life is cruel, full of thirst and hunger.
We are crueler by far.
Table of Contents
day 145
Cold day. Wind blowing. The edge of Storm's Coast. Coming outside of the long dark tunnels of the underground, there were a few people gathered toward the edge of the cliff. Their words swirled around their heads and left them quickly, tuned out by noise and swarms of waves. Mist was sprayed up in a rhythm, as the waves rushed the cliffs again and again, an army knocking on the door of the castle. Crushing, but not crushing. Something stifled, though.
I was spoken to before I could speak. "Hello Awiiya." Two women, one man, though the man stared off as if struck by death.
Pleasant conversations were exchanged, about things such as, "Did you complete this quest? Or perhaps that?"
Yes, no, and it was too hard was exchanged back and forth. The airy conversation tripped, and took a slide, as I led it along a wholly new thread.
"The Ocean looks beautiful today. As if it could just swallow us whole, and no one would know. And perhaps no one would care."
The half-melodramatic comment prompted one women to splurge into a theatric display of histrionics.
"I think I am going to jump."
"Jump where?"
"Into the water. It would be nice."
"It would not be nice, I think. It would be cold."
"Cold is nice."
"Death is not."
"Death will just be. It cannot be too bad."
We remained quiet and joined the man in his singsong silence. She took a step forward, tantalizing the edge with her toes. Running them along the corner, feeling the spray come, then fall. It came quick, fell fast. I wasn't going to stop her. If she jumped, I would not stop her. My arms would reach out for her if I tried, they would miss, grasp air, and like smoke they would evaporate around me. Apparitions of ghostly people they once were. She took another step forward, and like a whip crack the other women grabbed her arm and threw her to the ground near the entrance to the tunnel.
"It's not worth it" she said more full of emotion that should have been expected. It was illogical
"You are to stay right there. Suicide is a hopeless endeavor. It's worthless. Your life, on the other hand, is worth something."
I looked from one to the other, motionless, emotionless, and less than this. I waited. Then I felt it, the bubbles gurgling in the locket that swung and swiped. I tugged at the lock, and kept it down. Tight because it felt good to not feel. The beautiful paradox overwhelmed and logic returned. I was cold, and I wanted to be warm. Raising my hand I waved to the three and left, having accomplished something, if not clear to me what.
The locket swung in my chest. They saw it swing, and they did not understand. Disgust was across their face, but nothing was across mine, and that was what mattered.
Table of Contents
Day 147
She sat in a green garden, vibrant and voracious. It seemed on the verge of swallowing her into its leafy edges and angles. There she sat, teetering on the tongue of this mother nature. Lapping and licked she sat and stared down. She wore white. A dress, with no pattern, and no frills. Her hair, a light brown, draped down, though it adjusted itself, uncomfortable always. Then her paper. White as her dress, and blank. The pen in her hand as black as the paper was white. Two contradictions bound together to create.
The sun was hot, and it shone down on her skin and rebounded against the walls and gradients. Craning her neck upwards she brought in the sunlight, let it into her brain, and wrote about it. The black lines flowed as they described the day. Her hand clasped tightly around the pen as her mind unfolded itself, like a lotus, white.
She wrote it from start to finish, not pausing, whispering the rhymes to herself, tasting them before committing them to the blank space that lay in front of her.
She finished the last stroke with a air of accomplishment and significance, and then picking up she pranced to a man sitting down a few feet away.
"Here, read this. It is good. One of the best."
He set down the gentle cocktail that he was sipping, and began to pass his eyes over the letters and words.
When he finished, he smiled and said, "A lovely poem."
"What do you think?"
"I think it is good."
"Good?"
"Yes. Good."
She craved more words. She wanted him to observe how she had cast the sun as an actor in her short play. A pastry was good. Poetry.. was art. Good?
"Nothing else?"
"Well, I like it."
She breathed in, wanting more, but said, "Okay."
"Okay" he ended, and picked his glass back up, a fixture attached to his body. The paper in his other hand seemed foreign, and she took it back with a grab.
"What's wrong?" he asked, surprised at the sudden action, "What did I say?"
"Nothing, you did nothing." She walked away, and sat back down at the table where she had blew life into 2d space just moments before.
Closing her eyes, she tried to let the sun wash away both the inspiration she had felt before and the sadness she now felt. A crinkle of the paper in front of her, a gust of wind, and before she could open her eyes, a small robin had landed and taken the paper. She saw it flying away, an awkward shape, the paper twice its size. "No!" she cried out, but the robin had won. It had retrieved her art, never to be returned. She sighed, softly, and full of grief.
"Maybe he will like it better." She sat, imagining the robin reading her poetry to its babies, clicking and squeaking in the newborn infancy. Full of naivety, unknowing of the sadness there was.
"Squawk." she said quietly, and slowly bent her pen into an unusable disfigurement of black. The ink ran down her arms, but she did not mind. It wrote squiggles on her arms and on her dress, and she was a living poem. Breathing, sifting, and whole. But no one saw. No one but her.
"That was brand new!" he said, but she did not hear. She was too busy reinventing a world that was not hers.
Table of Contents
Day 152
Flight, flying. Silver scruffs of that airy substance. Wings. Birds. Up in the air, ruffling. Small beak, eyes black and cold. No happiness, but no sadness. Just float, flying, soaring. Spiraling on the updrafts of billowing air. Pillows of wind and breeze blooming underneath the widespread wings. Most beautifully of all the sun on the back, soaked through. So accustomed to being soggy with tears that this outburst of glowing radiance was unusual. Soon soaring and relaxed into the rhythmic pulls of sunshine. All of this excursion seemed to be a melody. The breeze, the sun, the clouds, all suspended in this gelatin of sky. There are those beautifully hung pictures in museums, with sheets of glass to protect their carefully crafted lines of red, green, and paint. Look with the eyes, do not stare with the fingers. This moment of ease and stretch was good, like a painting.
Until he touched it, breaking the glass with a quick stroke of a needle. Then he rubbed his hands all over the painting, smudging lines, smearing paint. It was unrecognizable.
-----
He shook her shoulders, trying to retrieve her from her reverie.
"Your dress!"
No response, and the smile stayed firmly implanted on her face. Carefree. Not quite happy, not quite sad, almost a dangerous nothing. She did not own her body anymore - he did.
"Get up, you have made a mess of yourself! Look what I now have to take care of. You are always so hard on me."
Growing tired of her unresponsiveness, he raised a hand and smacked her across the face. Her eyelids flipped open, and stood wide.
"Now you awake."
Her cheek grew red were he hit her, but she did not raise a hand to gently touch it. Perhaps she did not feel it.
Grabbing her elbow, he raised her to her feet and pushed her towards the house.
"Change out of that dress. It is ruined with the ink that you prize for your childish scratches and poems."
She stopped moving a few feet from the doorway, and turned her head to stare back at him.
"What do you want? I have had it with you. Here is a secret: your poems mean nothing. No one has any interest into what you are feeling. No one cares what I think either. I have tried to protect you from the cold hard indifference of the world and others, but that is the truth. Now you live with it as I do."
She wanted to say something. She wanted to prove him wrong with a powerful word, perhaps just one. She wanted to express a myriad of ideas, of thoughts, and of feelings. Instead, she was as cold as the white dress that had once meant their love. Her prison bars made from lace, her fortress not of bricks but of green leaves and ivy.
"Go upstairs. I am tired. I need to go to work."
"You have never told me what you do."
"It doesn't matter. Go change."
Shutting her lips tightly, and pivoting around a hand now planted on the doorframe, she did as he suggested.
She was upstairs. She was alone, and she had to find a way to take off the dress. She gently touched the black spots. They were dirty and ugly, small indignancies on the pure and judgmental cloth. The ink formed splotches instead of the words that she had tried to make them shape minutes before. They had defied her will. They had created out of seeming chaos orderly blurbs and dots.
It was not that she could not do it, like she had done at the end of many a day. Caressing one of the especially large black smudges, a will overcame her, and she threw the dress to the ground. Standing starkly naked, her head pivoted and surveyed the room. Nothing to watch her. Nothing to see her. She ran down the stairs and back out into the garden, her hair now a tangled mess. Now she was not alone. The birds and bugs all watched. The moment passed, as quickly as it had come, and she gave a small yelp at realizing what she was doing.
"I am naked! What am I doing here." she said, the way you would chide a small immature child.
She covered her chest with one hand, and quickly moved back inside.
"He is right. No one cares. The birds want the material, not the words. I wonder. Who cares?"
She said things like this as she went back upstairs to change, as he had suggested.
"Curry sounds nice. I have something I leftÉ"
--------
What was that something? That kite in the air? Do you see how it appears from a far to be a free being? Do you see how it flits and turns as a fairy? It is not free. No, there is an invisible string holding it down, preventing it from rising up and defying the master of nylon and wood. Will it break free? Will it? Will it burn in the eternal downpour of sun? What splotch now hides on the insole of your eye.
Table of Contents
Day 166
It lay in front of me, with no more than the warning of "leave your name here" to prepare me. But it did not phase me. I knew that I had only to keep heading forward, and I would the end would be mine. I set out with a powerful stride, footsteps echoing off the stone, hair wafting around up and down. There were many footsteps in the dirt that I was treading on, but the noise of others soon thinned out as I charged deeper and deeper into the maze. Spirits high, arms charging forward, I was unstoppable as the passing of time.
For the first five minutes, that is. After that time had passed I started to breath heavily and my feet stopped moving swiftly. "Oh, this is a lot more adventure than I am accustomed to." I had taken off quite a bit to swallow, and my wind came hard and long. "Oof oh. Oof oh." I had to clutch my sides from all that almost jogging walking. I held my hand out and steadied myself against on the labyrinth walls, and then allowed myself to collapse down into a sitting position, my back to the cool stone, my foot splayed out like a lost man.
With my eyes half opened, I smelled something. It was the familiar scent of a familiar person. Peace! Yes, she had gone this way, only a few moments before. I knew it was her by the sweet scent, which left an aftertaste of metal. It was similar to Pamplemousse's, but lacked the organic and natural feel that marks the lady of Grapefruits. It was more artificial and cold, and perhaps some might even say dead.
I got up immediately, and though I still had not caught my breath, I set after her. I did not care how tired I was, I just knew that I had to beat her in this race. There! I heard her voice, and there were her pattering feet on the other side of the wall. I set off jogging, but soon found myself incapacitated once again. "Too much... time in the Cabin. I am out of shape." I groaned as my lungs burned. "Why did I stop training..." Books make lovely exercises for the soul, but I could not win a race with that mightily strong finger that turned so many pages. Her footsteps subsided into the distance, and silence overcame me once again. That scent remained, though, and it was infuriating and defeating all at once. I did not want to loose, but my body was not nearly so competitive. It became a cycle: my competitive nature would overcome my fatigue and I would start into a jog after her again, and then the pangs would take over and I would sit down with my head lolled back. "Oh, goodness gracious. This is silly. Is there a faster way?" But no, this was the hard work of manual labor. Walking turned into quite a difficult task. Huff, puff, huff, puff, I went as I rounded corners and walked down hallways. Her scent grew stronger. Her voice and feet, however, were quiet. This was strange to me, until I rounded a corner and found her sleeping body.
Oh! This reminded me of a story I had heard of races before. One was fast and speedy, but then fell asleep in arrogance. The other, slow and steady, won because he never gave up. She must be the hare, and I must be the tortoise. It all made sense. The past does repeat itself, they say.
I smiled smugly to myself, and tiptoed past her, trying hard to control my breathing and not awake the sleeping lady. From then on out it was easy. I rested when tired, and walked when energized. Her scent did not leave me, but that did not matter as I was now ahead of her. She could not possibly catch up to me now. Quicker than the time seemed, my leisurely walk was at an end and I was staring at a gate with a sign. "You have won! Congratulations. Step through the gate." I smiled, pumped my fist triumphantly, and was whisked rapidly away to the island of Golemus. At the top of Mount Kelle'tha I thumped down, and looked around to see who my fellow winners were. Pamplemousse was there, Grido, among other faces I did not recognize. My stomach dropped. There was a face I recognized all too well. The lady with the dead scent, Peace.
"But... the tortoise and the hare... it was... analogy.... huh?" She smiled. "Illusions are great things. I left that one there just for you, as I couldn't help but overhear you plotting to yourself in the hallway over."
"But what! That is so unfair. It matched the story perfectly." She shrugged her shoulders, and walked down the pathway at the other side of the plateau. As she passed out of sight, she called, "Besides, I'm not a hare and you're not a tortoise, though you certainly move like one.
Table of Contents
Day 176
A dark room. A number of close relatives are crying. Another funeral, which is an end to begin. You can often tell who was close to the now deceased man or woman by the reactions, and more specifically their styles of crying. The bereaved aunt, with her mascara encrusted eyes, is the one least affected. She might even be happy that the man that made her feel so insufficient is now gone. The quietly sobbing daughter, her feelings are true. But all signs in this case point to recovery. What of the son? With anger in his eyes. How could life throw cards down and slaughter hope this way? It was not fair. Expect a few rounds of punches in the coming weeks, but he too recovers.
The granddaughter sits silent. A life of mourning. Logical, gone. And so her eyes sit silent and stable in her face as her part of the estate is read.
"To Her - the painting that I have kept all my life, given to me by my grandmother. Listen carefully: it has great value, and deep meaning. Find the meaning, and your life will be at peace."
The painting in question is a simple style, by no means painted by a great artist. On the left is the scene of a party. It's vibrant hues of oranges, greens, and a magenta or two thrown in for good measure instantly attract the eyes. Smiling females, men gently leaning forward to tell lewd jokes. Ask for dances. The children running around the feet, gleeful in their youth. The eyes, after growing accustomed to the bright paint of the left are caught off guard by the small suited man on the right. He sits alone at a table, and what was once a confetti palette turns strikingly into monotone. He stares directly out of the painting. Perhaps at you, perhaps at the man behind you.
She kept the painting for years. Flowing into a schedule, she got up each day, stared at the painting, then ate breakfast. She wrote in countless black books that lined her walls - theories, thoughts, ideas, leads. All having to do with the painting. She analyzed it, she ran her hand along it. Even learned braille to tell whether or not there was a note left in a series of bumps left around the painting, which anyone else would have seen as flaws. She was able to live this lifestyle only because others in the family paid her expenses.
They expected, at first, that she would get better. They had all the hope in the world that in a few weeks, perhaps, the granddaughter would be ready to return to her school which she left for the funeral. But it never happened. Each week the daughter would ask, "Are you ready?" and each week the granddaughter answered simply, "Ready for what?"
"To return, of course."
"To return to the painting? Yes."
She would get up from the table, sofa, bed, or whichever piece of furniture the daughter had assaulted her on. She would return to it, the work, and analyze more. Imagine, create, and try to puzzle out this last question.
His other questions rang in her ears as she looks at the swirls of color. "What do you think: is it best to be alive yet dead, or dead yet alive?" That was the first odd question he lobbed at her. Her answer was, "Alive yet dead! At least you are still alive." There were others, "Are you happy?" To which she always replied yes. "Do you love me" Again a yes.
She sat down, and ate in front of the masterpiece. Her life passed before her. She sat on the banks of the river of time and saw people in elegant sailboats go by. They waved at her. She did not wave back. She started to forget to eat. It started with a meal here, a meal there. Breakfast, lunch. But then she started to go days without food. Her ribs started to show their her pale skin, like sticks expanding a dead pelt. The daughter noticed, but was afraid. She no longer had control of her, and she assumed that she would turn herself around. The real reason was embarrassment. The daughter had a hard time with reality, especially after he father died. She did not know how to start the conversation about eating. About her unhealthy habit. And so, fear was added to the list of things that started to gnaw away at the life blood of the scrawny girl who sat and stared at art. The less she herself ate, the more the demons in the dark ate her. They licked her toes, bit her ears, and broke up her soul among them, devouring with burps of delight.
Before she knew it, the question he asked so long ago became a real choice. "Alive yet dead, or dead yet alive?" She did nothing. Chose neither life nor death, just as she declined to eat. She withdrew. The middle ground of apathy. And so, just as she treated her own life with the nonchalance of a suicidal madman, life too treated her without deference. It swiped her off the table like so many flakes of dust. She was gone.
Yet another funeral was held, and the same characters played their now trite parts. The tears, the anger, the wallowing and sadness. After the ceremony, however, the daughter made her first decision. She acted, and she took a large sheet and covered the piece of art for good. No one else was going to die because of the words of a madman. And so time passed again, a wound now healed.
Many years later, a relative of the family, after yet another death, started to sell old artifacts that the family had kept locked away. One of those artifacts was this fated painting. The relative managed to find a buyer, a man, who wanted a piece to hang in his family room. At the sight of it, the man exclaimed, "Oh! What a wonderful piece!" He continued, with the following: To me, it represents the idea that one needs to live their life to the fullest. There is no time to sit in the corner like this man here.
Table of Contents
Day 191
Opening the first box, it was evident that the girl was trying hard to be excited.
"Oh...! It is, lovely."
Her parents looked on at her expectantly, there faces almost a grimace, hoping that their purchase would provide the elation they so eagerly desired.
"Your father and I thought it would be just what you needed. I mean, you have always mentioned that your old shoes are tattered... and you need a new pairÉ"
The box held a jet black pair of rubber boots. They were awkward and chunky, something that perhaps a small child would wear, when they could not yet manage to keep their feet out of puddles and mud. She felt that she was far past the stage in which she needed this type of shoe, and quickly found herself comparing them to the sleek and sequined pair she had seen in a store window. She hadn't mentioned them to her parents, fearing they would find them impractical and silly.
The shoes, in truth, were well built and sturdy, likely to last years, and only the color would fade as time passed. All the girl could see was the lack of color, the boring design, the chunky and all to conservative stylings.
"Yes, I did say that."
Perhaps sensing her true feelings, her parent's faces fell gently into a less expectant position.
"As always if you don't like them, I'm sure we can return them. If you want."
"No... they will work fine."
She wanted to scream out that she hated these shoes, she hated their pathetic attempts to please her. She wanted to leave, to be alone, but she pretended to like them, if only out of habit. Her mother moved in with her arms open as if to hug her, but then paused, as if turned suddenly to plastic. After the awkward moment had passed, the mother satisfied her need for physical contact with a pat on the shoulder. Smiling, the girl said, "Really. I love them."
-----
A rapping on the window. Tap, tap, and the girl flew over her bed to open it. There in the frame stood her man, the one she had been seeing secretly for months.
He smiled and kissed her, "Happy Birthday."
She smiled brightly and said, "What did you bring me?"
In response, he jokingly waggled a finger at her and said, "Surprise. What did you get from your parents?"
She sighed and said, "New shoes."
"What about the old ones? They have character. They were the first thing I noticed about you when we met."
"I doubt I'll ever wear the black monstrosities. I love the old ones, worn as they are. They have a comfort... a beautyÉ"
He nodded and grabbed her hand suddenly, "Let's go!"
In three short breaths they were pouncing through the night, running on the pavement. Wordlessly they traveled through the night, a night as black as the shoes that lay gathering dust under the bed.
"Where are we going!"
"We're going where we're going. Shhhh."
She shut her mouth, but as her lips touched they formed a grin, and that grin crept into her eyes. The first time they had smiled all day.
Near a small hill, he stopped running, and she paused behind him. The only sound was crickets and tree branches, creaking with the chirps. He turned around and covered her eyes with his hand that smelled of cinnamon. Leading her with his other hand, he calmed he protestations with gentle shushing. A few seconds later, he released his grasp and she saw they were on the top of a gentle slope, looking over the speckled city lights. On the ground was a cake frosted with curling patterns, and a small candle. She gasped, and found no words.
"I love you," he said gently into her ear.
They came to her mouth, finally, and they were meant, "Thank you."
Table of Contents
Day 226
The man in charge was stiff, like his starched collar and sleeves. His hands were held tightly behind his back, and his lips held a grim expression, pressed tightly together, as if they might fall off if given slack. The eyes darted from one person to the next. His job was to find someone to fill a vacant position. The last man who did the job had vanished the night before. Rumors were that he drowned, but those stories are often the larger shadow cast off a smaller matter. The issue at hand, the one that caused his body to tense up so much it almost burst into a fit of shivers induced by stress, was that there were no more men in the audience that stood before him.
The call had gone out a few weeks prior. "Come! Work for us! Higher pay than a lot of other jobs!" Hardly anyone paid attention to the flyer, instead trodding over it after the nails no longer held the papers to posts. The ones that did read it, and believed the less than factual claims, were all young, inexperienced, and naive. They were high off of that sweet tonic known only to the young and the proud. Mellowed by an easy childhood, they had been lulled into the belief that they were capable of anything. The notion of, "If I try my best, I can complete any task" had sunk in deeper than can possibly be healthy. The truth, that sometimes people are less competent than others, is a harsh reality best taught in the earlier days of a long existence.
So the man, with his knotted shoulders and nervous eyes, looked from boy to boy, and found none worthy of the place. The man himself had been appointed to the job at a young age, and his stress was a result of far too many years of being asked for more than could be achieved. The yells and groans of similarly stressed superiors was a sound all too familiar. Here in this moment it echoed, again and again, and they told him that he could not go to bed tonight without choosing someone.
"Well. You all know what you are here for. Thank you for responding to the fliers we sent out. There remains but one task for me to choose who is to get the job."
He paused and withdrew a few sheets of paper from a pocket.
"Write down on this piece of paper your reasons for wanting the job."
He would notify the winning candidate that night.
He extended a hand with the papers held tightly between his index and thumb. They each took one, and sat a distance from each other to formulate their answers. Writing on stones and trees, their words had marks and scribbles from the bumps and imperfections of the surfaces they chose. One by one they returned the sheet, and then set off back to their own houses.
----
The man read through the responses one more time. There wasn't a clear winner in the entire pile. He rubbed his eyes, willing that perfect candidate to appear. Sighing one final and heavy time, he threw the papers into the fire and watched as they crumpled and browned, devoured by the flames. Pausing a second, the man then took the shovel that rested next to the fireplace and retrieved the remains of the papers, scattered them on the bricks in front of the fireplace. With one hand he rummaged through the sooty remains, looking for a name.
Most of the papers were burned beyond recognition, but in the middle of the pile, one stuck out.
"Joseph."
----
Five weeks later the old ladies muttered about how that nice boy Joseph had run off again. Perhaps the cliffs this time. Their cackling punctuated the lungs of the world, crazed and brainless. Cackling, as Joseph's skull sunk in the mud.
Table of Contents
Day 227
I stood before the entrance. It consisted of a rocky outcropping lined with a few shrubs. Only at close inspection would a passerby have noticed that the cropping hide a small cave, and inside that small cave was a tunnel, and that tunnel led to a massive network of tunnels. I had found them in my youth, one day when the sun was too hot and the ice in my drinks lasted only minutes.
I had explored it then only for the cool air and darkness, but as I grew older I found that a place to be alone was more valuable than I first realized.
Whenever life had grown to be uncontrollable or when I needed to make a decision I would scamper off to my underground world, full of bats and dripping spears. I entered, my body passing into the shadowy caverns and echoing recesses. I knew the place not with my eyes, but with my hands and ears. I knew that one cavern had a distinctive sounding drip, that for some inconceivable reason played a rhythm. Drip, two seconds, drip, drip, three seconds, drip, and then it repeated. You could set up an orchestra in that cavern, playing beautiful melodies to the reliable beat. I passed by the cha-cha cavern, as I had named it, and passed on to the next one, which I recognized by a moon shaped indent on the right wall.
This was my special place. It was the most quiet of all the chambers, lacking all the drizzles and sploinks of the wetter ones. There stood two rocks that faced each other, and I would sit with my back leaning against one. The second rock I used to reflect back to myself words, as sometimes it felt good just to hear my words repeated. "You are beautiful" I whispered for an hour once, after a snobbish Elena had turned me down. I saw her a few weeks later with the far more muscular Eli. There is one body part I have never grown accustomed to, and that is my hands. The combination of long fingers and thin skin makes them seem horrendously ugly. Constantly cold and clammy, I can see why Elena refused to hold my hand. I do, however, love my voice. It has a deep reedy quality, muscular yet unthreatening. Here in the cavern I get to hear myself, and my hands keep to themself, feeling as is their job, but never disgracing my eyesight with their shape.
I sat in the dark, more in need of its silence and respect than ever. I sat, and I hummed melodies and tunes, spitting out the words I knew and making up the ones I did not. "I heard of a house, all over the mountain of snow, It was so tall, yet I know so" I sang louder into the darkness, letting my voice rebound back as the chorus and together we formed a natural chorus. It was on the high note of the song that sings about deep valleys and verdant springs that I heard a voice not my own. It was gruff, and felt like sandpaper on a dusty day.
"Stop singing so loud. You'll cause this place to crash in." I turned my head quickly in the dark to find the source of the voice, but the echoes made it impossible to identify the source. I waved my hands slowly, but felt nothing other than cold hard stone.
"What is your problem this time? You don't usually sing so loud."
I had nothing to say other than, "Who are you?"
"Mountain Mover. Pleasure. Now out with it. The sooner you get it off your chest, the sooner I get my caves back."
"You... listen?"
"Every time. Your mom yelling at you, being sick, or shouting the news that you were in love. I've heard it all."
"I'm sorry for interrupting."
"So am I" but the tone was a tad lighter, and there was almost sympathy.
"I didn't know anybody was in here."
"Now you do. What happened this time?"
The second time he asked, I was ready to answer.
"Nothing happened, persay.... wellÉ"
"If nothing happened, then please leave."
"I didn't know anybody was in here."
Silence in the cavern, then I continued.
"Well, it's just that... I'm sad."
"You're sad."
"Yes. I'm sad."
"Why are you sad?"
"I don't know."
He didn't respond for a long time. Something warm grabbed by right hand and pulled it up into the air. Just as fast it was picked up, my hand was plopped down onto the ground. There was a quick shuffling, and I knew he was gone. I sat alone again in the dark.
"Mountain Mover?"
No response.
I had never heard any breathing, but I listened harder for anything. There was no noise.
"Goodbye." I called out into the dark, but I knew my goodbye would not be heard. After touching the walls a final time, I made my way out of the caves, far more carefully than ever before, pausing again and again to listen for breathing or noise. All that I heard was the drip drop of water as it fell into pools and gurgled through cracks.
On the outside of the cave I opened my palm to see what had been placed within it. It was a brown star, with a small circle carved into the middle. The star had grown warm with my nervous touch, but all I could think was, "I'm still sad. And now I have lost my safest place. Traded for a poorly carved star."
It was that day I lost my childhood safety, violated in the most intrusive of ways. The star I gave to Elena one day as I passed her by. She gave me an odd look, but the trinket meant anything but affection. I hope with the token takes her safe place too.
Table of Contents
Day 228
Furious scratching filled the saturated air. It was the day that you could feel pushing on your skin. A day where you felt like you were wrapped in a quilt and could not rid it from your body, no matter how many fans battered at your body with their whirring blades. The scratching seemed dimmed in the office, but every smell was amplified. Something rotten wafted through the air, itching noses and tickling senses. Sweat. That was what the scent was. The smell of a body as it worked furiously to rid itself of the excess heat.
His hand slipped down the pen again and again, his palms oily and slick from the perspiration. His shirt was dotted with spots, signaling that he had been laboring all day long without a break. His job was to take old documents and rejuvenate them in his own hand. To transfer exactly the old stories into new rolls, so that the words of old prophets and deeds of heroes would not be lost to the never-ending advance of mildew and age. His task was arduous, dull, and uninteresting. While he used to read the documents he copied, it had become his habit to ignore the wording altogether and simply write each letter as he came across it. A living, human machine, working with a hand that cramped quickly and remained frozen long after the work was completed for the day.
On this day his hands would not fix themselves around the pen, and every time the pen slipped he would have to rip the piece of paper up and throw it to the ground, starting over. The floor was littered with the scraps of his failures, and he eyed them angrily every time his letters were fouled by the awful, hot weather.
Crraaaack. The intense grip had been too much for the simple wooden pen to handle, and it snapped in two, spilling its black liquified contents dripping down the back of his hand, making his hairs stick together. He roared with anger, and threw the remaining pieces of the pen across the room, watching as they landed with a wet slap on one of the ruined copies. Crossing his arms, he surveyed the scene with distaste clearly showing. It danced on his black eyebrows and blasted through the light brown eyes.
"How am I to work." he muttered to himself. With surprise he noticed that he was now standing, and sat back down in the chair at which he slaved.
"I have a family. A wife. Two children. Mouthes to feed. He sighed as his face softened a little, replaced with a tired look, the dark circles now more clear.
"This job is hell. I thought I would be able to read the great works of ancient poets and historians." He toyed absentmindedly with one of the original works he was to copy.
"They have no more to say than I do. Their stories are fanciful. In truth, I bet all of these stories are made up." He reached to the edge of his desk and picked up the spare pen, and started to copy the endless letters yet again. He paused in the middle of a word and read, for the first time in weeks, the sentence he was dictating.
"Richard the Grave slayed 30 thousand men, and with his silver-crested sword he inspired fear..." he read out loud the next sentence, and then commented, "Who cares? You sir Richard, are no more than a sack of bones. I could learn more from the moss on the back of a rock than I could from you."
Scatching once again filled the hall, except for the occasional heavy sigh where the poor copy writer expressed his sadness. At the end of the first page, he stopped yet again to speak to himself.
"Does anybody read these? I bet they don't. Hm." He started to copy the next page, but the heat was getting involved again, and he had to keep pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes. It was as if someone was trying desperately to get his attention. His eyelashes dripped with the droplets that would not leave him alone, and they clotted together and blurred his vision.
The idea came in a flash, and the smile creeped across his face. "Joseph the Strong, from the era of buildings tall and wide.." he read and then tapped his chin as he thought of a better line.
"Joseph the Weak, he built buildings, and they fell, and then there was a giant beast, and it was named Harold... and she was a harlot, oh yes she wasÉ"
As soon as he started, he found that he couldn't stop, and though the heat was intense and though he was drenched, he wrote like never before. Lines passed by as he gave new life to these decrepit stories, detailing events and occurrences that never were. The dry and humorless lines were replaced with gleeful and jiving words, things that laughed in your face and slapped their knees with delight. He smiled a broad and mischievous smile as he wrote every word, and when he sat back to rest, he had produced a mountain of pages of new material.
He let forth a great gut laugh and said, "Best day of work ever. I think I will have to do this more often." He picked up the original he was supposed to have been copying, and looked around. Opening a desk drawer he removed a magnifying glass, and retreated outside with it in one hand and the original copy in the other.
"Sun, you have tormented me all day. Let's put you to good use," he muttered as he focused the small dot of light on the corner of the pages. In a blaze of glory the original was consumed by the light, and the ashes fell to rest between his feet.
"Now there is no way to verify. History has been recreated."
He smiled. Today, though the sun was strong and the past was oppressive, he had mastered both and been an artist. He had imagination.
Table of Contents
Day 242
The day breezy, her hair blew in thin lines, casting shadows on her face. She constantly reached up to put her hair behind her ear, but it kept becoming dislodged from its rightful place behind her ear. Everything had a place. The ribbon which was another method to tame the hair that disobeyed all order was tied in a neat blue bow at the crown of her head. It too flapped side to side. It was a dancing spider atop her head, reaching its fabric to dig around in the brown hairy landscape. Her dress set and neat, blue to match the ribbon. Lace decorated the edges. Then I looked up into her eyes, and saw that they were blue as well, but not the friendly and cheerful blue of the dress and ribbon. Instead, they had a ghostly appearance, lost entirely to the world laid out at her feet. The night before it had rained especially hard, and many people woke up to the sounds of rain drops clawing at windows, asking to be let in. The young girl had sat in her bed with the covers pulled over her head. Afraid. But there is a point to my subtle observations of the apparition now standing in a water-logged patch of soil, dark brown and smelling strongly. I noticed motion at her feet, and found to my surprise that there were worms, thousands of them, squirming out jet black dirt. Their pink bodies seemed to gasp for air, reaching up for the breezy wind of that day. This is what she had been staring at, and without looking up she addressed me, "The world is flooded, and we all climb up the surface. Tomorrow they will be fried, no home to be found up here."
"What do you mean?"
"Dead. Flooded. Every last piece of soil. Given too much of the one thing we cannot live without. They drown if they stay, and boil if they leave."
I turned around and left. No time in my day for worms and the troubles of settlement. I never saw her again.
Table of Contents
Day 243
They had been friends since the moment she smiled at his first joke. It was silly, and she knew it, but that made the punch line all the more endearing. His goofy smile graced the jagged edges of his face. As she began to know him, she found that he gave her an odd feeling, and when around him, he made her feel like the moment a child opens their lunch and finds an impromptu letter from their mother. The warm, unexpected feeling of belonging and caring in this lunchtime ritual repeated daily is both unexplainable and wordlessly gleeful. Like a footnote at the end of that letter, "Don't forget to eat your vegetables," he fed her all the essentials she needed for her spiritual well being. He cared when she complained, although the occasion she voiced her hurts to the world was rare. More so he healed her with his lightning fast jokes, cracking them like whips again and again, taking nothing seriously, most of all himself. She clung to him in the coming days, growing more and more attached to him, almost like a second shadow. They walked through rain together, they picked oranges and watched equally orange sun float down past the world, giving them the feeling of tipping off into space, an infinite and peaceful zone where past hurts were as inconsequential as the hovering white flies around their fruit. He loved her, he said, and he told her that she was not alone. He told her that she mattered, and that someday she would build beautiful things with the same hands she condemned as clumsy.
"They do not fit with my wrists" she would say as he complemented them.
"I think they fit" he countered, and changed the subject. Quiet corrections of long-term mistakes. But soon, the tide grew overwhelming. The black thoughts began to build up in her head, and as they reaching their inky tendrils out of her thoughts and into his she began to saw him recoil. The negative energy rebounded from one to the other, an emotional ping pong tournament, where every time her destructive powers bested his positive vibes. She defeated him, and with her victories she grew desperate and despairing, for if this pillar of sentiment and security crumbled too, then surely the world must be an empty and lonely place. He could not take more. He picked her up, and with a few short words, packed her away, and threw her from his mind. He said it to her with a few words that meant a thousand more things that he could ever say:
"I need a break. Please. I cannot take you always telling me I am wrong when I compliment you. It seems you want me to hate you."
"And what if you do?"
"I don't."
"I don't believe you."
His head drooped, his face cast down to the electric blue tie that slung itself around his neck. The black coat provided a frame for the skull, illuminating the dark circles and chapped and tired lips than anything else.
"It won't be forever. Just for now."
"They all say that" she said, with sadness dripping.
She agreed though, even though deep down she thought it must be the end, this fairy tale must have found it's resolution in some other vain than the customary and expected "happily ever after." Curled up in a tight ball of black velvet on the floor, heels still on, and black hair cast over her face and rug like so matter black lines she wish she could have wrote to him. All she could do was cry, each tear falling and being absorbed by the rug, like some great God absorbed them into his flowing worldly energy. But there was no God. No god would let this happen. God was dead, and the girl in the black dress, sobbing as if she were present at her own funeral, proclaimed this fact better than any bible. The boy who thought he had manly qualities, and liked to refer to himself as a young adult, he took a walk in the night, and never once considered the depth of sadness he had cast down. There is only us. Only this.
Table of Contents
Day 244
He was quiet, except for his footsteps. His body moved, though, unnaturally silently. Though perhaps you tune out the familiar sounds of cloth and hair as it rustles around when we move, you would have been struck by how quiet he walked. His arms moved, but only slightly, his hands extended fully, an awkward scarecrow wandering the streets of the dusty town. There were many people in the streets, and they all pushed onto each other, sweat and bodies rubbing together in the sun. The dust stuck to their eyebrows and congealed with the sweat on the arms and clothing, giving them a brownish haze. He walked between the crowd, dodging to the side as people passed him. Nobody met each other's eyes, and instead they occupied themselves with looking for the spaces in which people did not exist. They strategized how they could wedge themselves into all places not occupied, and through many years of practice, all in the square nimbly avoided each other. Viewed from above they were water in a bucket, swirling and torrential, but never coming apart. The quiet man worked his way through the crowd too, holding in his hand a basket. The contents of the basket poked out the side, but not enough was visible to give a clear idea of what the basket contained. A man well acquainted with the village would have guessed the daily bread and vegetables for the week, although another man with a considerably more active imagination might have suggested dead pieces of corpses, spiders with blazing red eyes, or perhaps newts with warts between their toes.
His quiet and precise motions set him apart from the rest, as they sloshed their bodies around each other, at times seeming almost to separate legs from torsos. He stops mid-motion though, one arm slightly forward, something has caught his attention. Following his gaze, one can tell he is engaged by the man playing a guitar, plucking away at his strings to appeal to the crowd for money. By his frozen stance, he has never heard a music like this before. The notes, it is true, are unfamiliar and the cadence broken. A bizarre half tune can be made out, but most hear only noise. I see no beauty in the music, but perhaps he hears something I cannot. He turns, now putting his body back in motion, and he walks now very different than he did a moment before. His body sways and his arms oscillate. He becomes the living image of the musical notes, hitting each note with a synchronized twitch of his body. The guitar man has noticed him now too, and a smile grows on his face. The two share a moment, it seems, and he plucks the guitar faster and faster. Now the man is setting his basket down, taking it off its place on his head, so that he may not worry about keeping his stance straight. Once the basket has touched the floor, he erupts into a dance the likes of which I have never seen. It is a space-intensive dance as well, and people look disgusted as he crashes and hits them. The flow of the crowd gives him space, learning from the mistakes of the others, and soon there is a circle around him and the guitarist. He is standing on one foot, now, making wave-like motions with his arms, his hands sending the message off to either side, his head keeping the main beat with forward and backward ticks. The music picks up pace yet again, and it is a blizzard of limbs, fingers, toes, and brown dust. Sweat flies off his forehead as he spins on his toes, his eyes closed and his eye brows raving. No one knows what to make of this display. The flow stops for the first time all day, and all begin to stare. Some in curiosity, some in fear, others a mixture of a interest and animalistic intuition. The music builds, and suddenly the man with the guitar lets out a deep throated shout and his fingers stop moving. I from my balcony can see the square hold its breath. The dust blows over the crowd, and many beady black eyes look out from dusted eyebrows. No motion, no footsteps, no calls of "Buy here."
Then, the words, "Brother. Without your music, my body loses its oil."
"Brother. Without your dancing, my music looses its grace."
Table of Contents
Day 249
The girl looked down at her letter that she had promised to write. It was a nostalgic letter, about loyalties and trusts that she had once had. She began writing the letter a week before, when she found out through friends and her parents that her childhood house was being torn down. She, now far past her childhood, had taken the news quietly, and sighed softly. However, she had promised herself that she would let the house go, and like a teddy bear worn out of its eyes and seams, she would let it go. No tears now, either, because she was an adult. No tears at all, except on the inside. She could not stop those, no matter how many times she paced around her own abode, commenting about how nice the grain of the wood was.
"Everything here is better. The stairs do not creak. Outside my bedroom window there is a tree, and I can watch its leaves change as time passes by. In all ways, this place is better." Her friends asked tentatively, when they told her the news, "How do you feel?" To each person that posed the question, she would muster up her best lying face and say, "It is okay. Things come and go. I don't live there anymore," They nodded in agreement, and with brows of sympathy would say, "It's strong of you to take that attitude." She wanted to shout out against their polite inquiries and reassurances, their adult niceties about how good it was that they could be grownup about the situation. She wanted to cry. She wanted to throw a tantrum. She felt like that one day she had told her parents she was running away from home, and had sat on the front porch behind the door, arms crossed and glaring into space. When finally after hours of waiting, she had knocked on the door, and could not help but smile gratefully when her parents scooped her up and brought her to the dinner table to fix her a meal.
She wasn't ready to let go. It had been okay when the house was there, and she was fine with not being physically inside of it, but the fact that the timbers and blinds existed in some part of the world mattered in a way she had not realized. Now a big black ball was going to come, and it would smack the windows, and sit like a lump of coal in her kitchen, prancing about in her living room. She knew this, and so she wrote this letter, the only form of defiance she allowed herself. She would not go to the house itself, but a simple piece of paper with her carefully weighed words, that she would provide. She sat down and she told the people who wished to ruin her house of the thing they were destroying. She told them of the stairs that sang songs when one ascended. She mentioned the secret spot in the attic she had hid the love letters she wrote to a boy named Billy. She told them of the swing with one side broken from wear. She mentioned the plums and apricots on the tiles in the kitchen. Their rosy deliciousness she had always wanted to reach up and cradle in her then small fingers. She finished with a summation of one day in the life of the house. The fanfare of crickets in the evening, and the bugle of birds at daybreak. She told the life of the house, as she had known it, and then she signed her name, "The girl who once lived there. The girl who still has her heart locked into those timbers and pillars."
She read through the letter, but skipped the last half, and then placed it in a white envelope. With a final touch, she addressed it, sealed it, and put a stamp. In a blink she was standing in front of the mailbox, the envelope in hand. She had a choice, as you do too. The box stood open, its gaping mouth ready. Her hand firm, balanced equally between the box and the safety of her bag. To be read, or to be kept, a secret of the secrets. And the choice, it made her who she is. A small acorn on edge of that arched roof of her childhood, and no way to roll but down. Where will that expansive oak locked away grow up?
Table of Contents
Day 251
A brisk walk, he had somewhere to be. That was more obvious by the stack of papers he held under his arm. He alternated between browsing the faces of those who passed by, going the opposite direction, and the girl who was walking in front of him. Her pace was a slower by a few footfalls, but primarily because she was carrying a bag that was far too large for her. The handles had snapped under the weight, and she was struggling with it. In addition, she was using only one arm, while the other one she held in front of her body out of view. He quickened his pace a bit, preparing himself to move ahead of her. The fact that she was having a difficult time walking fast did not register at first, but he kept his stride and did not pause to inspect more carefully. The perfect opportunity to pass her presented itself, and just as he rounded her shoulder, he glanced to his right. Her arm lay carefully slung around her neck, and it made an odd jangling noise when she walked. Through the open part of the sling he could see her immobile arm, with lines drawn into her skin were knives or some other object had passed before.
No noticeable hesitation as he passed her, and though a small kink formed in the top of his eyebrows, and like a hose blocked off, his thoughts began to overflow. The bag she was carrying had snapped yet another band. She was trying desperately to retie it with her one mobile hand. He retraced his steps, and queried, "Can I help?"
"Oh. It's just that this is broken. It is so awful, I have been meaning to buy a new one."
"Where are you going?"
"Just that way, about half a mile. A small house."
He was heading in the opposite direction, and was soon to turn left, while she was going right.
"That is on the way to where I'm going. Perhaps I can carry it for you?"
She made a flustered motion, but her pride was defeated when the now fully devastated bag fell over one more time.
"Yes, please."
He slung the bag under his arm, grabbing it by the bottom with both arms, collecting the heavy bag in his strong arms. He set off at a more slow pace, turn his head once in a while, only to inspect the person who he had just offered time he in actuality did not have to give. "Since I am carrying the bag, may I ask what's in it?"
"Paper, pencils, a wooden board."
"Are you an artist?"
"No... " she said quietly.
Five steps, and then he asked cautiously, "Is your arm alright?"
"Yes, it is."
"My name is Krin."
"Thank you for helping me Krin. I'm Julia."
"Nice to meet you Julia. You were lucky to run into me."
"Yes you're right."
"I can't imagine you walking all this way alone."
"I would have managed, but this is a lot easier. I won't be late to class anymore."
He thought, it's a shame that I'll be late to my meeting, but at least one of us is not late.
"Class?"
"Yes."
"What are you studying?"
"It's just a drawing class."
"I thought you weren't an artist?"
"I'm not an artist. I'm a photographer with a pencil and paper instead of a camera."
"Ah, you are a realist then?"
"I do like to draw real things."
"I love realism. Even though the images are of real things, the artist still puts their own flavor into the image."
"I guess you could say that."
"Do you enjoy drawing?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry, this might be a personal question, but the man who is carrying your load ought to be allowed one. Were you in an accident?"
"I was born without some things. I cannot use my left arm. I cannot remember places that well, or the people."
"Is that why you draw?"
"Yes. That is why I draw. I draw for the same reason you remember."
"That must be terrible. Forgetting important things."
"It's not as bad as you think. It seems to me that once you forget something, it doesn't matter whether it was important or not. A forgotten lover is the same as a forgotten enemy."
"I suppose you're right. It still seems to me an unfortunate circumstance."
"Yes."
"We are getting near to the small house you mentioned, perhaps?"
"Yes. I can take it from here, if you like."
"It's okay. I've never been to the house. I would like to see what it looks like on the inside."
"It's unexciting. Artists have mostly ugly houses. It's the rich uncreative people that hire people to create beautiful places. Artists don't need exterior beauty, because they have as much as they want already inside of them. It's the people that hire the artists: they're ugly on the inside. They look at art to forget that."
"Some might comment that that is a rather pessimistic take on art."
"I am a realist, remember?"
He chuckled, "I had forgotten. And what of me?"
"What of you?"
"I am not an artist. Am I ugly on the inside?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't tell you. You seem alright to me. You helped me, after all."
Thinking that was the most he was going to get, he let the topic slide.
"Here we are, the house."
She nodded. And reached with her arm to take the bundle.
"Thank you, again."
"Julia, correct?"
"Yes."
"I'll see you around."
"Yes."
He waited, but she did not say anything else, and so he turned around and started to walk to his meeting. Within the small house, the girl started to trace with her right hand the outlines of a man, so that she would not forget. They're all worth remembering, but she would never have told anybody that.
Table of Contents
Day 265
If you have ever spent a good deal of time enjoying life, then you know that there comes a time when a crack forms at the base of the mirror. That crack starts small, and for the most part, it can be ignored. Like all small annoyances, you may rationalize it away by claiming it is the result of some other event, you may deny its very existence, or you may attempt to mend it. But no amount of twine and glue can fix that crack. Nothing can stop its constant march to consuming the entire reflective surface. It starts spiderwebbing out, fanning like tree branches in winter. You may still attempt to void its existence, but no such fantasy may overcome the reality. There comes a point when your mirror cracks, and the question comes booming out at you. "Do I deserve this."
It isn't pleasantly stated either, there is no politeness or gentle inquiry. It is a demanding and forceful prodding thing. It's downright rude. You'll want to cuss at it, you'll want to ignore it. Cover your head with the covers of ignorance and go back to blissful sleep, passing by centuries and moments in the same leaps of existence. It's there, and as soon as you hear it for the first time, it will become a tribal chant of a question. "Do I deserve this. Do I deserve this. Do I deserve this."
The question will morph and interweave itself, like the cracks that precede the bombastic event. "Do I deserve this more than them. Do they deserve this if they had it. Am I better." You will chant and you will rave, no, yes, perhaps, maybe so, does it even matter at all! No such answer fits the inquiry though, and like a speck of sand thrown into a barrel that needs to be full, your attempt at futile and meaningless. Because but of course, you don't deserve it, in some respects, but in others, you quite honestly are the best candidate. Uncertainty riddles you with holes, until you cannot take it anymore. Until you scream. A scream that has no volume, silent and everlasting, but on the inside.
My wife, she is beautiful. She is perfect, in most ways that I can imagine. She is far more intelligent than I, and our verbal sparring ends always in a sound victory. And, you will excuse me, I think, for being honest, never has there been a more perfect body. I clambered over every inch, expecting a flaw around every corner, but if it exists it has eluded me thus far. For the first months of our marriage, I searched like an archaeologist fumbling to find the remnants of societies best left dead and buried. Sometimes when I looked into her eyes after a night of passion, I thought she knew that all the while we were making love I was investigating, scouring her with judgmental eyes. She's perfect - and though you might suggest I can't use such a powerful word as that, I can because there are some things in life you know. Did anybody tell you that you had to breathe? What about eat? You know it, an instinct built in and inescapable. She was perfect. I once whispered it to her, leaning over the bacon and eggs of breakfast to tell her.
"You're perfect. Did you know that?"
"Keep looking." she told me. Can you believe it? She said that, I swear. She said that, and it has bounced around with that other question for years. They're good friends by now. Right classy they are, with monocles and top hats, remarking on the always stormy weather of my inner mind, and I shout that whose mind is quiet, just to shut them up.
But the truth is, and this pains me to suggest, perfection bores me. It is like staring at a blank sheet of paper, or the graph of a line. Yes, it is beautiful in a removed and complete sort of way, but once you have seen it, you need not stare more. She, the other girl, was like a kaleidoscope. Just when you thought you understood the pattern, it would rotate and your eyes would swim in the bizarre shapes and patterns. She was not perfect, and not exceptionally pretty, but that I think is what attracted me. More than anything, she was original. You see the same people over and over, if you've lived long enough. People all say the same things, frown the same, smile the same, and are in all ways similar, if not identical. She wasn't. She was... her. But then my wife found out, or maybe while I slept my guilty conscience had muttered it to her. She wasn't angry, no, she was too perfect to ever crack her calm posture and gentle syllables. She said, "I deserve better." And then left. I didn't have room to apologize, to be human, in all that perfect.
So I didn't. I just let her go. I wish I could have grabbed her by the elbow and torn her into my arms, ripped her with love, and defiled her. But I didn't. By the time I lost one, I had lost the other. She vanished, without a trace. I wrote letters to the address she gave me, but there were never replies. I called. I went and looked around. All I found was a field, empty and unused. Like my life. Unused. In the middle of the field was a tree, barren except for the one leaf. Barren, and cold, practically shivering with the autumn fever. It was a red leaf, beautiful in the way its points diverged and converged together, a blend of escape and return. As I watched, the leaf fell, to the ground, and though I ran to catch it, by the time I arrived at the tree it had already landed on the ground. It already blended into the ground, a sea of reds and browns. A sea, I was lost. Me?
Table of Contents
Day 273
I left a note at the crux of the road. It had been three hours, and still she had not come around the corner like she promised she would. Should I be disappointed? Was it just meant to be destiny, and such was life? I tried to find acceptance of reality, but struggled instead with a more deeply felt sense of loss. I made a last-minute scan of the near and far horizon, hoping that perhaps a speck of a person would split the seam of the horizon and come trapsing into my arms. I was met instead by a particularly frigid wind, cold as my state. My flicker went out. She was not here. She was not coming. What kept her this time? What if it wasn't an unsurmountable reason? What if the reason was, in fact, choice? Uncertainties. They dislodged joy from me like sparkling gems from the earth. Mined out of me with pickaxes in a frightening fury.What was I doing here. Life was too meaninglessly slow to be caught up on a night, or caught up on a person. That's what I said. That's the truth. I said it. It's not that she doesn't matter, but tonight, I think I can come to terms with my loneliness. I wrote down my emotions and weighted them down with a rock, letting my thoughts drip down the sides of the world like droplets in a bucket, collecting at the bottom. I walked away. Maybe tomorrow.
Though by the time she arrived the note was tattered and damp, the words were as follows:
"Thinking of you. Life, sometimes, is like two lines shooting off into space. We will meet sometime, if today we find ourselves sadly askew." Him and his metaphors. Him and his senses and emotions. She smiled, reading the words I love you in all the hoopla, and knowing that though he didn't explicitly say it, he didn't need to. She never felt closer to him than when she held his words in her hands. She could read him up in front of her, make his presence a reality. The secret was that sometimes, he was more real on paper than he was in person. Sometimes this is why she did not come. She crumpled the paper up and put it into her pocket, the jagged edges not quite fitting in neatly. Moving along, she sung a low and mellow tune. Almost dropping off, but never dying.
Table of Contents
Day 274
She was filing her niles. Flick, flick, flick, and the white powder landed on her thighs. Her eyes were half closed, dark circles under her eyes. These hanging bags made her appear far older than I found her to be upon closer inspection. She was an odd paradox. Her hair and clothes were carefully done; you could tell by the way her hair flipped like ribbon when she adjusted her head. Her face and body language described another character entirely: tired to the point of exhaustion, her rounded shoulder and limp legs surely implying that she had quite enough of life shoved down her throat. I began, quite by accident, to imagine her naked, but instead of any dirty situation, I imagined how natural she would look without all the clothes that lied about her true nature. Did she think people looked at the smart red and gold trim of her jacket? Were we distracted by the sewn sequins and buttons? Not I, and if my perception is the general exception, I'd rather be ignorant than depressed. I imagined her stretched out on a bed, because that is where she belonged, telling me her troubles, and watching as her shoulder and spine set itself back into their natal orientation. Perhaps I could get her to confess to some of them, even dressed up in gaudy fabrics.
"Hello."
I got up from my seat across from her and sat next to her.
She flicked her eyes at me. She didn't want to talk, but I hoped I could change that.
"Your nails look fine. Do you spend a good deal of time on them?"
"Not really." I had challenged her. Silence was not an option.
There was a pause where I checked to see if she was flattered that I noticed. I was rewarded with a smile.
"But do you think so? My pinky looks off. It goes more to the right than the others."
"I don't think I see a difference. They all look perfect. Mine are so gritty, I cut them, but the cold weather cracks the skin and gives me hangnails."
"Agh, I hate hangnails. I have to moisturize quite often."
I nodded my understanding.
"Say, I'm exhausted." I hoped she would agree with me.
To my great satisfaction, she bought it and replied with a sigh, "Aren't we all?"
"I'm assured by friends that there are others who are quite energetic."
I had used too many intelligent words. I knew that as soon as I let quite out.
"Cool."
I struggled inwardly for a moment, but an ice wall had fallen down, and I was left only with my guesses resounding hollowly. I wanted to ask another question but did not have one.
"Yes."
Flick flick, she continued perfecting her pinky.
"Careful or you'll file it too far."
"Sure."
I almost wanted to burst out crying, just to see her shocked face. Maybe she'd be guilty. That would make me feel good. I turned away, though, and slid myself over one seat, so there was now a space between us. A few moments later, she got up and walked out the door. I listened to the click of her high heels as she walked away, like silenced revolvers shots. Bang. bang. Bang. As they got muffled by the closing of the door. They started to morph. Bored. Bored. Until finally. I replaced them with. Dead. Dead.
Table of Contents
Day 277
He came running into town, on the evening wind. It was all quiet, stores were closing their windows and doors, and he comes, this tornado of force, blowing like a tumbleweed caught up in the dusty clouds clutching onto the tip-toes of his heels.
He stopped me as I was closing my door, sticking a foot in my door, a small and worn shoe. The man connected to the offending article reminded me of the manikins, dressed up to attain a certain put-together look, but also an air of artificiality, as if he had looked this way for eons, and would have survived I nuclear holocaust.
"Why are you stopping me from closing?"
"Because. I want to know if I can have a job here."
We were in need of a person to help around the store, and my son and I had been having a hard time of late finding the time to put everything in order that needed to be organized, but I was unsure about this spontaneous phantom. We didn't need the type of person that would simply vanish into our wooden floors like dust. I didn't want to go sweeping up piles of debris after his disintegration.
"Why?"
"Because I need money."
"I see. I'm not sure I have the money right now to pay you."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. We're tight as of late. Not many people passing through. It's the cold season. You know how things are. People don't like moving about in the open and walking into our shops when the air nearly bites their noses right off."
"I know. I've been walking through this god awful frigid weather for a week or so. Are you sure you don't have a warm room and bed for me?"
"You'll work for free?"
"Yes, as long as you have a room. And some food. I haven't had good meat in weeks."
"We have some chicken roasting right now, as a matter of fact. My wife is cooking it. And some watermelon that we got from the harvest sitting in the cold room."
He eyed me hungrily. He took a deep breath in, and his ribs showed through his shirt while he tilted his head back so his cheeks looked especially hollow.
"Okay. Come on in. Help me close up the shop."
He smiled, his teeth slightly pointed. Like a dog panting on a hot day. Or perhaps growling before he bite. I gazed into his mouth and decided that it was a combination of a growl and a smile. He released a guttural groan and I turned around and motioned for him to follow me.
That night the trees rested, no rustling to be heard, the howl of wolves casting doubt onto the steadfast silence.
He slept, he ate, and he worked, and he seldom said anything to the rest of us. He did his job well, and whatever I asked of him I could expect to be finished in a timely manner.
The slight issue with him might have been that he completed whatever I told him to do, but never more than that. If there was a big pile of dust sitting right in the middle of the floor, he would leave it for me to tell him to clean up. It was as if he didn't see anything until I pointed my finger at it and told him it was there. In many ways he seemed mistrustful of everything, uncertain of the hazy plane of existence he traversed until another traveler of time anchored him with a clean command that echoed resolutely and awoke him from his trance.
Besides this though, he did good work, and for only having to feed and give him a bed to sleep in, I was happy to have an extra hand. He was a good looking man, in addition, and though he was skinny when we first got him, after a few hearty meals, he started to look more presentable. His once-withered face began to glow with newly found vitality, and with this came a confident, quiet attractiveness. A few of my women customers started to double up on their visits, coming far more than one could ever be necessary, but recognizing the economical value of a shiny token cleaning up and restocking, I didn't say anything.
It did start to bother me when my own daughter started acting funny. She had strange notions in her head, as girls who first find that inner desire ignited often do, and having him around as much as he was lead to an almost inevitable situation. I knew she and him were going to get together and starting talking, and those talks would lead to things that I disapproved of.
My solution was fairly simple. The first step involved a quiet word with the boy in the early morning, when it was just me and him alone in the shop.
"Hey boy. I need a word."
He straightened up, and put down the can of peaches he was putting on the shelf. You could tell those cans a mile away, all full of sunshine and fire red, pretending to be just a taste of paradise. Some customers liked them, but I found them to taste only of metal.
"Hey. Come on over here."
In a few strides he was standing before me, an emotionless wall of face, gray eyes staring curiously, but not fearfully. This boy never showed any fear. Whether he felt it, I don't know, but I wouldn't bat my eyelids if he didn't.
"So. You've seen my daughter walking around. What do you think of her?"
"I think that she's your daughter."
I nodded. Maybe he understood after all.
"Yes, but what do you think of her. Is she pretty?"
"In her way."
I raised my eyebrows. Was he saying she was unattractive? I had been told by many friends that she was downright beautiful, filling the white Sunday dresses we bought for her more than any other girl her age. She had grown up fast, and though I never admitted it to anyone, I wish at times she had remained that small, flat-chested, missing teeth girl that didn't give a damn about whether she wore fancy clothes or nothing but her birthday suit, silky skin on a hot day with beads of sweat as sequins.
"What sort of way is that?"
"I think her cheekbones compliment her eyes."
"You're not the first to say so. What else?"
"She has nice ribbons in her hair always."
He must be flattering me. All fathers bought their daughters ribbons, carefully choosing ones that were neither coquettish or boring. It was a balancing act which few succeeded in, and the horribly gaudy ribbons many girls suffered under were a testament to this fact.
"I buy them."
"They're nice."
"Do you know what I'm getting at?"
He closed his mouth and made a slightly pouting face, though I could tell he was seriously considering my motives.
"You want to know what an outsider thinks of her?"
"No. I want you to stay away from that pretty girl. I want you to know that no matter what she does, and I can't control her as much as I would like, if I ever find you touching her, I won't just kick you out of my house, I'll kick you out of life with a shotgun shell between your legs. That's a promise."
Like a flash of lightning, surprise crossed his face and then vanished, replaced quickly by the familiar solid eyes. I waited for the thunderclap to follow, but none came.
"Okay."
I nodded and patted him on the shoulder.
"I'm glad we could have this talk. It'll be valuable to you later, I'm sure."
"Okay. Should I continue restocking?"
"Yes. Do that."
He got up and started putting the peaches back on the shelf, and the store was soon filled with the methodical ping of metal cans stacking.
I gave the boy a day off once a week, on Sundays, and though I never told him what precisely to do with his day off, I did suggest that he accompany us to worship. There's nothing like the preacher cleansing your deeds to get you ready for another hard week. Our souls are like shirts, but we don't get to take them off and wash them to get the dirt out, so going to church is sort of like hosing down your soul. At first you might start shivering from the cold blast of reality, but later on you feel squeaky clean.
He came the first Sunday with us, but I could tell something was wrong with him during the ceremony.
On that day, the Father Nicely preached up a storm like never before. He started slow, but soon he was rocking methodically back and forth to the rhythm of his own words, clacking his heels behind his bible.
"We have gathered here to be with each other, and with the Almighty. To flow as one and ask for forgiveness, because we are… " the preacher howled at us, getting caught up in his messages until finally he started bellowing:
"Repent! Repent! Repent! REPENT!" At each word he would make a dice-throwing motion at us, as if it was some game of chance he was playing up there, his face livid as he watched for the results of his throw.
In the middle of the sermon I looked over to see how the boy was doing, and he looked a pale. Right before my eyes his face drained of color, and I thought to myself, Wow this boy must really be feeling the spirit of the moment. I've never seen sin drain out of someone's face like that. He turned to look at me, and I was surprised to see a fear in his eyes. Thinking that the didn't know what this whole process was about, and what he was feeling, I reached over and patted his shoulder.
"Don't worry. It's natural to be taken in by the spirit." His lips started working at that, his nostrils and eyelids twitching at me. There wasn't something quite right about the way he was moving, and it was starting to distract the others around us, so I gave him a nudge and said, "Take a moment, if you like."
He nodded thanks and quickly made his way out of the church, hunched forward like there was someone beating his back like never before.
My daughter met my eyes, and I held up my hand in reassurance. We soon forgot about him.
At the end of the sermon, none of us remembered to check where he went, and it wasn't until that night that we realized he was gone.
We were just sitting down for dinner, which was corn with the last bit of chicken we had grilled a few nights ago. All of us gathered behind our chairs, and I looked from my wife to my daughter, feeling I had forgotten something. There, on the table, one more spot than we had people. Full of food, but no hot hungry body to claim it. That boy had not come back.
"Have you seen that boy?" I said to my wife. She shook her head.
"I thought you told him to go somewhere during church. He looked sick."
"I told him to get some fresh air and come back. He never did."
I pretended not to notice my daughter's worried expression.
"Well. Should we go looking for him?"
"If you want, but your dinner will get cold."
"His will too if he doesn't come back."
"Yeah, but he's just a boy. You're a man who has things on his mind and people to take care of."
I stood silently at the head of the table, pursing my lips and gazing off into space.
"No. I'll go look for him. You go ahead and eat. Also, wipe that expression of your face, girl. You know better than to go lusting after that boy."
She gave a half-growl in response, but I was out of the room when I heard it.
I went out into the night, and was engulfed by the dark. I hate nights without moon or wind, quiet dead things. I had been afraid of the darkest nights as a boy, leaving a small light on so that I could imagine it wasn't quite as dark as it really was. This boy was turning into more trouble, that much was for certain. I knew he would though. Nothing is ever as simple as it first seems. Something always goes wrong. Always. That thought seemed to bounce about in the stillness, and my resolve to find this boy started to wither. I made a few trips around the house, but I didn't know precisely how I was going to find him without any idea where he went off to. He could be running off into the distance, his panting breath and pounding feet all to be heard in the blackness. He could be in another town, knocking on someone's door. Trying to work in someone else's shop for nothing more than food and warmth. I wasn't too sad. He was a quiet boy, and there were plenty more just like him. He was sort of queer too, and it was better that my daughter no longer had a distraction. Still though, my heart sank a step or two as I climbed up my front porch and walked back into the kitchen.
"No sign of him. He might as well just have died in a ditch." My daughter gasped and covered her mouth. I shot her a glare, and she pretended to be emotionally distraught about her corn.
"He might come back." My wife said.
I nodded and finished my cold dinner in silence. The corn kernels rolled around next to the chicken, but they seemed to have lost their yellow coloring.
Table of Contents
Day 278
A tinge of regret filled me on the swing. A blossoming, billowing tinge, something you think might abate, but then continues to hit repeatedly on the side of your temple. Ratatatat - like the tin drummer I held in my pocket with plastic eyes and fluorescent paint, a smiling red cheeked imitation. Was the true living drummer that all these toys were modeled off of dead? Did he still live in some retirement home, his face creases and wrinkles of wax? Maybe the imagineer behind the instrument of amusement created it without a model, instead built out of some thought-prototype of strength overcome with sterility. The warning written on the bottom of the drummer, I read again and again. Meant to appear like an afterthought, but perhaps was meant as a truth: May choke. May choke. I read may die. May be filled up to the brim with images and imaginations of realities made falsities simply by reconstruction. The up then down motion of the swing was sounded by the branches above me - always about to burst and break down on my head, collapsing under the impossible weight of my body. But never did that branch upon which we had tied the plank of wood break, by some sheer miracle or by a strength which neither of us could detect.
I was left here, with the tin soldier and the plank to flow between up and down on. It's all I have left, on a night when all things seem impossible, but because of that I fear they might just be true. They might just be true.
Somebody said to me once, "You need to be careful of the people who read books. Be especially mindful of them, because their mind will have performed miracles and walked thousands of miles in the shoes of protagonists, but their bodies will be weak."
That flitted from my mind, and in my forgetfulness I read books. I listened alone to authors long dead telling me of what I should value, and what I should deny.
Back to the swinging. The night was breezy, and lacked any of the hot lust of the evening, the stars seemed to have sucked the vitality out of the landscape. I'm swinging, and it makes me think the world is not as stable and hard as it is. The balance isn't sovereign on a swing. In control of the tilt, legs out, legs tucked, like a baby stretching out and then resuming fetal position. Does a baby wonder about meaning? Does a baby get afraid of life and collapse, like I do? I do.
I do. The tin soldier cold when I take it out of my pocket it and throw it. No more fakes. Just reals.
And then I realize none of its real. And I wake up. Repeatedly, falling through a thousand dreams.
Table of Contents
Day 279
There are quiet spaces, and then there are loud spaces, and then there are places that scream silently without words but with bombardments of emotion. These types of things make me run, make me remember, remember fear or longing or some kind of a combination that people sometimes label nostalgia but I have come to associated more with a type of nauseated stirring in my abdomen, accompanied with the crashing of symbols and the whirring of an electronic beat close to my ear, ttcchk tchhhk like a cassette that has ceased to function as we, the owner, expect it to, my brain now switching itself on and off at a rate imperceptible to my rhythmic sensations, totally lost in the base set of sounds I have come to associate with cognition and consciousness.
I tell dreams and waking apart by reaching out my hand and grabbing the air between my two fingers and then rubbing vigorously. In the real world, all I feel are the edges of my fingerprints rubbing against each other, perhaps more slippery because of the anxious state of my sweaty palms. In dreams, the terrifying places where my truth spills out, and the fear of possessing certain desires pulls out, I feel not fingerprints but emotions, and I roll them into balls, styrofoam and artificial in texture, and they fall out along my palms and roll down and create a pile beneath my feet; they are truths and facts and places and memories, all iridescent and swimming, grinding against each other until it is not individual balls and marbles but a fine powder that coats everything. I inhale it, and choke upon myself, and as much as I try to throw up, I heave deep empty breathes of air.
I think it is much more terrifying to suspect that something is wrong with you than to be certain of an innate flaw. The man who thinks that he has a virus that will certainly take his life within the span of a few days paces the floor of his abode, raving and tearing his hair until he is bald and bleeding, his doctors scour his results for any sign of truth within his suspicion, but finding nothing, they shrug their shoulders and say the words that will haunt him or weeks - "Maybe. It's all in your head. Are you sure it's real?"
Real. Like a bullet whipping out of a pistol and tearing into the background of life, ripping a hole in the canvas, the fakeness of life manifesting itself in all its naked glory. Is it real? The question returns to me, and when it does, I run, with a ferocity I realize only after the panic has subsided.
I run with my torn shoes, and I find a family and a place that does not know of its own impossibility, does not know that it is perched precariously on the edge of an existence that is impossible to prove logically, and thus it is possible to fall apart at the gentle touch of a prodding man. I find people that are secure in their surroundings, and draw meaning from their senseless existence. I find women that love not their minds but their bodies, thinking nothing when they find themselves planted firmly in the throughs of sexual involvement. There is no truth, they whisper, but you. There is nothing but you and me garroting wildly like magicians in a plane of imagination.
That word. Imagination. It shatters it all, the second it is vaulted at me I must run again. She must never tell me that I can imagine, she must only tell me that I perceive, not that I create, but that I am. That by having great gaping gasps of her body and all that it means, I can find my skin solid, and my bones material. Then, I fear, it slips.
It was going so well. I could avoid the harsh fantasies from escaping into my reality, until I went to that church without the man who was so steadfast that the very earth seemed to respect the truth and dignity with which he walked. When he spoke, he meant it, there was no qualifying terms of doubt and regret. What he said come from his gut and the stabilizing belch that come from him made my shaking and quavering sensibilities quiet and stop their loud and obnoxious paroxysms.
Then he took me to that church. And in there, nothing was stable. The hand of God descended before me, and although some people find peace in the fact that perhaps there is a great sentient being that surrounds us all and has a plan and a reason for our life, instead the vastness and greatness of such a structure smothers me in possibilities again, and since I cannot see with my two own eyes, feel with my two hands, smell with my two nostrils, or hear with my two hears, his uncertainty overwhelms me like a flood cascading through a broken dam, and washes away my sensibilities. I heard the slow creaking of the dam beneath me as he shouted out that there was some being somewhere that cared whether I apologized or not, was too much to manage. No person I have not met can possibly care about me - I do not care whether he has "met" me or not, because I am not aware of his presence he not only is nonexistent but is also resting only in plausibility or even lower in possibility or even lower than that in myth.
Simplicity. Is it such a difficult desire to have fulfilled? Is it? Is it. Yes, yes, and yes, my experiences scream to me, but the more they scream the more I defend myself with people who seem to live in a strange ignorance that it hardly seems impossible.
I retreated, as fast as I could, to wandering the streets. All people were in that building being blasted by words as strong as spells, and so there was not much to distract me but the wood and the wind. I walked, and as I did I let my fingers trace patterns in buildings. This was something I did on a daily basis.
I found a suitable building with a paint that was smooth rather than rough to my finger touch, and began to draw big airy drawings that vanished just as soon as the heat from my fingers dissipated. I kept trying to catch up with myself, thinking that perhaps I could trace the architecture before all the wind and coolness beat me to it.
I traced people and places I had run away from, just so I could see them disappear again. My parents first, they were one of the few people I was sorry to run away from, but they represented such a strange idea: that I could come from nothing but sperm and a womb. That I could be nothing, and yet spring from a body with vibrancy! It made my mind go wild, and the thin thread that kept what ifs out snapped whenever I was physically with them. I had to constantly keep myself from pressing into my mother and asking repeatedly, "Where is the magic? Where did I really come from? Why are you lying." I knew she was telling the truth, but when the truth wasn't logical, how could it be the truth? When the truth made as much sense as a lie, which one did I find easier to accept. It's why I believed in the stork for as long as I was with them, and when I no longer could, I left.
I finished tracing her horn-rimmed glasses and tucked back hair, and then I started on her vest. She always wore plaid, and she always looked more put together than a mother ever should. Mothers should be caring and considerate, but she put on makeup and became a symbol of corporate power seized in my mind. Because I grew up with such a mother with her arm-distance love and cold analytical stares, what is familiar is corporate and controlled - smooth cold surfaces were my family, and were in others they felt mechanic, to me they felt strangely sterile and that felt like home.
After I finished with her trousers I went on to him, the father, his disappearances more a part of my memory than his presence, and because of this the details of his face I left hazy, each time I drew him he was a different, a reconstruction rather than a replication. I made it up, but each time I drew him I would sit back and nod my head knowingly saying, "Yes that is just how he looked." I wondered perhaps if none of these was my father, and should I recognize him again if I were to see him? Perhaps. But the bigger fear was no. No, I would not, and I would never, and that means that just about any person on the sidewalk could be my dad and what then? Then all of them are my dad, and I should hug and love each. What if this friendly farmer with his simple desires and cut and dry talk were my father, dressed up to confuse me? I should treat him better. Maybe I'll stay here for a bit. Maybe.
I kept drawing, but as I went, I started to draw more numerical things, more precise and less artistic, until I found myself drawing the number zero, over and over, and I woke up only when the stars were in the sky and my body was cold.
I had a vague recollection of the afternoon, but the only set thing in my recent history was a sermon and a preacher who sounded like he was sent straight from the drawer room of the lord.
Then I went back to that other house, the one I had come to live in. Coming into the living room I smiled awkwardly when I saw the farmer through the door.
"There you are. Where you been?" he called out to me, and got up from his half-eaten dinner.
"Walking. It's a nice night. I'm going to sleep now." I went upstairs and went to bed.
Table of Contents
Day 280
I try to make beautiful art, but for some reason, I can never quite succeed. I can never get the balance, vision and emotion into my pieces that I see elsewhere. I go to the museum and take a look at what they have in store, and each painting grabs me and twirls me around, showing be precisely where the mind was at each particular stroke of the artist's brush.
My art is never clever, never anything but a sloppy mess of colors, all running against each other and trying to achieve some sort of miss-matched harmony. The blue paint runs down the side over the red paint and it mixes together to make a horrific shade of orange, offensive to the eyes but even more so to the soul.
I paint and a splatter, trying to mix each of the colors that individually are so attractive, but what ends up happening is simply a canvas filled with lots of brown. It all blends and melds to form something not quite as original as the tubes I'm given. I try and create, but end up destroying. I suppose that the innate difference between creating and destroying is hard and subjective, but when I show my ugly work to others their curled lips seem to agree with my thought that I have torn down nature rather than built up future.
I try, but my tries are never good enough. They never break the mold of imagination and reach out to the people that seem to walk by. Their eyes graze over what I have put together as if not even seeing it was there.
What is wrong with me? What is wrong with my paintbrush, the hand that controls it, the arm the moves it, the mind that tries dangerously to keep all of life in balance? What is it.
I take each of my paintings and I toss them out the window and watch as they flutter into the mid-summer air, not drifting down but blowing upwards into the sky, like little paper birds that children draw, meaning natural birds but finding only arching v's.
I hope somebody somewhere will find my wet and tattered pieces of canvas and find something in them, some inspiration. At least something to hang on the wall. Or maybe, at a basic level, some more brown to add to the already smeared and stained edges, though the thought of it almost brings me to tears.
Almost, but not quite. Nothing I have imagined ever has managed to bring me to tears. Nothing but a blurred sense of sadness that I should have been better, should have been someone that did something. Instead, I make brown canvases, against a gray backdrop of hopelessness.
Table of Contents
Day 287
Some things you know for years without ever saying. These things that you know rest in a small cavern in the back of your brain, and exist not as a sentence, because that would be to real, but like a shade of knowledge that floats and feeds on your energy as time goes on. First this shade starts invisible, but as it devours more and more of your time, senses and experience it gains a foot hold in your reality, and the opacity turns from clear to a dark, deep black. Once it has sufficiently manifested itself, it will burst into your consciousness with a horrible tearing noise, a sound similar to the tearing of a sheet of paper that has your hopes and dreams on it. And this is where I find myself.
I had written a letter to express precisely what I felt, because I found that if I spoke things would get all jumbled, and before I knew it I would be saying the opposite of what I actually wanted to express. My tongue would turn against me, and in all the confusion and torrential outflow, he would get the wrong idea somehow and I would stand there naked and false, embarrassed of all the lies I had just professed, but unable to take them back and cram them back into my imagination where they belonged. I would stare at him with tearing eyes, and he would gaze at his shoes rather than at me, and I would know that would be the end of it, and I would never get to do that one sealing act which I had never had the chance to perform.
My letter was simple in form, and because I could not find eloquent or beautiful ways to say what I wanted with many words, I said things as simply as I could. "I yearn for you. I want you. Please do not deny me. I have lived with this for a long time. I don't know what else to do. If you do not feel the same, tear this letter in two so that I will know. Don't share it with anyone else, for my sake. I just didn't want an opportunity to pass untried. What if you feel the same? The possibility haunted me." Simple phrases for facts that spun and wound themselves around my head, in no way described by my neat cubes of sentences that I tried to place them in. It changed and morphed itself into so many forms, how could I expect such finite and complete words to challenge the feat of crossing that emotional void between us, made deeper just by the expectations and morals of society. It was impossible, but despite this, I had to try. For me, it was like looking across a deep chasm and knowing that no matter how hard I pushed off, no matter how far my running start, I would plunge deep into the canyon and fall forever, or at least that last second before impact would seem infinitesimal, for in my belief system life is like a function that converges to 0 at infinity; we know that it reaches it eventually, or even that it reaches it at a set time, but at the same time it will never come. How many people hang like marionettes on strings, resting just before their final time, all of them taking half steps to a wall they will never be able to completely reach, their noses breathing deep the smell of plaster mixed with wallpaper mixed with a faint moldy smell that burns the nostril as it is inhaled. I distract myself with ideological notions.
I walked myself to his house in the dead of night, and when I was sure no one was watching me, I put the letter in his mailbox. Even though it was silent, and the hour was early in the hour, and all the good people who had been energetic the night before and were expected to be energetic yet again as the soon rose were sleeping, I worried still about being seen. The entire walk I fancied that there were eyes in all the hedges, and though I tried to avoid looking around me by following my footsteps, the cracks in the pavement in the darkness allowed eyeballs and fingers to creep into my imagination. I closed my eyes, but it was too late, I was soiled. I was found out. The ghostly people laughed at me as I walked back alone, and their high-pitched hyena calls followed me even as I went under the covers of my still made bed. The panacea of childhood no longer carried over to real life issues: have you ever seen a cancer patient cured of their ails by crawling under covers? A mass murder's knife can penetrate any sheets, no matter how thick the cover, your blood will spatter all over it and your childhood protection is as worthless as a tissue paper dress in a torrential downpour.
I didn't see him during the day, but I worried that I would, and no matter how many coffee cups I drank, nothing seemed to take care of the jitters. My body shook. I wanted to throw up, but when I stuck my finger down my throat, I tasted something strong, like pickles and mayonnaise. I quickly removed my finger and just stared at the white porcelain of the toilet, daring it to eat me up.
The day I waited was blurry and muddled, like I was in a suit of mud and trying to walk as the pieces cracked and fell off me, making the world a dull brown. The next morning though is as crisp as anything.
My letter torn in half. That was all I received back in the mail box. There was no response, just the tearing. I suppose it is what I asked for, but I realized how I had not meant it.
I made my bed, and then seeing that it was too perfect, I jumped back on to it. Getting up, I saw that it was too messy, and made it again. Then it the lack of creases bothered me, and I jumped again. It was too messy, and I made it again. Then the perfection bothered me, and I jumped.
Table of Contents
Day 291
Sitting in a field, wheat lapping legs. I was just passing by on the road, and this one field seemed to call to me. We were separated by a spiked metal fence, the iron rusted and falling apart, and so I lifted up the bottom and climbed under, trying to avoid getting dirty but ending up with a light brown smear on my chest. Once on the other side, I started to walk through the field, touching each piece of wheat and smiling happily to myself. This is just what I had heard about, what I had seen in those lovely pictures that people hung up on the wall next to the bathroom door; supposed to be calming, but also quiet.
I picked my way through the field, tearing out the wheat and stuffing it up to my nose to inhale deeply. The kernels are a more scratchy than I expected, and for some reason I thought of a homeless person I once saw sitting on the side of another road, and thought about the dense fur that coated his chin and the pungent smell. Although here there was no smell, just air to breath. There was a slight smell of something organic like mud but drier, but compared to the overpowering smells I was used to, it seemed light and almost whimsical.
Before I knew what was happening, my foot caught on a jagged piece of metal, hidden by the wheat. I fell on the ground, and found myself staring down at another discarded piece of life, just waiting there. It was like I was staring at a corpse, and down at the level of the wheat I saw that there were many more parts lying around, at first unable to be seen from above. It was a graveyard of unwanted articles.
My eyes started to ear up from the prickly wheat smell, which now clung to my neck and bedded itself in my skin, and I wanted to escape. Making a quick jog back to the road, I fell a few more times and ended up with scrapes, jagged teeth catching me and calling me back, but I escaped with scrapes on my back from the fence.
Table of Contents
Day 297
The daily routine was simple. In the morning they awoke to the quiet noise of the birds outside their window, mocking birds that would alternate their harmonies and patterns; first belting out long and low notes and then chirping and prancing in the upper regions of their vocal register. He slept facing the right, she slept facing the left, their backs resting about a foot apart, enough distance to feel close but not claustrophobic, though that line sometimes blurred and she would find herself awake all night, wishing that she didn't feel his warmth, didn't feel the cushion rise and fall as his chest heaved in deep draughts of air, intoxicated with sleep and rest. Always there was the subtle sound of the ticking clock that rested on her bedside table, keeping time and reality in order. It was an anchor, and when she could not sleep, she would write melodies in her head to the steady beat of seconds. Though they slept for long periods of time, to call the night peaceful would be a marginal fallacy, and their dreams were filled with apparitions that sometimes shocked, sometimes fascinated.
One dream in particular haunted her: she would stand in the middle of a pure white room, so white that only by reaching out and feeling could she find the walls and floors. She run one hand along the wall, trying to uncover a hidden door, to no avail. As she continued to walk in squares around the room, the walls would advance, slowly so that she would make many revolutions before realizing that she could now barely take a few steps before finding a corner. An acute sense of panic would begin to overwhelm as the walls made their persistent advance and waves of nausea in the sea of white took hold, and the unstable situation grew worse until she was swallowed whole by the world, compressed until she was nothing but a singular dot, small, like a speck of dust floating by.
After this dream visited her, she would open her eyes wide to find the whiteness replaced with a dark room, and her husband's small movements brought her slowly back to the reality of the moment , his rib cages blew up and then out and then the ticking of the clock cycled. For some reason, his breath unsettled her, when it should have been a constant presence. It was almost as if the whiteness had jumped from her dream to his lungs, and it was now suffocating rather than squashing. The whole room shook with a death rattle, cracking like whips and groaning like bulls.
Always he rose before her, and if at any time she fell out of sleep before him, she would lie in bed with her eyes closed, pretending that she was sleep.
While rubbing dishes vigorously, she paused and the thought that he knew occurred to her. It was a constant worry: how much did he know about what she did when she thought he wasn't paying attention? How much deceit could she get away with? She had day-fantasies were she imagined that the night before while asleep she had told him the intricate secrets that she took so much care to hide. No person should ever know everything about another, that was her thought. She held her secrets like a necklace of gems hidden beneath her clothes, treating each one as a tissue paper barrier between freedom and slavery. Secrets: the only thing that set her free. If he knew, it was best not to think about it, she told herself, and continued doing the morning dishes.
The daily ritual continued with breakfast. Simple meals, as she was not accustomed to making anything more than what could be done in 10 minutes. A cracked egg on a hot stove, or a bowl of oats and milk. He ate it in silence, and although they had not spoken once since waking, she did not feel any need to break the silence along with the fast. Sometimes he would advance: "The eggs were good this morning. Were they new?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Okay. It is good that they taste good, even though they are not new."
"Yes. I try hard."
"I know, and I appreciate it. You are a good woman."
Her face reddened, but his back was turned. "You are a good man." Nearly a whisper, and it would have been lost in anything but utter quiet.
"Then we're good people. Pleasant."
She nodded in approval, and he continued forking the yellow blobs. They dodged and pranced around his prongs, jiggling and teasing, more cheerful than anything else in the house, but there was a strange artificiality about them, the wife thought, almost like they had been magicked into existence rather than born out of the back end of a chicken. Almost as if he was eating rubber and it would bounce and shake in his stomach.
He went off to work soon after breakfast, kissing her lightly on the cheek and saying, "You're pretty. Stay the same."
"I always do" was her customary response, smiling rosily, like a china doll with floppy arms and legs.
She had such a doll as a child. Her mother had taken it away when it was darkened with living with a girl who often let it sit in the mud and dirt. She cried for the entire afternoon, and the mother who at first thought it would be good for her to not use toys for companions, caved in and bought a new toy. It was white and new, with a shining face that had bright red lips and blue eyes. She took one look at it and shook her head. "It's not dirty. I want mine." She knew the difference. Her doll was chipped and worn, she was not to be fooled. The defeated mother took back the doll and put it on a shelf in her closet, where it sat and gathered dust. A year later, when it had sufficiently been dirtied by time, the mother had the idea to give the doll back, now that it met her daughter's criteria. The mother knew it was a year late, and though the girl had stopped crying, she suspected that perhaps she still wanted it.
The girl took it with a look of confusion, and put it on yet another shelf, this time in her own room. She thought it was ugly, and now that she attended school, felt herself too old, too mature, and it stayed on the shelf until one day she came home and found the doll in the middle of the floor, as if the doll had gotten off the shelf and ended its own life. There was a crack in the middle of the porcelain face, straight through the left eye, and the effect was overpoweringly depressing. That day she threw the doll away for good.
After the husband was gone, she would finish cleaning up the house and doing chores, things she told him took all day, but in truth if she hurried she could get them done in within a few hours of his departure. As she brushed the dust off his past awards and trophies, the bronze glinted at her. Someday she would take them and bury them in the back, and when he came home and asked her where they went, she would inch her eyebrows close above her eyes, and look worried and sympathetic. What what? What do you mean? How could this happen! I cleaned them this morning. How how. All the time she would be gleefully smiling inside, her hands still tingling from the sensation of digging in the earth. She would put her hands into her apron, to hide her fingernails still caked with mud and grass. A muddy rebellion.
In the midday her true day would start. She walked upstairs, to the attic, pulling on a light yellow chord that hung down, and a ladder would materialize in front of her. It was like ascending into an alien spacecraft, and at times she imagined that she was being abducted and would never come back.
The attic was dust, full of it, and whenever she placed her hand down, it was black when she lifted it back up. There were such clouds when she walked around that often she would spend minutes on end sneezing and coughing, until her eyes watered and tears streamed down her face and soaked into her shirt. A wet patch just beneath the neck.
Despite the awful state of the attic, she never cleaned it, and vowed never to bring any of her cleaning tools up. The husband barely even thought about that pale yellow string that connected her to another world anyways. Such things tended to escape his notice. Or did they? No, she was quite sure they did.
Up here she worked on her project, and sitting amid the dusty planks, there was a great heap of fabric, multicolored and gaudy. She called it The Monstrosity, because when she walked from the top of the ladder to it her steps made long and sleepy groans that seemed to originate within the very mass of colors and material, and the resemblance to a great mythical beast was so great that every afternoon she brought a piece of bread to leave behind when she descended the ladder. It was a silly ritual, but as the years went, it was one which began to hold an increasing prominence. What started as bread soon built up to a full course meal which she presented to it after she had completed her work, taking the still full meal from the preceding day back done the ladder, holding the tray with one hand while she steadied herself on the rungs with the other. Sometimes she had a great desire to pray to it, but when once she had started to mutter a word or two she felt exceedingly ridiculous, and the budding religion was discarded.
With her great spools of thread and the old pieces of fabric she retrieved from dumpsters on occasional afternoon trips, she mixed and matched, each thread a thought, each patch a piece of imagination. What was it for? What was the purpose?
"Things without purpose are the things most worth keeping. All that we leave behind is that which we did for pleasure. Who ever remembers what our ancestors ate daily? No, we remember the art, the things that made us crack smiles, the things that made our sides heave with laughter and joy. Hahhahaha!!!"
She surprised herself with these statements, coming as sudden strokes of inspiration, and though they seemed at first uncontrovertibly true, as the day went on their initial sheen wore off, until they were so rusty that she shrugged them off, and left them balled up in the spider webs in the attic. A thousand truths and beliefs she left behind, never to be rediscovering by the entrepreneurial adventurer.
She made her way through the oceans of dress that she had pieced together, sometimes giving up the needle and thread simply lie in it, floating on her back in a sea of texture.
Lying there until he came home, until she saw him walking up to the house out the one window at the end of the attic, and she would have to rush down the ladder, pretending everything was quite common and in order, trying to cough out the dust before he smelled it on her breath.
Days went, days came, days went. And the white walls creeped, and the great beast slumbered. Not to be waken. Not to be poked and prodded, but only be submissive, though there was a cracking energy working beneath the facade.
She woke up and knew. This was it. She pretended that she did know, just like she pretended to be sleeping, and the morning was an exercise in patience. She accepted his kiss and waved cheerfully when he left, but as soon as he was out of sight, her eyes lit up and her face dropped.
She walked quickly to the bathroom, and removed each piece of clothing she had put on, and then stood in front of the mirror. Her eyes traced her curves, looking at her body in ways that she never felt confident. Her husband had never commented on her physical features. The only thing he said was that she was pleasant, good, or nice. Adjectives of necessity. Their acts of love, though rare, were marred by shyness and uncomfortable moments, she acting the martyr and he the reluctant god.
She had scars, everywhere she looked she found imperfections. Freckles and moles, dark hairs, layers of fat. She frowned deeply, and even her frown she found offensive. Finally she looked into her eyes, and within the deep brown color she found humanity. When she tore her gaze away from her own eyes, her imperfections no longer controlled the image, and she found herself flawed, but human, and her final emotion was one of acceptance and not pity.
She went downstairs and got the canister of oil, marked with the large image of a flame. Her husband never told her what it was, but she was not unimaginative.
She took a box of matches and the canister upstairs, climbed up the ladder with one hand lugging the oil, the other steady on the rungs.
Once upstairs she set aside her tools. She walked up to the monstrosity, turned around, and fell backwards onto it. She lay there, and then let her eyes drift closed, and then she was floating on her back in the sea of colors, lines, and squares. She started to kick her legs lazily and move her arms in windmill strokes, smiling serenely to herself. It was good to float in the sea on a nice calm day.
She got up once she was done, and retrieved the canister and the matches. Unscrewing the cap, she started to fling the liquid over the heap of hard work. Once it was soaked, she started a trail towards the ladder while walking backwards. At the top of the ladder she threw the bottle to the ground, letting it clink emptily, seeing for the last time a puff of dust rise lazily.
The match she lit dropped quickly but did not flicker, and its minuscule spark soon turned into a roaring beast of hot flames. She kept her serene smile as she climbed back down the stairs.
Conflagration emancipation. Conflagration emancipation. Fin.
Table of Contents
Day 299
Every day of the week was a quiet day for the female who kept to herself in a small house on the end of the street. Nobody had seen her for years, and for the most part, nobody thought about her. Her house had become more of a presence on the street, people used to see the white walls with green shutters, always closed up, and never with a light on. There were the believers, those that thought she still lived within its walls and somehow found sustenance, perhaps telling gruesome tales of cardboard consumption. Others doubted, saying that she had died or moved away, in the middle of the night, simply walked away out of the consciousness of the world forever. Whatever the truth, she was a ghost on the street, and except for the occasional fantasy, her name was left alone. Matilda, and you wouldn't know it or remember it if it weren't plastered on the side of the house, written in a red scrawl, "Matilda's Abode." The sign was painted many years ago but a burly man that had come to the house, and despite his appearance had painted beautifully feminine letters, arching and sweeping like the strokes of an elegant maestro in black coattails. She had approached him after he finished the job and handed him a few notes without saying anything. He waved cheerfully. It didn't matter whether people talked or didn't talk, the language was all in the exchange of money for services.
Did she ever have friends? No. Not quite. Or if she did, they had died or abandoned her. Lost in anonymity and time, shrouded in a blanket of forgetfulness, her name masquerading around the halls, unknown.
A chill autumn day, wind ripping through the street like a tailor wielding monstrous sheers through a piece of fabric. Leaves floating up, held suspended, children's miniature hands high fiving and exploring, before getting caught in grass and in bushes. Their red, brown, yellow, golden colors blended like an advertisement for diversity, playing together respectfully and lovingly. Toothy grins hung in the air like banshees on halloween.
The street was hushed though, all of the residents walking quietly, their words ripped away by the wind, and so conversations lay unattended, preferring silence to misunderstanding punctuated by a million "what was that?"'s. Their collared jackets covered their necks and ears, but the whispy bits of hair ripped around, messing up the usually carefully preened and controlled appearance. In this weather, nothing could be crisp and clear. It was in this blurry, hazy, full-blown obscured weather that Matilda showed herself for the first time in years. It was with a creak of door hinges rusted by time, not with a shout, a groan, or a gunshot. There she stood, looking at an empty street, an old woman with a cane in one hand, and clothes that had not been washed with soap in years. She was sagging, a melting wax figure, a candle that had burned too long in the great span of her lifetime. She wore no shoes, perhaps having lost ones she one had, perhaps worn through shuffling nights and pacing days. Sightless eyes, crystal blue like the sky, but unseeing. They glazed left, glazed right, but saw nothing. Observing carefully, you could just barely detect that she was almost feeling the wind, and she held her unoccupied hand out to feel the flow of the air, as if it transferred meaning to her in its chaotic and uncontrolled torrent. She appeared frozen in time, never to move again, solid. For many moments she stood there, and not one person saw her. Not one individual walking down the street turned their head to see this woman who might never be seen again. No one cared, and more than that they did not see her, if they did they likely would not have approached, or perhaps would have lost her in the endless white walls of the house. She appeared suddenly and without warning, and her departure was the same.
She took one step back, and the door closed itself, shutting through free will, out of protection. Just as the door closed, there came the words, lost to all but the wind, "Not today. It is too scary today. Another day. Maybe tomorrow. Or not... or not."
Matilda obscured once again, lost, and because she was lost, was as good as dead.
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