Post by Randalf on May 20, 2006 14:11:51 GMT -5
Well, for those of you who don't know I'm writing a short story type thing for my english final project. We have to connect 10 pieces of literature to a central theme and it must explain our personal philosophy... so here is what I have so far. Certain parts are symbolic for things found in other books. The tree is symbolic of a J.T. Eckleberg billboard in The Great Gatsby.. which was symbolic for God watching over everything... anyway, read and advise please!
Chapter I
A sudden gust of wind rushed through the open window and with it came a brilliant white blossom of monkshood. I watched it fall to the floor beside where I sat in a spindly chair that I had built as a child. Slowly I picked it up and held it gently in my hands for a moment, hardly thinking about it, before dropping it back out into the open air. My eyes watched it fall though my mind was elsewhere. When it was about to land another gust of wind blew up and took it off to some other place, a passing visit, then gone.
My room was small and plain, consisting of a simple bed that usually sat heaped with blankets, a small untidy desk that lay largely unused next to a chest of drawers that contained a majority of my possessions inside, and a shoddy chair that sat next to the window and saw its use daily. It was no special place by any physical standards, but it was singularly mine and my own; the soft wooden walls all around were my barrier and the chair was my throne.
Sitting with my head in my hands, I would sit and dream of adventurous places and ludicrous tales full of struggles defeated in glory. It stays vividly in my mind, not the hopes and dreams, those have blurred into a mass collectiveness, but my posture, the feel of the wind blowing through the only open window, the gentle sounds of life just outside, the simple creaking of the old wood, all of that I remember as if it were happening even now. I was in a surprisingly good mood then as well, too good of a mood for the circumstances, but I felt it nonetheless; odd that I should still remember any elation from that time.
Almost in routine I stood up as the sun reached its zenith and ceased to cast shadows through my window. Finding no simple tasks that could delay me, I began the trek back to my hated apprenticeship. My mind passed by the walk in a stupor, crossing paths so well known that I consciously didn’t recognize them, down the stairs and out of my house, down the small road, a right, a left onto the main road, then a few brisk steps to the back door of the print shop. A short enough walk as the town was small enough to accommodate it, and though I never truly recall any specific journey along its route, I fear I never will forget it.
When I first entered the print shop I saw nothing out of the ordinary, indeed I thought of nothing out of the ordinary aside from an uncharacteristic optimism. Even when I noticed both Eric and Ruth were gone I thought nothing more than that they perhaps had both been needed somewhere for some random task and so I set about my work. I had been apprenticing for long enough by then, nearly 3 years, and knew what to do without any guidance. Whenever I set about work that I enjoyed, particularly when working alone, I would drift out of time and my surroundings to some extent; my movement would be absorbed in the task at hand while my mind was absorbed in some distant thinking. While I set the type I can remember only the placing of letters and more thoughts being added to the massive conglomeration that constituted my imaginative thoughts, I feel it could have been a lifespan between the time that I stood leaning over the press and when Scranton, Eric’s son, burst into the shop.
It only took a fraction of a second for my mind to pull out of its stupor. I could obviously tell something was wrong, but conditioned stolidity kept my expression from being all too empathetic. Regardless, I looked up quickly at Scranton as he leaned over the table to catch his breath while trying, and failing, to communicate what the problem was. My mind was racing from the minute he stepped in, my pessimism first brought a conclusion that I had done something wrong while my more rational mind dismissed it; I never really did anything wrong to begin with. Though the fear still loomed over every subsequent thought, I jumped to more assumptions, each as unlikely, or perhaps as likely, as the next. With pessimism gradually overcoming my other thoughts my mind was once again split, the more curious part urging me to ask if I had done something, the more logical urging me to simply wait and see—the answer was forthcoming in moments anyway, the more fearful and cynical urging me to simply assume it was my fault; if it wasn’t then by saying nothing I would betray no guilty conscience or fear, and to betray fear would mean to betray who I appeared to be. Logic and cynicism won the moment.
As I stood still, with what I hoped was the same expression of minor empathy on my face, Scranton finally was able to gasp out, “Your house… it caught on fire. It’s burning; they sent me to find you and your father.”
As my thoughts jumbled into a discombobulated chaos all I could think to say was, “
” and then run through the door left ajar by Scranton’s entrance.
I ran towards my home with no particular goal in mind and in what seemed an instant I found myself standing just behind a crowd surrounding what was left of my still burning home. It was then that the reality, or at least my perception of it, sunk in. The discombobulated chaos of moments before suddenly made sense, all of the hopes and fears and emotion slammed my psyche with an almost physical force by its sudden acknowledgement.
Standing amidst the crowd my face twisted into an expression of what was quite obviously one of pain. Though men were still rushing about with buckets of water and such, my mind barely noted them. My home, the place of safety in my world, the place away from the problems created by the very crowd I was standing among, was gone. And for the moment I felt totally lost, there was no place to escape to, no place which would remove me from these people I must deal with everyday. A sadness I would never have expected from anything so… material, took hold. Looking around, I saw the expressions of people as they saw me, pity and understanding shone in many of the faces, but somehow this only served to depress me, even anger me, more.
I immediately turned around to leave and was confronted with the sympathetic voice of my neighbor, a daft old woman, though kind and always wanting to be helpful. Through my expression I tried to convey just how much I absolutely loathed her at that moment, hated her for attempting to console me, attempting to talk to me, but she remained unperturbed.
“Are you alright, dear?” She asked benignly.
I stared incredulously at her for a moment through my rising anger; what could she possibly expect me to say to that? My house is all but gone and I certainly am not smiling, does she expect me to say I feel awful? Somehow that struck me as just as out of place an answer as telling her I felt wonderful. Though my anger grew my face could only break out in a fallacious smile, the complete antithesis to the anger evident in my eyes. My mind fell back on habit.
“I’m fine.” I eventually answered as the twisted smile finally fell from my appearance. Of course I wasn’t fine, far from it, but I certainly had no desire whatsoever to speak about it. I was quick to avoid her eyes as I pushed past the crowd to find a place where I could be alone. I could feel the stares as people turned around to watch me walk away, thankfully no one tried to stop me. I had wanted to say much worse, wanted to yell even, but there was some connection breached in my brain, some almost physical barrier keeping me from the confrontation; as always when I got angry, nothing came of it but a dirty look and an uncommunicative answer.
When I reached the end of the street, only about six houses away from my own, I turned around for just a short moment. My house stood as a simple silhouette of what it once was, the evening sun shining in its entire splendor directly behind it. The sun spread its bright rays outward, grasping my home in its fires and pulling it away. The deep oranges of the sky seemed to emanate directly from my home. Distorted in its heat, my home stood as a lone monolith bathed in light, worshipers parading at its foot, shouting praise and throwing sacrifices at its feet. In a different situation I would have simply watched, taking in the rare spectacle, but in that very moment I could merely glance. But in that short glance the image seemed burned into my retina, as I walked on the outlines blurred my vision and were long to fade. It was beautiful and painful, a phantasm.
Chapter II
I was sitting under an oak tree, the oak tree really, as whenever an oak tree was spoken of, and it rarely was, it was this one that people meant. It was much larger than any of the others that lined the outskirts of the McCorning’s farm, and much older than any of the trees that marked the border of the forest surrounding Ed’ardston, but most importantly the knots and malformations that spanned its trunk formed into a visage of a kindly old face. Old wives’ tales and children’s stories painted it as some sort of remnant from creation, a relic still present from when the whole world was born. A ridiculous sentiment that none believed, but there remained a certain delight in its rare telling; it stood as an effigy of the town. As I said before, utter nonsense, but harmless nonsense; there was even a part of it that stuck in my mind as nearly a man of sixteen years.
I suppose that is why, after the loss of my home, I often found myself lurking beneath its branches, sitting in a comfortable crook of its roots, leaning against its solid trunk, simply thinking. It was enticing as a place merely of solitude, quite separate from the hustle and bustle of everyday life in the town and even quite separate from little children looking for fun. Its dipping branches separated it from the world around; it was also a place of comfort for me, with a forest spreading beyond sight on one side and the open valley on the other, a relic towering above and a quietness disturbed only by nature.
No one frequented that area anymore; rarely did anyone visit it at all in fact, despite its popularity among the town. There were few enough travelers and the few there were likely did not care where The Great Oak Inn or Oakwood Tavern received their distinction. Even the children of late seemed to have lost interest in visiting the monument of so many stories; as a child this area seemed the perfect place to find entertainment of any kind, yet it seemed my pastimes were lost on the younger, albeit only slightly younger, generation.
The tree sat at the cusp of the hill just south of Ed’ardston, it seemed to watch over the rolling pastures and farmland and the sprawling village, looking down on the proceedings below with a quiet wisdom in its age. With this vantage point I could watch the sun crawl across the sky, watch the people turned insects scuttle about the streets or work at some task I could only guess at, see small craft sail gently down the lazy waters of the Malcart River; the world as I knew it was open to me. I was able to watch two of those insects leave the streets, leave whatever toil they had previously been engaged and slowly but surely turn from insect to people as they began climbing towards just where I was sitting. Though my mind was in its own world a small part remained in reality to warn me of the couples’ approach and so, with increasing anxiety, I slipped out of sight in the forest behind.
Though I felt rather anxious still that perhaps the couple had seen my retreat, I pushed it out of my mind as best I could; after all, if they had seen me leave I would almost positively never be confronted about it, whereas if I had stayed there almost positively would have been some sort of odd exchange of greeting or some such. I continued into the forest at a half run, bounding almost playfully around the increasingly dense foliage until I could no longer see the edge. With a few hours at least left to me that Saturday afternoon I felt I could not possibly go to work early or even back into town. If I did return then what would I do, where would I go, and what would I do if someone asked what I was doing? Would I tell them that a couple seemed to be heading towards me and I snuck off? The truth sounded so preposterous and juvenile I felt it had to be instantly discarded, but all of the excuses that came to mind seemed to be equally ridiculous, not because they weren’t legitimate mature excuses, but because they were untruthful.
As I became sullenly resigned to a walk in the woods, though it would possibly be something enjoyable if it were completely voluntary, I began to chide myself about what had just happened, about my choice. In hindsight everything changed; things that seemed so difficult before seemed to be not only the logical route, but the route I would prefer to have taken. My mind tried to excuse my behavior, but just as I would not use false excuses to others my mind would not accept them. I knew I should probably have stayed at the tree, or at least allow my presence to be known before leaving so that I really could have a reason, but then again, why did I need a reason? Though I understood quite well that I could still go to town, to work early, wherever I wanted to go, the thought of doing so seemed as foreign as had speaking to the couple just moments before. Heaven forbid that I should break away from the path that I seem to have so carefully placed before myself.
The fact remained that I had chosen to sneak off
before the couple saw me; that I had chosen to continue my walk in the woods away from town, that I never expected myself to talk to those people or to walk to town. I felt propelled forward by my past, by all of the decisions that led up to that exact moment, just as that moment propelled me forward into the next and the next. I feared should I diverge from the worn path of my life, whether I truly wished to or not, I would be something or someone noticeable. As it was, I both feared and hoped that my life, my monotony, my restrained attitude, allowed me to fall into the background, to dissipate from people’s minds and simply be. If I was to alter my actions, to break out of the humdrum mold of life I had cut for myself I feared I would excite some small bit of interest; in exactly the same circumstance I feared just as much that I would not excite any interest, that I truly had fallen into the background with no salvation.
I stepped over a fern, ducked a branch, and I hoped for the morrow. Everything I did was what was easy, what I wanted to do could wait until the next time, the next week, the next year. There was always a sliver of hope that time could bring, always my mind would console itself by saying there is always a next time, but I could never really accept it. If everything could be put off to the morrow, then what in hell is the present for? If I don’t change now, why would I change the next time? Hundreds of thoughts berated the existence of the one, but my twisted logic stood in that there really was time, that there always was some type of excuse or some stupid action to force the problem away. My mind was no stranger to those thoughts, they had paved their way through my head on countless desolate occasions, but every time they failed to change anything. Though I realized what I should do, the should never became a would, the should never became a did.
When my train of thought finally quieted I became slowly more aware of my surroundings. The foliage had thickened, plants poked from the spread leaves of ferns, vines climbed snakelike up thick tree stumps. The gentle twittering of birds came from all directions and the horizon in every direction was brown and green studded like stars with bright sunlight shining through the dense canopy. I had never been this deep into the forest before and, looking at the sun through a gap in the leaves, I realized I really had been walking for quite a long time—indeed it was lucky I stopped when I did if I were to get back to town to be at the print shop.
I stood in that exact spot for long minutes, absorbing the gentle peacefulness of nature. There was something supremely soothing about the scene, I felt as if I made any noise at all I would disturb a delicate balance. The soft sounds that echoed calmed my overactive mind for the moment, not eliminating thought, but channeling it in what seemed a somehow more refined way; instead of thinking in a jumbling mess my thoughts seemed to come preordered in an exquisitely logical way, filtering untoward worries away from principle concern. And I realized that really this was a nice experience, whatever the beginning may have been; that really there was always chance to find something good in anything.
But of course I could not stand there forever, a more peaceful mind endured and actually flourished in the walk back towards Ed’ardston. I felt as if there was a revelation of sorts on my walk, a scolding and explosion of worries followed by calm and a sweet realization, but despite my serenity I knew it wasn’t so. As always the feeling wouldn’t last, but somehow the pessimism did little to damper the moment, I walked and enjoyed, understanding who I wanted to be, how I wanted to act, knowing and accepting so many of the things that bothered me in life, all of the worries and misery were gone for the time. It was a time of gentle realization, everything made sense and the things that didn’t simply didn’t need to. I walked on and on, pleased with the exercise, out of the forest, out of the pastures, the farms, and into the town, smiling slightly all the way.
Chapter III
I arrived at the print shop slightly earlier than normal, but at that point it didn’t matter that much anymore. I made no awkward comments, had no worries, and simply said hello to the family and began working. It was the first time I really enjoyed the work since my house burned down; in fact, it was the first time I really realized that the only things lost were material possessions, things I didn’t need. Before that moment I really had considered a part of me lost, not gone, but lost; unable to be found. I had felt trapped and Closter phobic, sucked into a mass of people who all were watching me; watching and judging, but during those rare moments it simply didn’t matter. I know now that the thoughts were still there, no brief and very strange happiness would erase them.
I continued setting the print, quite undisturbed when Eric entered and started running the press and stacking the papers. I was contented with his presence then, contented even with the silence that I usually found awkward. Perhaps he found the silence awkward as I usually did, but even his possible discomfort hardly mattered. I stayed silent because I felt no need to speak about anything, I knew what I was doing and he knew what he was doing, I had no reason to feel guilty and, for once, I actually didn’t. The work went by rather quickly, I think it is true, what they say, that time flies when you are enjoying yourself.
When it was probably around three o’clock, the middle afternoon at least, Ruth, Eric’s wife, called us into the kitchen for supper. I ate happily and lightly, a salad and a small portion of salted pork forthcoming. There was some small conversation between Ruth and Eric, but I just ate quietly, preferring to enjoy the salad and simply be there. Had I been a less regular guest at their table perhaps I might’ve felt some need to speak, but I had been staying with the family since my own home had burnt down. They were kind people certainly, to entertain me for so many years; of course I did work with Eric everyday, but that was altogether expected of me, a privilege really, to learn a trade. Though it was not an extraordinary meal by any means it was certainly more invigorating than most. It is truly amazing how perspective can alter everything around you.
When I turned my eye from the salad to the pork Ruth looked up rather suddenly at me, seeming to have just remembered something.
“Your father wants you to help him with something on the house after you finish.” She proffered unexpectedly, “I think they are setting the walls upstairs.”
Chapter I
A sudden gust of wind rushed through the open window and with it came a brilliant white blossom of monkshood. I watched it fall to the floor beside where I sat in a spindly chair that I had built as a child. Slowly I picked it up and held it gently in my hands for a moment, hardly thinking about it, before dropping it back out into the open air. My eyes watched it fall though my mind was elsewhere. When it was about to land another gust of wind blew up and took it off to some other place, a passing visit, then gone.
My room was small and plain, consisting of a simple bed that usually sat heaped with blankets, a small untidy desk that lay largely unused next to a chest of drawers that contained a majority of my possessions inside, and a shoddy chair that sat next to the window and saw its use daily. It was no special place by any physical standards, but it was singularly mine and my own; the soft wooden walls all around were my barrier and the chair was my throne.
Sitting with my head in my hands, I would sit and dream of adventurous places and ludicrous tales full of struggles defeated in glory. It stays vividly in my mind, not the hopes and dreams, those have blurred into a mass collectiveness, but my posture, the feel of the wind blowing through the only open window, the gentle sounds of life just outside, the simple creaking of the old wood, all of that I remember as if it were happening even now. I was in a surprisingly good mood then as well, too good of a mood for the circumstances, but I felt it nonetheless; odd that I should still remember any elation from that time.
Almost in routine I stood up as the sun reached its zenith and ceased to cast shadows through my window. Finding no simple tasks that could delay me, I began the trek back to my hated apprenticeship. My mind passed by the walk in a stupor, crossing paths so well known that I consciously didn’t recognize them, down the stairs and out of my house, down the small road, a right, a left onto the main road, then a few brisk steps to the back door of the print shop. A short enough walk as the town was small enough to accommodate it, and though I never truly recall any specific journey along its route, I fear I never will forget it.
When I first entered the print shop I saw nothing out of the ordinary, indeed I thought of nothing out of the ordinary aside from an uncharacteristic optimism. Even when I noticed both Eric and Ruth were gone I thought nothing more than that they perhaps had both been needed somewhere for some random task and so I set about my work. I had been apprenticing for long enough by then, nearly 3 years, and knew what to do without any guidance. Whenever I set about work that I enjoyed, particularly when working alone, I would drift out of time and my surroundings to some extent; my movement would be absorbed in the task at hand while my mind was absorbed in some distant thinking. While I set the type I can remember only the placing of letters and more thoughts being added to the massive conglomeration that constituted my imaginative thoughts, I feel it could have been a lifespan between the time that I stood leaning over the press and when Scranton, Eric’s son, burst into the shop.
It only took a fraction of a second for my mind to pull out of its stupor. I could obviously tell something was wrong, but conditioned stolidity kept my expression from being all too empathetic. Regardless, I looked up quickly at Scranton as he leaned over the table to catch his breath while trying, and failing, to communicate what the problem was. My mind was racing from the minute he stepped in, my pessimism first brought a conclusion that I had done something wrong while my more rational mind dismissed it; I never really did anything wrong to begin with. Though the fear still loomed over every subsequent thought, I jumped to more assumptions, each as unlikely, or perhaps as likely, as the next. With pessimism gradually overcoming my other thoughts my mind was once again split, the more curious part urging me to ask if I had done something, the more logical urging me to simply wait and see—the answer was forthcoming in moments anyway, the more fearful and cynical urging me to simply assume it was my fault; if it wasn’t then by saying nothing I would betray no guilty conscience or fear, and to betray fear would mean to betray who I appeared to be. Logic and cynicism won the moment.
As I stood still, with what I hoped was the same expression of minor empathy on my face, Scranton finally was able to gasp out, “Your house… it caught on fire. It’s burning; they sent me to find you and your father.”
As my thoughts jumbled into a discombobulated chaos all I could think to say was, “
” and then run through the door left ajar by Scranton’s entrance.I ran towards my home with no particular goal in mind and in what seemed an instant I found myself standing just behind a crowd surrounding what was left of my still burning home. It was then that the reality, or at least my perception of it, sunk in. The discombobulated chaos of moments before suddenly made sense, all of the hopes and fears and emotion slammed my psyche with an almost physical force by its sudden acknowledgement.
Standing amidst the crowd my face twisted into an expression of what was quite obviously one of pain. Though men were still rushing about with buckets of water and such, my mind barely noted them. My home, the place of safety in my world, the place away from the problems created by the very crowd I was standing among, was gone. And for the moment I felt totally lost, there was no place to escape to, no place which would remove me from these people I must deal with everyday. A sadness I would never have expected from anything so… material, took hold. Looking around, I saw the expressions of people as they saw me, pity and understanding shone in many of the faces, but somehow this only served to depress me, even anger me, more.
I immediately turned around to leave and was confronted with the sympathetic voice of my neighbor, a daft old woman, though kind and always wanting to be helpful. Through my expression I tried to convey just how much I absolutely loathed her at that moment, hated her for attempting to console me, attempting to talk to me, but she remained unperturbed.
“Are you alright, dear?” She asked benignly.
I stared incredulously at her for a moment through my rising anger; what could she possibly expect me to say to that? My house is all but gone and I certainly am not smiling, does she expect me to say I feel awful? Somehow that struck me as just as out of place an answer as telling her I felt wonderful. Though my anger grew my face could only break out in a fallacious smile, the complete antithesis to the anger evident in my eyes. My mind fell back on habit.
“I’m fine.” I eventually answered as the twisted smile finally fell from my appearance. Of course I wasn’t fine, far from it, but I certainly had no desire whatsoever to speak about it. I was quick to avoid her eyes as I pushed past the crowd to find a place where I could be alone. I could feel the stares as people turned around to watch me walk away, thankfully no one tried to stop me. I had wanted to say much worse, wanted to yell even, but there was some connection breached in my brain, some almost physical barrier keeping me from the confrontation; as always when I got angry, nothing came of it but a dirty look and an uncommunicative answer.
When I reached the end of the street, only about six houses away from my own, I turned around for just a short moment. My house stood as a simple silhouette of what it once was, the evening sun shining in its entire splendor directly behind it. The sun spread its bright rays outward, grasping my home in its fires and pulling it away. The deep oranges of the sky seemed to emanate directly from my home. Distorted in its heat, my home stood as a lone monolith bathed in light, worshipers parading at its foot, shouting praise and throwing sacrifices at its feet. In a different situation I would have simply watched, taking in the rare spectacle, but in that very moment I could merely glance. But in that short glance the image seemed burned into my retina, as I walked on the outlines blurred my vision and were long to fade. It was beautiful and painful, a phantasm.
Chapter II
I was sitting under an oak tree, the oak tree really, as whenever an oak tree was spoken of, and it rarely was, it was this one that people meant. It was much larger than any of the others that lined the outskirts of the McCorning’s farm, and much older than any of the trees that marked the border of the forest surrounding Ed’ardston, but most importantly the knots and malformations that spanned its trunk formed into a visage of a kindly old face. Old wives’ tales and children’s stories painted it as some sort of remnant from creation, a relic still present from when the whole world was born. A ridiculous sentiment that none believed, but there remained a certain delight in its rare telling; it stood as an effigy of the town. As I said before, utter nonsense, but harmless nonsense; there was even a part of it that stuck in my mind as nearly a man of sixteen years.
I suppose that is why, after the loss of my home, I often found myself lurking beneath its branches, sitting in a comfortable crook of its roots, leaning against its solid trunk, simply thinking. It was enticing as a place merely of solitude, quite separate from the hustle and bustle of everyday life in the town and even quite separate from little children looking for fun. Its dipping branches separated it from the world around; it was also a place of comfort for me, with a forest spreading beyond sight on one side and the open valley on the other, a relic towering above and a quietness disturbed only by nature.
No one frequented that area anymore; rarely did anyone visit it at all in fact, despite its popularity among the town. There were few enough travelers and the few there were likely did not care where The Great Oak Inn or Oakwood Tavern received their distinction. Even the children of late seemed to have lost interest in visiting the monument of so many stories; as a child this area seemed the perfect place to find entertainment of any kind, yet it seemed my pastimes were lost on the younger, albeit only slightly younger, generation.
The tree sat at the cusp of the hill just south of Ed’ardston, it seemed to watch over the rolling pastures and farmland and the sprawling village, looking down on the proceedings below with a quiet wisdom in its age. With this vantage point I could watch the sun crawl across the sky, watch the people turned insects scuttle about the streets or work at some task I could only guess at, see small craft sail gently down the lazy waters of the Malcart River; the world as I knew it was open to me. I was able to watch two of those insects leave the streets, leave whatever toil they had previously been engaged and slowly but surely turn from insect to people as they began climbing towards just where I was sitting. Though my mind was in its own world a small part remained in reality to warn me of the couples’ approach and so, with increasing anxiety, I slipped out of sight in the forest behind.
Though I felt rather anxious still that perhaps the couple had seen my retreat, I pushed it out of my mind as best I could; after all, if they had seen me leave I would almost positively never be confronted about it, whereas if I had stayed there almost positively would have been some sort of odd exchange of greeting or some such. I continued into the forest at a half run, bounding almost playfully around the increasingly dense foliage until I could no longer see the edge. With a few hours at least left to me that Saturday afternoon I felt I could not possibly go to work early or even back into town. If I did return then what would I do, where would I go, and what would I do if someone asked what I was doing? Would I tell them that a couple seemed to be heading towards me and I snuck off? The truth sounded so preposterous and juvenile I felt it had to be instantly discarded, but all of the excuses that came to mind seemed to be equally ridiculous, not because they weren’t legitimate mature excuses, but because they were untruthful.
As I became sullenly resigned to a walk in the woods, though it would possibly be something enjoyable if it were completely voluntary, I began to chide myself about what had just happened, about my choice. In hindsight everything changed; things that seemed so difficult before seemed to be not only the logical route, but the route I would prefer to have taken. My mind tried to excuse my behavior, but just as I would not use false excuses to others my mind would not accept them. I knew I should probably have stayed at the tree, or at least allow my presence to be known before leaving so that I really could have a reason, but then again, why did I need a reason? Though I understood quite well that I could still go to town, to work early, wherever I wanted to go, the thought of doing so seemed as foreign as had speaking to the couple just moments before. Heaven forbid that I should break away from the path that I seem to have so carefully placed before myself.
The fact remained that I had chosen to sneak off
before the couple saw me; that I had chosen to continue my walk in the woods away from town, that I never expected myself to talk to those people or to walk to town. I felt propelled forward by my past, by all of the decisions that led up to that exact moment, just as that moment propelled me forward into the next and the next. I feared should I diverge from the worn path of my life, whether I truly wished to or not, I would be something or someone noticeable. As it was, I both feared and hoped that my life, my monotony, my restrained attitude, allowed me to fall into the background, to dissipate from people’s minds and simply be. If I was to alter my actions, to break out of the humdrum mold of life I had cut for myself I feared I would excite some small bit of interest; in exactly the same circumstance I feared just as much that I would not excite any interest, that I truly had fallen into the background with no salvation.
I stepped over a fern, ducked a branch, and I hoped for the morrow. Everything I did was what was easy, what I wanted to do could wait until the next time, the next week, the next year. There was always a sliver of hope that time could bring, always my mind would console itself by saying there is always a next time, but I could never really accept it. If everything could be put off to the morrow, then what in hell is the present for? If I don’t change now, why would I change the next time? Hundreds of thoughts berated the existence of the one, but my twisted logic stood in that there really was time, that there always was some type of excuse or some stupid action to force the problem away. My mind was no stranger to those thoughts, they had paved their way through my head on countless desolate occasions, but every time they failed to change anything. Though I realized what I should do, the should never became a would, the should never became a did.
When my train of thought finally quieted I became slowly more aware of my surroundings. The foliage had thickened, plants poked from the spread leaves of ferns, vines climbed snakelike up thick tree stumps. The gentle twittering of birds came from all directions and the horizon in every direction was brown and green studded like stars with bright sunlight shining through the dense canopy. I had never been this deep into the forest before and, looking at the sun through a gap in the leaves, I realized I really had been walking for quite a long time—indeed it was lucky I stopped when I did if I were to get back to town to be at the print shop.
I stood in that exact spot for long minutes, absorbing the gentle peacefulness of nature. There was something supremely soothing about the scene, I felt as if I made any noise at all I would disturb a delicate balance. The soft sounds that echoed calmed my overactive mind for the moment, not eliminating thought, but channeling it in what seemed a somehow more refined way; instead of thinking in a jumbling mess my thoughts seemed to come preordered in an exquisitely logical way, filtering untoward worries away from principle concern. And I realized that really this was a nice experience, whatever the beginning may have been; that really there was always chance to find something good in anything.
But of course I could not stand there forever, a more peaceful mind endured and actually flourished in the walk back towards Ed’ardston. I felt as if there was a revelation of sorts on my walk, a scolding and explosion of worries followed by calm and a sweet realization, but despite my serenity I knew it wasn’t so. As always the feeling wouldn’t last, but somehow the pessimism did little to damper the moment, I walked and enjoyed, understanding who I wanted to be, how I wanted to act, knowing and accepting so many of the things that bothered me in life, all of the worries and misery were gone for the time. It was a time of gentle realization, everything made sense and the things that didn’t simply didn’t need to. I walked on and on, pleased with the exercise, out of the forest, out of the pastures, the farms, and into the town, smiling slightly all the way.
Chapter III
I arrived at the print shop slightly earlier than normal, but at that point it didn’t matter that much anymore. I made no awkward comments, had no worries, and simply said hello to the family and began working. It was the first time I really enjoyed the work since my house burned down; in fact, it was the first time I really realized that the only things lost were material possessions, things I didn’t need. Before that moment I really had considered a part of me lost, not gone, but lost; unable to be found. I had felt trapped and Closter phobic, sucked into a mass of people who all were watching me; watching and judging, but during those rare moments it simply didn’t matter. I know now that the thoughts were still there, no brief and very strange happiness would erase them.
I continued setting the print, quite undisturbed when Eric entered and started running the press and stacking the papers. I was contented with his presence then, contented even with the silence that I usually found awkward. Perhaps he found the silence awkward as I usually did, but even his possible discomfort hardly mattered. I stayed silent because I felt no need to speak about anything, I knew what I was doing and he knew what he was doing, I had no reason to feel guilty and, for once, I actually didn’t. The work went by rather quickly, I think it is true, what they say, that time flies when you are enjoying yourself.
When it was probably around three o’clock, the middle afternoon at least, Ruth, Eric’s wife, called us into the kitchen for supper. I ate happily and lightly, a salad and a small portion of salted pork forthcoming. There was some small conversation between Ruth and Eric, but I just ate quietly, preferring to enjoy the salad and simply be there. Had I been a less regular guest at their table perhaps I might’ve felt some need to speak, but I had been staying with the family since my own home had burnt down. They were kind people certainly, to entertain me for so many years; of course I did work with Eric everyday, but that was altogether expected of me, a privilege really, to learn a trade. Though it was not an extraordinary meal by any means it was certainly more invigorating than most. It is truly amazing how perspective can alter everything around you.
When I turned my eye from the salad to the pork Ruth looked up rather suddenly at me, seeming to have just remembered something.
“Your father wants you to help him with something on the house after you finish.” She proffered unexpectedly, “I think they are setting the walls upstairs.”
