Oh how I enjoy the eating of strawberries and the concept of picnics underneath gently spreading willow trees. And sometimes in past years I’ve entertained pieces of poetry in my own imagination as I’ve opened wide my heart to those friends whom I hold dear. These times in which the mind soars on the wings of a fresh spring day and feels unreasonably exuberant at the thought of stable intimacy in the frolic of conversation with another? These are the moments which I treasure and hold up to the lamplight in my mind’s eye. Do you remember this? That night in the parking lot when you held court with those dear ones and talked for hours on the subjects that so inflamed your heart? I do, oh I do. And that is why it is not ridiculous to seek to create such environments in which these moments of near divine coherence might bloom into glorious life. I cannot lay claim to such power or intellect that I can in and of myself cause such profound utterances, for that is beyond the power of mortals, even ones as fair as we claim to be. But perhaps I recognize the fact that eternity is not at all as nebulous as it would seem to those without eyes to see. Instead in faith I look with eyes new opened to a sight that is not in my mind’s capacity to fully grasp at least not yet. See the far off shore appearing now even through the fog? See the budding trees and the mountains rising high? So yes, dear friend, let us talk of matters eternal and seek to know the face of God. And as we fill our dreams with thoughts of glory, I ask if you’d join me for a picnic by the gentle flowing stream. I have chicken sandwiches and chips and pickles and yes you don’t have to ask, also strawberries.
Tag: writing
The Process
What one does when one seeks to relax says a lot about a person. Or at least, that’s what I’m pondering now as I – in my own way – spend a few minutes sprawling on the couch attempting to put words to page. When one’s creative juices have gone dry and there are no more faded memories fit to be mined, what does one write about? Well that’s when it all goes meta and the wannabe author starts talking about the process of writing. Nothing more boring for the non-author, am I right? But for some of my fellow authors, well…maybe you’re interested in what I have to say? At this point probably not, because I’m just spinning my wheels in this endless intro and you may now suspect – and you’d be right – that I don’t actually have a plan for what I’m writing. And there’s a reason for that.
I most certainly cannot speak for all writers but guess what? I can speak for myself, and so I do. Writing is something that ends in somewhat the same destination. There are words on a page (or on a screen, or on a wall, or various other surfaces, who am I to judge) and these words are presumably an expression of the author’s mind. Yet the process of writing varies in an almost infinite kaleidoscope of ways. The routines and the tics, the little tricks an author does to trick himself into writing something that could be construed as creative are some of the most treasured tools in the author’s toolbox. And I cringe that I have finally used the dreaded toolbox metaphor. Oh may I never do such again.
And I have now wasted another paragraph spinning my wheels. Oh what is this nonsense! I could be smug and say there is a purpose to that and you know what? There is. But I must also be a bit humble and admit that the fact I have spent two paragraphs talking about nothing to illustrate my point is a fortuitous turn of events that I did not realize its ultimate end until now. And that point shall now be illustrated.
Simply this – and I am proud to think that I am alone in this technique but I am sure I am not and I wait for the other writers to hoarde around me and echo that I am not at all unique – I write of random thoughts and tidbits in my brain knowing the writing soul shall not awaken until I give it a good few kicks. Much as one primes a pump, I know that my best output won’t happen right away. Indeed, I can stare at the screen all I want but it is very rare that my best words bloom immediately. Instead, I write. Sometimes nonsense, such as now. Other times, I will visualize a random scene and simply write what comes to me, allowing my imagination to slowly wake and rub the sleep out of its eyes as it looks around and sees what there is to see. But this is the important thing. I write. It is the most basic and excellent writing advice there is and it is preached for a reason. It works. How does one write? You write. It matters not what one writes. Of course eventually one may seek for quality and depth of substance in one’s prose or poetry, but initially? Just write. I stretch my mind and as I write and let my fingers outpace my conscious mind, sometimes I am even stunned at what is eventually resting on the page, alive and vibrant with meaning and truth that I did not myself know was waiting to spring forth from my soul.
I crave to write things that are of beauty and truth. I often fail, it is true. But occasionally I succeed. And I cannot credit my own foreknowledge or depth of craft that I possess in such meagre quantity. Instead, I am grateful for what I have been blessed with, the ability to communicate somewhat of the miraculous, releasing spirit thoughts from my brain to the great beyond, words on a page. If I simply put fingers to keyboard and pound away, eventually some gold emerges from the dross. Not all the time. Not often even. But when from beyond the great sea come words that ring true in a way that leaves my soul in stunned silence at what has been wrought? I lift my eyes to heaven and say a prayer of thanks. For this is how I rest, by pounding out the fresh harvest of my thoughts so that the chaff may be released and perhaps pure silken wheat may be left behind to witness true. I don’t know what it says about me. But in this ultra modern era in which I inhabit, I write to rest. Writing slows my thoughts and reveals inner dreams that soothe and invigorate my very soul. I cannot promise any of these words are or will be of any use to anyone else. But writing them was of use to me. And why not now release them into the wild? These words are not of anymore use to me now – may they run off into the woods and bless who they will.
That Which We Confess
Would that I were not currently sitting in front of an empty desk centered in an empty room bathed by the sweetly luxurious outpourings of the fluorescent lights mounted in the recesses far above. I could wish for another fate this late winter day I suppose, but perhaps it is not a bad thing to be in the stillness and in the quiet when so easily might I be in a shrieking cesspit of calamity and chaos. Is this harshly sanitized environment in which I sit not a respite from the nightmares that howl in the greater world outside? Perhaps it would be desirable to sit in this cheery sanitorium if only I believed that the world outside was truly as uncontrollably monstrous as some cannot help but preach. Instead I think that perhaps I do wish my feet were falling in rhythm upon an old stone path as I ponder the fresh air that piles in from the sea and brings the breezes that so often soothe my weary soul. I cast my mind away from this vacant island of pretense and script that vision of reality that so often sweetly haunts my dreams.
In this staging I walk in an old and hallowed courtyard, one lined by brick buildings laced with ivy and a few nodding northern elms who stand proudly in their nakedness. I have an important appointment to keep with a dear friend and though I don’t particularly want to keep her waiting, I do stop for a moment to admire the way the early morning sun filters through the grey clouds above to grace me with a small slice of beauty. I would love to spend a bit of time sitting against one of the trees and writing in my little notebook, yet I cannot spare the time today. Perhaps tomorrow. I put my feet back on the stone path and urge them back into some semblance of pace as I resume my walk. I feel almost as if I could be alone even as I know there are many souls in the buildings that surround me. Yet in the windows that I peer up at I see no signs of life. Only old oaken furniture and a few fluttering curtains in windows that have been left open. Perhaps my friend was leaning out of one of these same windows earlier to watch the sunrise. I know that she likes to do such, even if the sunrise does not promise to be momentous. Ah but there she is now. At the far end of the green I see her sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches that line the path. She waits for me yet makes the most of the time. I see her scribbling away in a notebook of her own. A poem or treatise on theology? Sometimes they are one and the same. Is not a true poem a very reflection on the reality of God? I like to think so. And that’s why people find poets so pretentious at times, for the fact that we seek to impart the deepest of meanings to the most mundane of words. But what are our words but grasping after the most profound realities that our souls ache to know in full? We know how feeble our words are. Yet still we write, in futility and dreams. Now my steps slow as I crunch through the frosty grass. She looks up and smiles.
Let’s talk about all the things and reflect on what our God has revealed to us this day. Let our hearts sing in harmony with the song of heaven. Let’s fill our minds with thoughts of beauty, for vanity unfilled will tends toward chaos and I’d rather not have that. Instead of vacant half-acceptance of the tossing waves of this raging world, let’s set our course by the star we know and firmly with resolve look towards the horizon where the far country grows. We see it now yet dimly. Yet in faith we see it true.
of lights we sing frantically
A few little book reviews this night. At least I hope they’re little. We shall see.
13. And Once More Saw the Stars – Four Poems for Two Voices by P.K. Page & Philip Stratford. A strange and wonderful poetry paperback I stumbled across in a random second hand bookshop in B.C. a few years past. Finally picked it up off my shelf and I’m glad I did. This is a strange example of genre that I don’t quite know how to classify, even though I’m sure it’s been done before. It’s two artists writing poetry together – a renga, you may say – and it’s slightly offbeat but yet still beautiful the way the voices weave together. The poetry isn’t always exactly my style or to my liking, but yet I still fell under the spell of this book and perhaps that for a meta reason. Page put together this book following the death of Mr. Stratford who died before finishing their lyric dance. The poems are interspersed with the written correspondence enclosed with each succeeding stanza (sent via the trusty mail service – not quite the internet days!) and to be honest? I think I enjoyed this book primarily just to see the way these two poets talked about their poetry and the process and the struggle and the little quirky asides they tossed out as they cobbled together these whispers of the heart. Like I said, if this was just a book of poetry, I may have found myself most unimpressed. But instead…this is a book that is a bit of a window into two artists, showing the collaboration and writing process in a way I’ve not seen it done before. Even my copy has another meta layer on top, with a previous owner making random corrections and comments throughout! I appreciated the tribute to Stratford here and the vulnerability it takes to publicize this correspondence between writers. Grateful for a window into the creative process and it’s made me think more about why and how I write what I do. And some of the sonnets really are quite good! Especially Wilderness I & II – those burst with greater magic and unveiled greater wonders to my soul. This was a worthwhile book and I shall return to it. I came for the poems. I left with the story of two writers whose hearts yearned yet to write of beauty.
14. The Overstory by Richard Powers. There were some things in this book I really loved and there were some things in this book that I really…did not love. And I walked away from this book wondering if maybe Richard Powers is just not the author for me. This is Powers’ magnum opus, the book that won him the Pulitzer and so I assumed that this book would properly wow me. Yet. And. Still. Something in me just doesn’t respond to the way Powers writes and I fully confess it may be my inability to grasp entirely what Powers is attempting to communicate. If anything, it puzzles me because I had a similar reaction when I finished Playground (his most recent book and maybe not the right Powers to start with!). When I finished that book, my ending thought was “Hm.” Same here. I will definitely say one thing though, this book is better than Playground!
Yet I’m already writing too many words and to prevent myself from going overly long, let me say a few of the thoughts I had on this one in more details. Spoilers may follow, be warned if you care about that sort of thing. This book is the tree book. Anyone that’s heard of this book or glances at the title can guess that. And one of the strongest recommendations I can make for this book is that this book definitely makes me want to know more about trees!! As I walk around my neighborhood and my city, I have found myself looking at trees and noticing them in ways I certainly didn’t before. What tree is that? Is it good that there are that many young trees planted close together? Why is half the tree flowering and the other half not? So many questions that I want answers to! I am shamed (though I hope I’m not alone) in realizing how many trees I walk past every day that I can’t name. I am too Olivia (though not Maidenhair, as we’ll get to). If anything, this book made me wish this book was simply a science book about trees and all the wondrous fascinating facts about them. I need to source such a book. But instead…well, and this gets to one of my issues with the book, I struggled to know which was truth and which was fanciful imagery and which was anthropomorphic language and which was possibly some magic realism. There is so much going on with trees here. Yet as much as Powers continually makes it clear the sins humankind is committing against the planet and the trees that inhabit it (and ourselves and our descendants), I was left much fuzzier on what Powers was attempting to communicating about the true essence and reality of trees. Are trees sentient and attempting to communicate to us in a way we simply can’t understand yet? If we had sufficiently advanced computing power and the eyes to see, could we understand the many whispers of the winds that bear the wisdom of countless living, flowering arboreal wonders? In a way, I think Powers may be too clever for me and that the messages he seeks to communicate are cloaked in ways I struggle to grasp. I had the same issue with Playground.
I did much enjoy the early parts of this book – I loved all the individual short stories that told of the lives of so many different people. I initially thought this book was to be entirely a collection of short stories and their connection to trees and the trees’ connection to them and I was here for it. I was so psyched for that book. And I think I was mildly disappointed when those expectations were dashed and I realized all the characters would all interact in their various ways (some more obvious than others). The second part of the book was the weakest by far. Yes, I suppose it was a bit interesting in some ways to see the futile warring of the few against the apathetic selfish tyranny of the many and the attempts of the so-called “eco-terrorists” to save mankind from itself. Yet for some reason the characters in this section all felt a bit caricaturized, a bit plastic. I lost the thread of who was who and what their motivations were. I did really like Dr. Patty Westerford’s sections and though profoundly depressing for multiple reasons, I thought Neelay’s sections were fascinating as well. Yet the rest? They all tended to blend together a bit and I found myself pushing through the brutal horror of it all just to see where Powers was taking us.
I also think I struggled with Powers’ writing style. The metaphors and analogies he uses so often threw me out of the story in their odd juxtaposition to what was occurring on the page. Too often the phrases and imagery felt just a bit too carefully-constructed and artful instead of beautiful and true. This may just be personal taste on my part, but I think I just don’t resonate with his writing style – a bit too much crudity and even a tending towards voyeuristic tendency at times.
Though I struggled with the middle of this book, the end definitely got better and I’m glad I finished this one. I still don’t quite understand what Powers is trying to say – but I appreciated the fact that the ending tone seemed a bit hopeful and optimistic despite the cynical undertone running throughout. Powers is not leaving us in despair – he believes there is reason to hope for good things for the future of this world. Though I’m not quite sure computers and their ilk are the answer, it is fascinating to think of such. Is our incapacity to love each other and our world a product of our own innate selfishness and apathy or simply an inability to understand the messages written in every corner of this world? Do we have an excuse to enable us to continue our way without considering the fact there may be greater truths in this world than we now consider? Perhaps. I’m sure myself and Powers would disagree on what these greater truths are, but I appreciate that he is seeking to use his skills as a writer to tell a story that makes a difference. For true stories have the power of change. But only true stories can do such. This story contains kernels of truth and though I do think Powers’ style simply isn’t for me, I’m grateful this book is in the world.
Laresnova
She’s dreaming of lighthouses again.
Still and silent in her bed she lies yet her mind rages in beauty as images of seas crashing on rocky shores flash vividly in black and white. There is a cliff that reaches higher than the rest of the surrounding land and sea and on that cliff points a lighthouse up to the heavens. At the base of the lighthouse is a little path that winds to the edge of the cliff. On this edge stands two figures silhouetted against the grey sky. These figures, one taller and one smaller, are slightly angled towards one other, as if to protect each other from the winds swooping down on them from above. Down at the base of the cliff the sea pounds relentlessly in rhythm that the spray echoes back in delight. Back on the top of the cliff the two figures huddle closer together. Wrapped in long and bulky outerwear, these figures still seek to conserve warmth in a hug that lingers in its intimacy. Dark clouds move closer to the island yet there is no rain. The sea spray calls louder in sweeter harmony with the low percussion of far off thunder. One of the figures raises a hand pointing to the heavens. The other figure moves closer still to the first. Symmetry of sea below and sky above as both reach to meet the other in stormy union. The two figures break apart and pull up their hoods. They stay a moment longer as the rain washes down upon them in sheets, the pure water washing down upon the rocks and lighthouse and figures alike. One figure laughs out loud, her laugh joining the song of skies and rocks and seas. The other figure pulls her close and together they walk up the path back towards the lighthouse. The light next to the door burns cheerily. The figures pull open the door and enter in. The lighthouse now stands alone on a cliff. The lightning flashes once, twice. Again it flashes. The seas below roar in delight and dance towards the cliffside in chaotic beauty. There is light behind her eyes as she opens them wide. Still and silent in her bed she lies thinking on these things she’s dreamed and wondering what they mean.
She doesn’t mind these lighthouse dreams that call back memories so aching sweet. And she sighs in harmony with the song of that sea spray.
Teatime
I have been trying to write winter poetry and failing miserably. Alas it is not to be this night. Hence I switch to prose, the last resort of the poet who refuses to believe his muse is dead. Or temporarily incapacitated. One hopes only temporarily. But sometimes the fire burns within and one simply must write or else he feels as if his soul will crumple in on itself like a big ball of wadded up notebook paper that is scrunched so tight that it may yet yield to the tendency to become a black hole. Yes, that is the correct feeling, finally put in words to burn in their very temporal state. But where was I? Ah yes, talking of poetry and poets and their unsurprising failures. As for me, switching to prose often feels like a defeat, yet I long to snatch victory from its jaws yet. I too am a shepherd boy – or at least I attempt to model myself after one such – and so I too can fiercely extricate this prized lamb from the lion’s jaws. Scratch that last. Dreadful metaphor, quite mixed in theme and usage. To continue. Sometimes prose pieces are fun, sometimes they turn out dreadful too. This one feels whimsical and experimental enough, I am actually somewhat pleased. It amuses me, I will allow it to live. Oh how merciful am I. Now for the piece at hand.
I really did mean to write some winter poetry as I just returned from a lovely walk on this January evening. Finally my humble southern state has been blessed with weather that feels like winter. Temperature in the mid-40s and a nice dry air and a stunning sunset to boot? What have I done to be blessed with such beauty? Well, nothing of course. It’s not all about me. Instead, the glory belongs to another. Musings such as this rolled around in my head as I walked down the sidewalk in my little neighborhood. I thought of the interplay of the small neighborhood with the sky above. The small old houses seem so feeble when compared with the majesty of a winter sunset sky. The clouds stretch up and up, set on fire by the last triumphal notes of the setting sun. The trees contribute a chorus, their branches finally shed of their overly ragged autumnal garments. The branches stretch up and out and contrast nicely against the blues and purples and oranges. But the houses? They seem a bit timid and bashful, their structures not at all suited to be seen in company with the artistry of heaven. An outlier though? The power lines. The power lines start on poles which masquerade nicely as slender wintry trees…and then the lines swoop gracefully, firm and delicate and subtle all at the same time as they highlight the brilliant colours of the twilight. Seeing the power lines hug the sky just as I hug my own arms to myself – well, it brings me a cosy satisfaction. I find delight in the way the mundane creations of this world complement the creations of the one who existed before this world began. It is a thrill to think on such and imagine that just as the power lines point to something greater, so too am I privileged to rest my eyes on the fires of heaven and sing praises to the one on high. Am I also allowed to compliment this moment as my figure somehow complements this scene in which I walk? What does it look like, this frail and faded creation walking on the sidewalk this winter night? Am I too allowed to be thought of as the mundane that points to the beautiful a bit beyond my mortal sight? My temporal hand stretches forth to the eternal. The power lines continue to vibrate in holy tension and I sigh. The sliver of dusk shivers in anticipation of resurrection glories and the waxing starlight sings of a story not yet done. The book is written and the ending sure. But for now, turn one page at a time. Faithfully I read on, now a candle lit beside me as I let my mind slip back to the present. Yet still I remember the stark beauty of that cold and perfect winter sunset sky.
The Pond at Camelot
Why does she keep writing? I wish to echo her song but I keep finding myself left behind. There’s a piece of magic in the pieces that proceed from her pen, a poetry that expresses itself in such a manner that would be envied by the Romantics of yesteryear. I find myself speechless. Hence why I retreat back to my own garret and proceed to scribble responses that I’d never dare send to her. Her writings stand alone, dominant and unshakeable in their conviction of the beauty that thrills the soul. My writings would be merely reflections, meaningless apart from the source. Perhaps I could dialogue with her and sharpen her analysis of the true nature of the world. Perhaps I could send her a fond note in which I drop a few hints that she’s persuaded me too. Perhaps the only worth I have is in holding a candle up to the parchment pages that she’s filled with life. I cannot use any other word for it. Her poetry is life itself, bursting and singing forth the bones of reality itself. Do you see that cherry tree out yonder past the stone wall? I’ve sat there many times, holding up its trunk with my stiff neck. Yet it was not until I read her lines that I truly grasped the beauty of a cherry blossom in spring, even though my eyes surely must have at many times seen that very sight. The tinder is carefully laid and the wood is prepared near to hand. I cannot argue against the testimony of my heart that cries out in the night. Sometimes it seems the night mutterings are more true than the daytime blatherings. I would walk up and shake her hand but I fear she’d turn away knowing I was not worthy. I am not worthy. I walk up to the bookshelves that line this room and run my finger across every spine. The way is prepared and the path is cleared. Where is the spark? I wait for it to fly for only then will I be prepared to die. Her poems speak of dustpans and green curtains and islands in the blue. And even when she talks of teatime at dusk in all its mundanity, I see it, that hope of that which is to come. I pull up a chair and lay down my book. It opens to a proper page for of course it does. She smiles and reaches out her hand. Trembling, I hold out mine.
Tears Upon the Angel’s Face
Book review post! (Surprise!)
68. Art and Fear by David Bayles & Ted Orland. A book about making art and all the perils that come with. Was a bit disappointed by it as I think maybe I expected something a bit more profound? Yes, the authors weren’t trying to write a treatise on the meaning of Art or about what comprises art (Everything? Nothing?) and they also weren’t necessarily trying to classify who belongs in the Artist category. Yet still? This book felt both a bit perfunctory and a bit unfocused. Definitely a few good takeaways here and there (especially the idea that the very creation of a particular piece of art is something done only once, as the artist is given of himself at a particular moment in time and the process of creating necessarily changes both the artist and the world in that moment) yet perhaps this is a book that should be read all at once. I may have done it a disservice by reading it disjointedly over the span of two weeks. I did enjoy mulling over the idea that the only work worth doing is that which is focused on something the artist cares about. Only that is “true art”, perhaps? Maybe I was not the right audience for this work. Very much felt like the authors were writing to “professional” artists, those who make their living from their art (or at least want to). Is it possible to be an artist who creates art yet not be an Artist? Maybe? The authors didn’t really engage with this. Also was uncertain of a few statements made that we can only really make art that dialogues with the ethos in which we live – obviously making religious art in these post-modern days doesn’t really work, according to the author. Of course that’s me stretching the point perhaps farther than the author meant to imply, yet I was amused at the idea that all of us today are so monolithic in thought that certain old ideas are no longer feasible as artistic subjects. I would beg to differ, as I would postulate (from at least my own experience) that religious truths are even now a very present concern and impetus for the creation of true Art. To sum up? Not a bad book by any means. But it feels a bit dated (even though it was written a bare 30 years ago!) and I don’t think adds much to the general conversation. If you are an aspiring professional artist? This would probably be at least mildly worthwhile.
Cinderella
See how the lights dance now that the sun has set. Christmas lights would not be so marvelous was it not for the contrasting hues of darkness that surround and infuse this little set apart neighborhood ensconced in the metropolitan hustle and bustle. She walks down the sidewalk and gazes in wonder at the waterfall of light that adorns the high and haughty trees that guard this one corner house. The house itself is a bit humble, no gaudy pillars or high balconies to proclaim its worth. But the family that dwells therein – for surely it is a family, for why else would the little soccer goal sit on the front lawn? – has decided to throw itself into the dance of the advent season with joy and to spare. There are little lights everywhere on the house – white lights, coloured lights, sparkling lights, LED lights and little fat bulb lights. Somehow it skirts the right side of the tacky or classy divide and it all just feels right. Or so the girl decides as she stands between the feature that imparts the most joy to her heart. For all the trees have strings of light descending from them. These strings sway gently in the cold December wind and the effect is as if the stars of heaven are dancing down a stairway to mingle with the souls of earth. Who knows how high of a ladder was needed to cover the trees of this yard with such a festive bouquet of lights, but the mechanics of the light parade do not bother the girl at this moment. Instead she simply hugs herself in awe at the wonderous lights that play across her smiling face. Her scarf pulled snug around her neck and her gloves red in the glow, she presents a pretty sight herself. There is something wholesome and beautiful about a girl who is so sweetly thrilled. And this evening is one she shall always remember. She needs to go home and put on a pot of tea and heat up the leftovers, but for now? She can spare a moment just to rest and let her heart be filled this quiet little December night.
Shoreline
The room was full of paper, reams of it, heaps of it! And he waded through the paper as one trudges through the midwinter snow, grimly stepping through it as he knew he must. He feared he was damaging beyond the point of no return hours of scribbling. And he knew better than most the pains that these writings had inflicted upon her heart. But there was nothing for it now if he was going to reach where she now lived beyond world’s end. Fascinating, was it not, how quickly treasured mementos become waste paper. But this room that had harbored so many midnight hours of fevered creation now felt a bit hollow and empty. Almost it felt as if this room knew at its core that she was gone, gone forever. He reached the table next to the bed and saw the candle still flickering an inch above the little chipped porcelain saucer. She had not been gone long, as this world counts time. But why had she emptied her trunks of writing, why had she torn out the pages of years of journaling, why were her poems scattered far and wide throughout this room that had heard so many years of song and tears? Had she taken any poems with her? That was the question. He reached down a hand into the gently swirling depths of paper at his feet and pulled out a piece at random. It was a sheet he recognized, unsurprisingly. An ode to summertime. He smiled – it was one of her quirky silly ones, lilting in meter and light in tone. At the bottom she’d sketched a quick daisy. That had been a good day, one of hiking through lush green meadows and laughing at the play of waterfalls. There had even been a picnic, as is proper on a full summer day such as that had been. And she’d written that right on the bank of the stream after their stomachs had been filled with sandwiches and chips and carrots. He’d been half-asleep across the stream, gazing up at the way the light fluttered amongst the canopy of green above.
He smiled now, and wiped away the tear that threatened to fall. Oh Isabel, where are you? And why have you left me now amidst the detritus of your most treasured writings? Harry shook his head in fear, wondering what his next step was to be. He stood in the middle of an ocean of paper and felt as if he was a rock shivering underneath the midwinter rain off the coast of southern England. Oddly specific to be sure, but that was the last place he had seen Isabel and so the thought came natural. Here were the remnants of all Isabel’s dreamy musings. Harry fumbled through his pocket and pulled out his phone. No texts. There had not been any these many months but hope is oddly unrealistic at times. He looked around him at the paper swamping what had once been Isabel’s room and he sank to his knees. There was no time to waste. And so he gazed at the sheets of paper all around and looked up at the weathered ceiling and finally finally began to pray.
Something Weird 