The warm glow quickly faded. Gifts could be that way as the river of the present moment snaked its way around the bend from one village to the next in ever constant motion. The present moment, thought Em, but a knife’s edge between what was and what was to come. Stay too long and you were likely to get cut. If only we saw sadness and worry and doubt as the same stowaways.Writing helped. Moving to her desk, the distant cosmos displayed before her, she opened the drawer and pulled out her stationary. In the upper corner she jotted #164.
Dear Father,
I’m feeling a bit melancholy so I hope you don’t mind. I just don’t feel there is anyone else who wants to hear my troubles at the moment. Fact is, I feel silly and selfish when I compare my concerns to what everyone else onboard is experiencing. Yet, still, how does one shake the doldrums, regardless of how small, when they take up residence in your mind like a reluctant stubborn mule, blocking out all sane perspective.
In the past I’ve compared space travel with sailing the seas, as we did so many times. I feel I’ve misled you father. There is very little they have in common, or so it seems at the moment. For instance, seasons. You know how I used to always complain about winter. How it took all the fun out of sailing. And the spring rains too. I did my fair share of complaining about them too.
Well, in space, you have no seasons. Temp onboard is always the same. No rain, no snow, no cool fresh air, no wind, no real sun. Life feels sterile without the seasons, nature’s gentle reminder of change, of the cycle of life and death. What I would give to stand on the bow one more time and feel the spring rains wash over me. There is no rain in space. There are no seasons. There is no sense of the cycle but rather just a steady constant sameness, a maddening unrelentingly suffocating sterility.
You see, but you can’t touch. Space looks cold, is cold. You feel entombed in the very metal and glass that pretends to be home. Imagine if you could never leave the interior of your ship, never feel the warm sun on your face or the wind in your hair, taste the salty sea spray on your lips or hear the hark of birds signaling port was soon to follow. And imagine that the sun neither rose nor set and the stars were forever changing, familiar patterns left long ago. We pretend we are going somewhere and in those pretensions, father, we ward off insanity.
Speaking of which, there is no sound either. The sound of crickets, that wonderful sound of connection to something alive, something living and breathing and communicating, a sound as dear and sweet as a baby’s lullaby; or the sound of the leaves rustling across the path on a hike in the mountains dancing with the wind in faded oranges and yellows and reds like precocious children pretending they don’t know you are watching them. You never quite appreciate those sounds until space robs them from you, tries to erase them from your memory with the antiseptic of time; and you find yourself becoming bitter at the very nature you claim to miss. And don’t even get me started on the sound of the ocean kissing the warm sands of home, a sound as soothing and maternal as the womb. Space is like that—womb-less and frigid, uninviting and unforgiving. And to think we dreamed of travel like this.
Speaking of the womb, I often wonder what a child born in space, reared in space, in the womb of this ship, I wonder if they would be like me or you. I wonder how the lack of touch and smell and sight and sound would shape them into something I wouldn’t recognize. Father, I feel, like the hands of space and time are shaping me now, changing me and it scares the bejanus out of me. If we don’t find a home soon, I’m afraid you won’t recognize me and more over, I’m deathly afraid I won’t recognize myself. Ever look in the mirror and wonder who that is staring back at you? I did yesterday, for the first time.
Of time, well, I have all the time in the world now to paint and draw. You would think I would have a whole collection of stuff. And I do. But guess what. It’s soulless. It took a sketch of Rog I did for Yul to open my eyes. Every sketch of a planet, a star, a solar system, another vessel, all of it soulless, cold, lifeless—just like the expanse of space. What is a planet without context, without a story, without connection, without relationship? As cold as a witch’s tit on the day after carnival—please excuse my language father. I’ll snap out of this. Perhaps with the next bend.
And so I wonder, would that child grow up soulless, something less than a full-blooded breathing smelling touching Hynerian? Or would they slap my parochial self-centeredness back into some semblance of reality? I don’t know anymore, but I do know I appreciate you listening to my gibberish. Does help. Really does.
Speaking of help, I should really shut down my pity party and go see if I can be of service. As always, missing you tons.
Love,
Em
Sealed with a kiss, Em slid number 164 directly behind 163 and closed the drawer in unison to the sound of her comm.
“Em, Trev here. I’m picking up some data abnormalities. Could you provide me with your assistance on the bridge?”
“Be there is just a sec Trev.” Em grabbed her stuff and walked over to the mirror. “I’m not sure who you are but I suppose I better get use to having you around. Now buck up sister.”
Commentary on the Metaphor: Seasons
Categories: Story, Emy, Letters, Trev
16 comments:
Short version again:
One of my favourite fractals, and perfect for this chapter. :-)
And what a chapter, it is!
(and how quickly it came, wasn't finished with the one below yet:)
Part appreciation, part 'don't know what you've got 'til it's gone'. Everything you do here is so perfectly in character, there isn't a semblance of doubt that this is Emy's words, which is what makes me (us) fall so for the story, it's all so real.
I like that moment sense of it, that though she may feel those things, she allows them there and needs no more than that.
Excellent, all round. :-)
Sweetest, as always, I do so love your enthusiasm for this story and the characters. Now, where this chapter came from, I don't know. I had a few moments and the need to write overcame me. When I opened my eyes, there it was--Em had written another letter. Could be I was inspired by something else I read this morning--one never knows about these things. :-)
Her voice, in the letter, does have a certain familiar ring to it? Anyone you recognize? :-)
Bundle up and travel safe. Already missing you and you haven't even left yet. :-D
The Gang.
These letters are just so beautiful. My heart was breaking for poor Em, even if her sadness was just a little pain. I love this picture too, such pretty colours, the colours of the seasons :)
Thanks Steve. :-)
So glad you enjoy it Bean. This letter occurs on two levels. The first level at face value; the second, on a metaphorical level. The second level gives us depth and insight into Em in a way we have never seen before. I may create an audio to explain what is happening there.
Hope you have gotten all cleaned up and things are getting back to normal after the storm. :-)
I am always saddened when I see Em writing. Can't help it.
Terry, likewise, I have to be in a sad frame of mind to write those letters of Em's. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to touch what she is feeling without touching it in myself first. Yesterday morning I carried a great deal of sadness inside of me. So, we got another Em letter as a result. :-)
By the way, if you think this letter was sad, you should have seen the first version I wrote. It was so sad I deleted it and wrote what you see here. On a scale of 1-10. If this letter is a 5 or 6, the one I deleted was an 11 or 12. It was even too depressing for me. We may see that theme somewhere else down the line depending on how things go for Em. So, be thankful for what you got. It could have been much worse. :-D
Em is actually a very optimistic and positive and joyful hynerian, but all is not roses and we see that in these letters, in private, rather than in her public personae. She is an interesting case study of the difference we see between a private life and a public life. I think, to a certain extent, we are all that way, some more than others. In such, I identify very much with Em, her need to express, but the need to do it in private, to do it without burdening others, as she might put it.
I have the next chapter ready to go to give you something a little different, but blogger will not let me post an image today, so I'm in a a holding pattern until the blogger gods allow me posting passage. :-)
Meg, in that case, I believe we have kindred souls, you and I. Just a few hours from Pamarita time. Come join me. A toast to the weekend, a toast to souls on the edge of the cliff.
Sometimes we think best and with the most clarity when we are starkly stripped of our flotsam and jetsom... the trappings of daily life and the background white noise that accompanies it. When the sad feelings, the ones that make us most ripped open to the bare bones come along (either bidden or unbidden) we are naked and vulnerable to the world. We all have that possibility - just aren't usually open to displaying it; not usually able or willing to allow it to occur. Although difficult to read, I find Em's passion/feelings stimulating and alive. I hope they allowed you to express your own feelings in a way that allows you freedom. You've been a bit serious lately my friend - where's that parmarita you promised?
Moi? Serious? Really? Let me think about that and I'll get back to you. See comment on post above with the whereabouts of those Pamaritas. :-)
OK, so I should have read this one before the latest LOL Ah well...
Karen, I'm just very pleased that you are reading. Hope the weather is as beautiful in Utah as it as here in Tennessee today. And yes, Jack does have his hands full. :-D
Hey you :-)
Finally got to hear the audio, wonderfully presented as always and it reinforced just how talented a writer you are. The clues are indeed discernible, have no doubt of that, not sure where my mind was the day I read it.
Beautifully done.
Hope you're Sunday is wonderful. Missing you a whole big bunch, x :-)
Thanks Sunshine for taking the time to listen to the audio and discover what a wonderful chapter I really think this is and what we learn about Em on a psychological and emotional level. I would like do more chapters like this on the other characters when the opportunity presents itself. Missing you tons too. Hurry up and get there okay. :-D
It is, and you have every reason to be very pleased with what you have created here. What I said just above stands, though I for one deeply appreciate the audio :-D, a deep reading would bring forth I think most/all that you spoke of in the commentary. Em is a classic still waters type, as I've said to you before, introverted, private, yet she could easily hold her own with Rog, sensitive, thoughtful - she's many things, but this chapter took us so much deeper, as you said, into her psyche.
I usually read your chapters aloud, let them roll, mull the words, take it deep, read it deep in other words, read them 2-3 times. Hurrying, and eager to get settled and back to normal, and with that looking forward to your doing this with more of your characters. :-D
Sweetest, your sincere and enthusiastic love of and for this story means more to me than I know how to say. To do the images and write the prose is more work, labor of love albeit, than I would have ever imagined. Neither come easy, neither are what I would call a natural gift. Sometimes I wonder if it is worth it; and then, I get comments like yours. I call them engaged comments. Comments that show a deep love of the story and the characters and I realize the story is as much a part of your life as it is mine. And in the end, that is all I need to keep going. For that my Sweetest, I say thank you and thank you and thank you again. You'll never know how much it has meant over the last year as we approach the one-year anniversary of the story. :-)
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