Von stood, somewhere between in-breath and out-breath, in the moment when the mind whirls, not in gear, neutral, spinning, faster and faster, the feeling of a drain draining, picking up speed, disappearing, the pitch, the sound, higher and higher, slipping away, threatening to break free, a nut un-tight, set free, as a fan comes loose, blades sharp, out of control.
His arms, forklift empty, rusted frozen, feeble in emptiness, uselessness, a vessel without water, a bird without wings. Palms and fingers clawed in disbelief, dry, topographical wrinkles drawn in time, deepened with labor, highlighted by worry. He blinked, with cheek as much as lid, as if in the blinking one could change slides, and in the dark of the click, the click of (slide) projector, where for an instant the room is dark, and amorous hearts beat a little faster, where there is doubt if the wheel will move back, if the slide of before will appear again, if time itself can be toyed, in that instant, a thousand images flashed, each as a coin, double sided, image and emotion, picture and feeling, each needing the other as color needed light.
Leaves fell, in his mind. Thousands of gold medallions, round as coin, the ground a golden carpet, falling, falling like lazy snowflakes, filling the sky like flock, a thousand mini suns, transparent as fragile, messengers each, story consistent, whispered on the wind, caressing the cheek and light in the hand. The image persisted as did the desire, the desire to stand under tree, feet in leaves as if in ocean, a warmth, a cleansing. His mind stuck, stuck in the image, in the idea, a dance of light, a play of neurons, apparitions of consciousness and memory. He didn't want to rake leaves, he wanted the idea of raking leaves, the peace, the solitary sounds of nature, the pungent smell of death and dying, of the relentless grinding cycle, the inevitable turning circle, to be ankle deep in truth, to be stripped of illusion, to let drop the tail of desire, an irony not lost in the lostness, a sign of trap-ness, limbo, of this world and the next, of numbers that don't add up, of colors that shift under changing light, where pain and pleasure change clothes and all of life seems a masquerade, eyes and minds moving behind static glittering facades and everything known becomes unknown and everything unknown becomes loyal and faithful and trusted.
The fount bubbled forth as it had bubbled forth before, the chaplain photograph still, his face unreadable. This is the image John saw, Em in his arms, Ariel at his feet, Kyra walking as soldiers walk in retreat, in silence, dark with rain, numb by instinct, dead to yesterday, dead to tomorrow, living in the sheltered cave of now.
__________
The chapter above was based on the following notes discovered in one of Von's journals:
--age: old like not old, but old like the urgency of gardening before the coming storm, coming it will, inevitable, still able, so not too old, but coming it is
--mind: always spinning but not always in gear; questions must be shifted, manually, to get moving, to be productive; likewise, an image, a lyric or a passage of good writing can kick the mind into gear
--psychological prisons: we never reveal all, we always hold something in reserve, what is most raw is held back like a retarded child--embarrassed we are at how little we control; we are and the "areness" is with or without us; and this "being of something other" is frightful
--leaves: I want to rake leaves, not actually, but in my mind; I want the romanticized idea of it, of the peace and beauty, the tactile feel, the earthly fragrance of death and dying and the circle
--age: rounding the circle not quite complete -- from baby to baby, only age and size to distinguish -- rounding eleven he would say, or, on a good day, maybe, ten -- either way, midnight was coming and the fear was not of the hour struck, but of the final hour -- to put bluntly, the hour where one could no longer wipe one's own arse, the hour where you starred into faces speaking gibberish, speaking baby talk and your desire was not to talk back, but to slap the shiott out of adults that should know better -- and you smile inwardly, knowing, their day was coming, that you would not be around to enjoy it lessened not the pleasure of imagining it
17 comments:
I promise, I will get back to "normal" writing soon. Pardon my flights of fancy. :-)
alright...this has inspired me to pick up the pen and put it back to paper again...
Meleah, what a wonderful compliment. Thank you beautiful woman. :-)
The mixing and/or sequencing of metaphors, in this post, is done on purpose and for effect. This chapter represents less than a second of real time, a snapshot of Von's mind and all that flashes through it in that moment and in that moment, the mind knows not grammar or rules, but instead, branches, one image, one idea, feeding to the next, crystalline in nature, spreading like frost.
That last line from Von's journal on age had me smiling. I loved that.
And I loved this:
--mind: always spinning but not always in gear; questions must be shifted, manually, to get moving, to be productive; likewise, an image, a lyric or a passage of good writing can kick the mind into gear
This is SO very true. It's like you're inside my own mind, as you write that....or Von is...
Your flights of fancy, let's just say they fancy up my flights.
Keep them coming.
And your last comment here...that is so true too.
You have keyed in upon how the human mind ticks (and tocks) in spades, my friend. You have been able to describe it in words, though we ourselves oft have trouble doing exactly that.
Your ability to do this time and time again always astounds me.
Please, keep the fancy and the flights comin'.
We love it.
And, just so you know, most times that I come here, it is YOUR WORDS that kick my mind into gear, Mr. Tree.
Cos you rock like that big time.
xoxo, Tree-man.
Well, you know, I've always had a hard time saying no. :-D
Strumper, have I told you how good it is to have you back? :-D
All the best with interview #2 tomorrow.
"but to slap the shiott out of adults that should know better -- and you smile inwardly, knowing, their day was coming, that you would not be around to enjoy it lessened not the pleasure of imagining it"
This made me grin. And also to think about how I interact with older people. *slight blush of embarrassment creeping up my neck*
"--psychological prisons: we never reveal all, we always hold something in reserve, what is most raw is held back like a retarded child--embarrassed we are at how little we control; we are and the "areness" is with or without us; and this "being of something other" is frightful"
We always hold something in reserve... THAT made me think and nodd my head in agreement.
Very thought provoking and well written (that goes without saying) chapter.
A VERY good way to start the week.
Thanks Jen. My grandmother was in mind in writing this chapter.
Here is a definition of method used to generate (in your comment about mixing/sequencing metaphors) an effect, briefly discussed the other day about the hows, the opening line working like a heading, an exposition, to all that comes after it, in the midst of a breath, his mind racing to catch up to what his senses are telling him, body still as he is flooded by partially at least disjointed thoughts, some connected, some seemingly disconnected like a defence mechanism, a cushion to the blow in a manner of speaking. How the mind can spin out of control, a thousand thoughts in quick succession and one on top the other, like dominoes, one to the next, exemplary representation of a state of mind we are all familiar with in some form or another, though what it must mean to be Von at this moment only he can know. topographical wrinkles drawn in time, deepened with labor, highlighted by worry., fabulous phrasing.
Like the projector that you describe, this chapter is like one that has gone haywire, image after image after image and just as one begins to focus on one the next catapults into view, very cleverly done.
Sunshine, your comments are always warmly welcomed and embraced. Sometimes I just let my mind free-wheel, as in a chapter like this. I don't edit, just write, wherever one idea takes me, I go, trying to capture the branching of the mind, not as it is recreated in fiction, but to capture the mind being the mind, in real time, to the extent that it can be seen, which, to my mind, is like seeing a landscape in the middle of the night, illuminated just for an instant by lightning.
I absolutely love that first line, the suspension between breaths, complete awareness that understanding has frozen, that there has been a derailing and the mind simply cannot follow, cannot comprehend what is being transmitted, I imagine it must be like being blinded by a bright light, like coming in from a bright summer day and the inside appears much darker than it otherwise would, adjustment is needed and it will come, but until it does, there is fumbling. Shock, and you wrote somewhere the word clawing, I believe, though it was in relation to his fingers, gripping after what is no longer there, imprinted still with the touch of what was, clawing towards decipherment, the peace of and regardless of wanting it to be so or not following. The whirling and spinning and draining and disappearing, the slipping and coming loose give this passage such a fearsome intonation, dizzying, agitated, style and meaning in perfect unison, engrossing and wearing, in the best possible way for it speaks of just how engaging this peace of writing is, to read.
When I thought of this chapter, one word came to mind as I tried to understand Von in this singular moment of Zoe disappearing from his arms: nonplused.
For a second, I thought to do a one word chapter, Just "Nonplused." And although I would have known what laid behind that one word, all the emotion and texture and detail, I knew most no one else would know what I was thinking. So, this chapter tries to capture a second in time, the time between an in-breath and an out-breath and the speed of light of the mind, working in that second, such to define what nonplused meant, at least in my mind.
Was so struck by your description of his arms, the emptiness of them, the stillness, waiting almost to be filled once again, as though moving them would confirm, beyond any ability to deny or even hope, she were still there. The blinking, slightly comical in a way, the idea that eyes could play such a trick, that eyes could play a trick upon touch, the idea that in blinking the picture seen would once again be clear (make sense). He blinked, one could have written and it would have been understood why he did so, but how wonderfully elaborate is this passage, that one physical movement of his features explored and defined and slowed, everything that could be seen written, every shade, every subtlety, not in the writing so much I see as I read back but in the freezing, significance in elongation, in focus.
I suppose the moment we are talking about and the moment most of us have experience with is the glass that slips from our hand. Time changes in that moment, between the slip and the floor. We know the glass cannot be caught, it will fall, and break, but, for whatever reason, our mind refuses to accept the outcome. The moment is just that, a second or less, yet our mind works so fast, it feels like a much longer period. Denial, however, is just one of the stages of mind in that moment. I suppose we could write for ages on the stages of grief. And they all seem to happen, in that one moment, a lifetime in a second. Delicious, isn't it? ;-)
Your flight of fancy is like 'on the wings of poesy' I love the expression here. Specially the two sided image of the coin like pictures.
The definition of psychological prison is interesting & quite apt!
Mona, thanks for reading and thanks for leaving such wonderful and unique comments. :-)
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