Untitled Work, Musing On Writing And The Mind
This can be a small fiction I wrote in response to a writer’s challenge in the Vermont magazine the place I’ve a column, Web page on vermontviews.org. You may see the immediate there–I might encourage you to try it, you my few but kind readers, all six or seven of you. Salamat po, as they are saying in Tagalog, for reading this blog: thanks sort sir or madam.
I’m unsure how I had occurred to be fetched up with strangers on a small boat toward an island that promised some ancient mystery and likewise the kind of photographs that vacationers wish to get and send again dwelling. St. Michael’s Mount, a lovely island off Cornwall’s coast, and never a protracted experience in virtually tropical weather. It must have been the monastery—those ruins—that attracted me. I have always been fascinated by places of disinhabitation.
What appears unusual now, after all, is that my memory of how I received there, why I used to be on that small ship chugging across the easy seas in brilliant sunlight toward a type of vacationer destination that additionally billed itself as mystery—the grey rock in the wooden a remnant of flooded and ancestral land, the gnarled and fossilized bushes stone island junior windbreaker like giant’s knees poking by means of the sand and silt—is fully gone. Nothing that occurred in my life before at the present time remains for me. A blank slate.
I remember the day. I remember the American family who made the small boat noisy with their antics, taking pictures images and doing selfies, a middle-aged father trying each wealthy and dogged, like a stockbroker slightly down on his luck, and his younger spouse, but not too much younger—still pretty, however frayed a bit by the problem of keeping up with two teen-aged women who seemed to bicker nearly consistently after they weren’t texting or taking images of one another, and a surly younger son, just on the cusp of adolescence, dark hair unlike his blonde sisters, and contained inside a kind of anger that was fascinating to me—I do not forget that a lot.
And there were two older women—one of them fairly outdated, nonetheless spry but clearly enfeebled by age, and a second, who may need been her sister, or an older daughter—grey-haired, the each of them, and lean, faces bent towards the sea-breeze, it was laborious to tell. After which the driver of that ship, a dour, darkish fellow who made it clear in his demeanor that he worked for our cash, nothing else, and a boatman, a ship’s mate, who clearly labored for tips, so cheerful he was that it was clear he’d been drinking since dawn.
I remember these characters, and that i remember how vibrant the day was, the vaguely tropical sky, the sea breeze, the straightforward waves. Then there was a moment—a sudden black sky, not quite a cloud, but darker someway, and a kind of wrestling of the waves, a torment—and I woke on a tough cold beach beneath a grey METAL sky. The driver of the ship and the boat’s mate—the ship itself—were gone—but my companions in that voyage have been there, staggered on the sand, coming to life as I used to be.
No one said anything. There was a wood behind us, darkish and thick, after which the thin strip of sand we inhabited, and almost no sound, except very far away, a form of fluted call—I couldn’t inform if it was some form of chicken that I had by no means heard earlier than, or a musical instrument. The decision was clear and rhythmic, and nearly lulling, like a melody…but with an unease to it, like one thing vaguely evil. One thing that would not be known, however that still might compel one.
We rose from the sand as if entranced, our small social gathering, and it seemed to me that each face had changed from what I had seen of them before, as if we had taken on the guise of a sort of masque—and our clothes had been completely different, too, the same clothes in one way, shirts and sneakers and so forth, however modified by the unusual mild in order that they seemed like nothing I had ever seen before. Nobody spoke. We moved towards the sound—that distant sound—as if impelled.
And there was a form of gentle there, as effectively, the sound and the sunshine entwined, opening the dense woods, not right into a path of any type, however as an alternative a type of passage, something we knew we had to maneuver by means of, the cool leaves caressing our skin as we walked, and all of us silent, and the dim path opening before us and shutting behind, and all the whereas this strange music like a beckoning name.
Once we came to the castle, after what may have been minutes, or hours, or days—I haven’t any memory of this expertise beyond these phrases I’m writing—there was a sudden brightness, a floodlight in the sky, as if someone had turned the solar on for a second then shut it off. The air was green and thick about us, and we might hear a murmuring from behind the stone walls. There was no door. That is all I know—all I remember.
It’s many years now—the occasion I recall happened in my youth, and I am outdated. I don’t know what happened after this moment, or how I found myself back in the city I had travelled from, or what happened to any of my companions. I don’t have any way to grasp this story, or what it was that I experienced in that point.
That all the life I had lived earlier than has been erased, so that I dwell now in a perpetual state of unknowing, a man and not using a previous or any type of historical past and even self-data, troubles me generally.
Final night I walked on the darkish streets of the city the place I’ve made my unsure and temporary residence, and I found a scrap of paper tucked beneath a rock, close along the wall of one of many older Christian churches, one made of stone, with a damaged spire. I assumed that it had been left for me, so I lifted it and read it in the small light of a distant streetlamp.
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