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Untitled Work, Musing On Writing And The Mind

This can be a small fiction I wrote in response to a publisher’s problem in the Vermont magazine where I’ve a column, Page on vermontviews.org. You may see the immediate there–I would encourage you to try it, you my few but kind readers, all six or seven of you. Salamat po, as they say in Tagalog, for reading this weblog: thank you variety sir or madam.

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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 also the type of images that tourists wish to get and ship again dwelling. St. Michael’s Mount, a lovely island off Cornwall’s coast, and not an extended journey in almost tropical weather. It will need to have been the monastery—those ruins—that attracted me. I’ve at all times been fascinated by places of disinhabitation.

What seems unusual now, of course, is that my memory of how I acquired there, why I was on that small ship chugging across the straightforward seas in vivid sunlight towards a kind of tourist vacation spot that additionally billed itself as mystery—the gray rock in the wood a remnant of flooded and ancestral land, the gnarled and fossilized bushes like giant’s knees poking via the sand and silt—is utterly gone. Nothing that happened in my life earlier than at the present time stays for me. A blank slate.

I remember the day. Stone Island Cardigan I remember the American family who stone island junior station made the small boat noisy with their antics, capturing photos and doing selfies, a center-aged father wanting both rich and dogged, like a stockbroker barely down on his luck, and his younger wife, but not an excessive amount of younger—still fairly, but frayed a bit by the challenge of maintaining with two teen-aged ladies who seemed to bicker almost continually after they weren’t texting or taking pictures of one another, and a surly younger son, just on the cusp of adolescence, dark hair not like his blonde sisters, and contained within a sort of anger that was fascinating to me—I do not forget that a lot.

And there have been two older women—one of them fairly outdated, still spry but clearly enfeebled by age, and a second, who may need been her sister, or an older daughter—grey-haired, the each of them, and lean, faces bent toward the sea-breeze, it was exhausting to tell. And then the driver of that ship, a dour, dark fellow who made it clear in his demeanor that he labored for our money, nothing else, and a boatman, a ship’s mate, who clearly labored for ideas, so cheerful he was that it was clear he’d been drinking since daybreak.

I remember these characters, and that i remember how shiny the day was, the vaguely tropical sky, the sea breeze, the straightforward waves. Then there was a moment—a sudden black sky, not fairly a cloud, however darker in some way, and a sort of wrestling of the waves, a torment—and I woke on a hard chilly seashore underneath a gray sky. The driver of the ship and the boat’s mate—the ship itself—were gone—but my companions in that voyage had been there, staggered on the sand, coming to life as I was.

Nobody mentioned something. There stone island junior station was a wood behind us, dark and thick, and then the thin strip of sand we inhabited, and nearly no sound, except very far away, a type of fluted call—I couldn’t tell if it was some form of fowl that I had by no means heard before, or a musical instrument. The decision was clear and rhythmic, and virtually lulling, like a melody…but with an unease to it, like something vaguely evil. Something that would not be recognized, however that nonetheless may compel one.

We rose from the sand as if entranced, our small party, and it seemed to me that each face had changed from what I had seen of them earlier than, as if we had taken on the guise of a sort of masque—and our clothes had been totally different, too, the same clothes in a technique, shirts and footwear and so on, but changed by the strange mild so that they appeared like nothing I had ever seen earlier than. Nobody spoke. We moved towards the sound—that distant sound—as if impelled.

And there was a type of mild there, as effectively, the sound and the sunshine entwined, opening the dense woods, not right into a path of any sort, but instead a type of passage, one thing 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 trail opening before us and shutting behind, and all the whereas this unusual music like a beckoning name.

After we came to the castle, after what might have been minutes, or hours, or days—I don’t have any memory of this expertise past these phrases I am writing—there was a sudden brightness, a floodlight within the sky, as if somebody had turned the sun on for a second then shut it off. The air was inexperienced and thick about us, and we may hear a murmuring from behind the stone walls. There was no door. This is all I know—all I remember.

It is a few years now—the occasion I recall occurred in my youth, and I’m outdated. I don’t know what happened after this second, or how I discovered myself back in the town I had travelled from, or what occurred to any of my companions. I don’t have any manner to know this story, or what it was that I experienced in that point.

That the entire life I had lived earlier than has been erased, so that I live now in a perpetual state of unknowing, a man and not using a past or any type of historical past and even self-knowledge, troubles me sometimes.

Last evening I walked on the darkish streets of the city the place I have made my unsure and temporary home, and I found a scrap of paper tucked under a rock, close alongside the wall of one of the older Christian churches, one made of stone, with a broken spire. I assumed that it had been left for me, so I lifted it and read it within the small gentle of a distant streetlamp.