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Untitled Work, Musing On Writing And The Mind

It is a small fiction I wrote in response to a writer’s problem in the Vermont magazine the place I have a column, Page on You’ll be able to see the immediate there–I might encourage you to attempt it, you my few however type readers, all six or seven of you. Salamat po, as they are saying in Tagalog, for reading this weblog: thank you variety sir or madam.


I’m not sure how I had happened to be fetched up with strangers on a small boat toward an island that promised some historic thriller and also the form of pictures that tourists wish to get and ship back home. St. Michael’s Mount, a lovely island off Cornwall’s coast, and not a protracted journey in almost tropical weather. It will need to have been the monastery—those ruins—that attracted me. I’ve all the time been fascinated by places of disinhabitation.

What seems strange now, after all, is that my reminiscence of how I got there, why I used to be on that small ship chugging throughout the simple seas in bright sunlight toward a sort of vacationer destination that additionally billed itself as mystery—the gray rock in the wooden a remnant of flooded and ancestral land, the gnarled and fossilized trees like giant’s knees poking via the sand and silt—is fully gone. Nothing that happened in my life before at the present time stays for me. A blank slate.

I remember the day. Stone Island Cardigan I remember the American family who made the small boat noisy with their antics, taking pictures pictures and doing selfies, a middle-aged father looking both rich and dogged, like a stockbroker slightly down on his luck, and his youthful spouse, but not a lot younger—still fairly, but frayed a bit by the challenge of keeping up with two teen-aged women who seemed to bicker nearly continuously after they weren’t texting or taking pictures of each other, and a surly younger son, just on the cusp of adolescence, dark hair in contrast to his blonde sisters, and contained within a form of anger that was attention-grabbing to me—I remember that much.

And there have been two older women—one of them fairly outdated, still spry however obviously enfeebled by age, and a second, who may need been her sister, or an older daughter—grey-haired, the both of them, and lean, faces bent toward the sea-breeze, it was exhausting to tell. After which 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 suggestions, so cheerful he was that it was clear he’d been drinking since dawn.

I remember these characters, and i remember how shiny the day was, the vaguely tropical sky, the sea breeze, the simple waves. Then there was a moment—a sudden black sky, not quite a cloud, however darker somehow, and a form of wrestling of the waves, a torment—and I woke on a hard chilly beach beneath a gray sky. The driver of the ship and the boat’s mate—the ship itself—were gone—but my companions in that voyage were there, staggered on the sand, coming to life as I used to be.

No one said something. There was a wooden behind us, darkish and thick, after which the thin strip of sand we inhabited, and virtually no sound, except very far away, a sort of fluted call—I couldn’t tell if it was some sort of bird that I had by no means heard before, or a musical instrument. The call was clear and rhythmic, and almost lulling, like a melody…but with an unease to it, like something vaguely evil. Something that would not be recognized, but that still might compel one.

We rose from the sand as if entranced, our small party, and it seemed to me that every face had modified from what I had seen of them earlier than, as if we had taken on the guise of a kind of masque—and our clothes have been totally different, too, the same clothes in one way, shirts and sneakers and so on, however changed by the unusual light in order that they appeared like nothing I had ever seen earlier than. No one spoke. We moved toward the sound—that distant sound—as if impelled.

And there was a kind of mild there, as well, the sound and the sunshine entwined, opening the dense woods, not into a path of any kind, but as a substitute a type of passage, one thing we knew we had to maneuver by way 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 while this strange music like a beckoning name.

When we came to the castle, after what could have been minutes, or hours, or days—I have no memory of this experience beyond these phrases I am writing—there was a sudden brightness, a floodlight in the sky, as if someone had turned the sun on for a second then shut it stone island regular tapered jeans indigo blue off. The air was green and thick about us, and we might hear a murmuring from behind the stone partitions. There was no door. That is all I know—all I remember.

It is a few years now—the event I recall occurred in my youth, and I am old. I don’t know what happened after this second, or how I found myself back within the town I had travelled from, or what happened to any of my companions. I haven’t any way to grasp this story, or what it was that I skilled in that point.

That the entire life I had lived before has been erased, so that I live now in a perpetual state of unknowing, a man with out a past or any kind of history and even self-knowledge, troubles me sometimes.

Last night time I walked on the dark streets of the town the place I’ve made my uncertain and non permanent home, and I found a scrap of paper tucked under a rock, close along the wall of one of many older Christian churches, one manufactured from stone, with a broken spire. I assumed that it had been left for me, so I lifted it and read it in the small gentle of a distant streetlamp.