The Third Year (Update)

      Tonight marks the third year that this blog has been running. It was three years ago that I posted "Justice", and it is strange to think so much time has passed. Last year, I spoke of the characters that dominated the year. I suppose the same is true of this year, such as with the button-nosed stranger and the daughter of Athena, but it is less so the focus now than then. Recently my poetry has become rather nostalgic, reminiscent of times past. But before I discuss the year, I will first make an announcement that perhaps I should have made sooner.

      The other night I received an email from the editor-in-chief of Stache Magazine, which is what they have come to calling a 'blogazine'. It is entirely online, and for the December-January edition, the theme is nostalgia. That being said, the email was informing me that a poem of mine will be included in the upcoming edition. The poem is titled "The Window Illusion", and you will not find it among my posts here. However, once the magazine is published, I will post a link to it along with another poem on here. Because it is an online magazine, it should be easily accessible for everyone, and it is also free, so there is little reason why it should be a problem. But I have gone on long enough about this. This is about the year, not the past few weeks.

     The year began with a hypothesis. I was experimenting with myself, to find an answer for myself. It was inspired by the novel "Atonement" by Ian McEwan. You see, I was in an exam for one of my English courses when I read an essay question on the novel. The professor was asking for us to show how Briony (the narrator and a character within the story) fictionalizes the world around her. It was at that moment that I nearly screamed eureka. It was simple, but solid. This was the instant that I came to realize the way in which I fictionalized the world around myself, especially women. Then the experiment began. I wished to see the level at which I can fictionalize a woman, and the effects that it has on me. It is both with excitement and painful horror that I report that my experiment was a success. I found that I was capable of convincing myself emotionally, while knowing it was all a lie, that I was truly taken by the button-nosed stranger. It was similar to the obsessions reported in the past, although I was fully aware that it was completely fictional. Then came Frankenstein, which provided me with a way to view what I had done, resulting in "Who is the True Monster?"

     From there, I can only claim that the year went in one thematic direction. It moved to the departure, the inevitable goodbye that was to result from my leaving for university. My time in Aylmer felt incomplete, as if there was a world of work to do. I attempted to calm those passions with Camp NaNoWriMo, and music pertaining to goodbyes, such as Eppic's "Consider This Goodbye" and Zach Sobiech's "Clouds". But none of the restlessness went away until it was about time to leave. It was then that I finished the first draft of "The Beginning of The End". I was stunned, having felt as if the novel could have gone on forever. But with its completion came the readiness to leave the place I had called home for so long.

     University was not about wanting to go home. I rarely missed home, although it was often on my mind. One does not live somewhere for all one's life and simply forget it in two months. Rather, my mind found a completely different environment in a different part of the province. My writing habits transformed. My room had morphed into a place which I did not wish to remain in. The isolation of my old home had been lost to the open nature of my new one. Instead of writing late at night alone in my bedroom, I wrote during the day, or at least, prior to eleven thirty at night, in a public space where many people I knew came and went as they pleased. There were more distractions there, but sometimes I would simply forget that the world existed. I would become so engulfed by the story that I would not notice anything outside of it. But I have gone on long enough. The night grows tired, as I do. Now I wonder what may come out of the year to come. Until next time,

-Zero

Wanderer's Journal #29

       I had to prepare immediately. And yet, I slowed my movements by engulfing myself in a liquid called doubt. Like water, it was everywhere, and lay hidden in everything. The mirror extended its arms into my poisoned belongings, utterly convincing me that I should not go. Interjecting, as always, my mind reminds me of my quest and of the occasion. The wanderer's wife was going to be another's.

       I wanted to go and protest with all my might. I wanted, with the desperation of hopeless love, to kiss Marie-Lynn once more. It was childish, but passionate nonetheless. All of the passion, however, was being met with equal strength by my reason, which had developed and matured in the time away from my parent's shelter, as well as away from my lost but beautiful world. I wanted to return, but I could not, for it would risk my losing Marie-Lynn forever. But I was happy for her. I viewed myself as a monster, a being of fiction, and so it would have been unfair to subject her to the fabricated. The man, I imagined, was real, with his eyes on the ground and head not far higher than his shoulders. Then came the wondering. Was he as afraid of reality as I was? Did he have a world of his own? Did he fear to lose her? Did he love her as much as I did? No answers would ever be mine.

       I called my former residence. My mother answered, and once I explained the situation, she informed me that they had been invited as well. She suggested that I go with them, that I allow my family to help me prepare for the meeting. I could not decline. The situation was far from my realm of expertise; it was real. I returned in almost no time at all. My old bedroom had been mostly emptied, except for the writings that showed promise. It was relieving, as if the room had been built anew, with the memories of nights spent sleepless painted over and forgotten. But the prospects of my temporary home were made insignificant as my mother taught me how to tie a neck-tie, and as my father instructed me on the way in which I should stand at the wedding. A haircut came soon after, as well as a shaving of my facial hair, for in my wandering I let it all grow. All of the grooming left me nearly unrecognizable. My parents, the creators of the look, were likewise shocked at the massive difference.

       During the process, though, my parents said some strange things. “We'll make her notice you.” “She'll be forced to reconsider when you walk in.” “This should help you get the girl.” It was as if the whole process was to silence the vows and stop the ceremony. I thought it was no different than the lies parents tell children in order to avoid the harsh truth of reality. Had I become but a child once more? Was all the grooming simply the creation of a facade of adulthood? Nevertheless, I was going to the wedding. I told myself that it was for Marie-Lynn, but I knew it was selfish. I needed to know that she had moved on, and only in the act of disregarding me would I be assured of this. It was one of my secret wishes. It was the one I feared to see.

       The day finally came. My anxiety made me face to the extent that I decided on walking. I had enough time to reach the cathedral without being late. In fact, much to everyone's surprise, I was quite early. I did not wait to take a seat on the side Marie-Lynn would be facing. The closer I could get to her, the better. There was murmuring for a bit, but then those setting up came to terms with my early arrival. Marie-Lynn was unaware, and so, I was anonymous. Light flooded into the cathedral through the stained glass windows. The stories they told became radiant, illuminating the entire temple. All of it, from the expertly carved wooded pews to the great stone arches far above, glowed with what would have been called grace. It overwhelmed me, for not sky ever seemed as high as that ceiling, and no day as bright as that moment. I understood why Marie-Lynn wanted to be married there. It was utterly unreal. But I was not asleep.

       More people began to arrive. Many of which paid very little attention to me. I looked as if I belonged. Despite this, I was a guest, and soon it would be time for me to leave, following Marie-Lynn back into reality. But she had yet to arrive, and so all my fellow guests were like trees, immovable and no louder than a rustle. I felt alone, but safe, as if I was in the sanctuary of my own mind. My parents found me as I sat in wonder. It was their job to remind me that I could not control the world as easy as my own. None of my dreaming would change the situation.

       It was a long wait. The minister stood alone at the altar for some time. The groom's best men grew impatient with worry as they glanced at their watches. The murmuring evolved to loud whispers of infidelity and echoes of promise. And then, like a great paintbrush, the organ painted the room in its own color, silencing all who dared paint portraits of dishonesty. Everyone's attention was drawn to the back of the room. A veiled white woman, Marie-Lynn, I assumed, walked alongside her father, as per tradition. Her dress radiated with the light of the cathedral, its elegant white design forming bright silhouettes on the walls. It seemed the people around me were in awe of her appearance. Strangely enough, I was not. Her flames were being concealed, and so I was disinterested. The whole act of marriage appeared to me as a facade, as if the promises made were fake and the people dolls.

       Marie-Lynn reached the altar to wait alone with everyone else in the grand hall of the divine. It seemed as if the cathedral itself was uneasy. There was no disguising the confusion and sorrow in the expressions of those around me. Marie-Lynn removed her veil, and let her flames run wild. Our eyes met, and then there were tears. I rushed to her side faster than her father could. I reassured her that he would come, that the traffic slowed him down. I gave her hope, but I could not grant her certainty. I felt her father's eyes on me, and everyone else's as well. Few knew me, so few knew our story. But I wanted him to come, like that cliche knight in shining armor, because I could not stand to think that anyone would not love the flame-haired woman. My heart pounded me in rage, but then the answer came.

       The grand doors of the cathedral opened with slow hesitation. Four police officers slipped in and removed their hats. Their heads dropped to the face the floor, and so they began their hike down the aisle. He was supposed to be there, and they knew it. Their faces were twisted with pain, tied in with the unwillingness to do one's duty. The loving father of Marie-Lynn intercepted them, and took the news as a whisper. I heard him thank them, and so they eagerly left. He came towards us in silence.

       “Marie-Lynn,” he spoke with the softness only parents could possess, “your fiance's car was struck by an on-coming truck after it stalled on the highway. They pronounced him dead twenty minutes ago.”

-Zero

  

The Neighbour's A Stranger (Poem)

“Hey,

Who's the cutie?”

“I don't know.

She lives across from me.”

-----

It's that familiar face

Of a stranger,

Each sight,

Every silent meeting at the bus stop,

Inspires a yearning,

To close the distance between neighbours.

How could someone across the street

Feel worlds away?

Might as well be space-bound,

Or move countries away.

Then, maybe,

All of this might make sense.

-----

“You should talk to her.

It's clear you want to.”

“Maybe next time.

I see her often enough.”

“Don't wait too long,

you might miss your chance.”

-----

It's that quiet goodbye,

Moving day,

Parting ways with the familiar stranger,

Spent too much time waiting.

The last sight,

the last silence,

The heart-wrenching self-hate,

The love at last sight.

-Zero

A Change of Color (Poem)

What if snow was

Black?

Instead of little white

Specks,

Falling from clouds of

Gray,

They would be dark

Matter,

No longer symbolic of the

Pure.

There would be no white-

Out,

In the grasps of father

Winter.

Instead it would be light and

Dark,

The struggle of life and

Death.

When snow was

White,

The ground glowed in the

Night.

When snow is

Black,

Night's wand is waved, ground

Gone.

The arctic hare turns to

Black,

And polar bears mistaken for black

Bears.

And those that glow, the white,

Die.

The sparkling swirls envelop all in

Darkness.

And the wind-swept snakes painted

Black.

The season itself would change in

Mood.

Already a dreary time turned

Darker.

If snow was

Black,

So much would

Change.

-Zero

Wanderer's Journal #28

       In my departure, I became indisputably tied to the search for Marie-Lynn. In her, I thought I could find an answer to a question not voiced. However, as I entered the city, Marie-Lynn seemed to be a distant dream. So much was new to me, and it appeared impossible that anything known to me could be present there. I fled immediately to a promised place of safety, but it too was new to me. In no longer than a day I was defeated by my fear of unknown cities. It had been childish folly to think that I would have been able to overcome the sheer size of the new place, yet alone its massive population. It was chaos, and I was alone in it.

       Two days passed before I allowed myself to sleep. The view from my window told me nothing of the burning woman. All the hopes I possessed beforehand had been crushed, leaving only ruin behind. I blamed myself, as I believed that I might have found Marie-Lynn if I had not waited for so long. Whether or not that belief was true, I cannot say, but the feelings that resulted were very real. The temptation to return to my dream-world grew everyday. I knew it was an escape, but not a solution. I could have back at any night. It was hard to resist, but it was Marie-Lynn who had convinced me to remain in reality. She was absent, and I understood why. I could not go back to the way things had been, for the power of the real was far stronger than the unreal.

       I began to wander again. Each day was spent alone, combing the crowds in search of fire. One object kept me company, and I often abused it in my frustration. It was “The Wanderer's Wife”, my novel, but Marie-Lynn's copy. She had left it with me like a written threat, one that I dared not read. I worried that I would fall back into my fictions, so the physical thing became a companion as well as a reminder. But, regardless of all my efforts, Marie-Lynn did not appear in the city.

       Two months of that dreaded wandering passed before anything changed. I was tired of searching for her, but I wanted to feel her presence again. I opened the book, my horrible novel, and began to read. I stagnated as I was lost to my own creation. I stopped wandering; I stayed alone in my apartment. The reading was slow initially, but it grew faster with each instance. When I completed it, I wanted more. The fictions could never again satisfy my wish to experience Marie-Lynn. It appeared that I had to continue my wandering, but I could stay no longer. I fled my folly, and returned to the place where I had last seen the flame-haired woman. However, the known and the familiar did not feel welcoming. The cluttered room that I had left behind no longer appeared to be mine. None had stirred it, but I had been stirred by the departure. After a few days, I could not remain, for my home was elsewhere.

       The once alien city welcomed me back, and I gained the absence of the wish to leave, even with the idea that Marie-Lynn may not have been in that city either. As for my belongings left behind, I told my parents to do with it as they pleased, including publication and destruction. I could not bear to possess the proof of my mental wandering. I admit it now long after the fact. I instructed those who remained to inform those who came to see me of my location. Marie-Lynn was on my mind as I spoke those words, but I dared not be specific. I had severe doubts as to whether or not she would visit in search of me, but I left behind a letter to her regardless. It was the unsent letter with no address, but a person addressed to. With a divided heart of fear and excitement, I thought about the envelope I handed to my parents. I resumed my wandering.

       It was strange to have gotten used to both her absence, as well as my dream-world. There was nothing present, and this was new to me. It was the lack of eventfulness and stress. Even my wandering lost its urgency, its aim. It no longer mattered to me what I would discover, although Marie-Lynn never left my mind. To forget her would have been to return to my fictional world, and lose the purpose of the departure. But, once again, she could have been real or otherwise. It was impossible to tell. I contemplated on this in some spare time while I walked. It was undecided, although one day I received something that tipped the scale.

       I felt it before I read it. Then I took a cold shower, which was followed by several cups of coffee. There could be no doubt in my mind that I was in reality, but all I tried did nothing but assure me that I was fully awake in whichever world I was in. The envelope had arrived like any bill would, with careless haste, and yet, it was as if lightning had struck my mailbox. Her name was on it, along with an address. I id not find her. She found me, for I was lost in distance. I was careful in how I opened the envelope, as if the expression of the excitement within would destroy it. The paper inside was soft like her words had been long ago. It took me thirty minutes to decide to read the letter. I worried about what it might say, whether it would be written in anger or not. I feared that I had stirred the flames in such a way that they would destroy me with little restraint. The papers were dangerous because I placed so much worth in them. Perhaps I feared a bland response more than a fiery one. It was always more terrifying to see fire tamed than to see it free.

       When I let my eyes read what had been scrawled by Marie-Lynn's own hand, I found formalities, and gentle friendly words. But, above all else, it was an invitation.

-Zero

The Dark Corner (NaNoWriMo Update + Poem)

     As of the 29th of November, I completed the 50,000 word requirement for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) with my new novel "The Daughter of Athena." The novel is not yet completed, and I find it ironic to say that I had just reached the exciting parts of the story. Perhaps it would be better to say that I discovered the story. Regardless, after about a month of writing, I have reached my goal, and now look to continue editing "Love: A Chaotic Insanity" and "The Beginning of the End." I have another entry of "The Wanderer's Journal" put away, ready to post, along with some poems I will most likely come to post. I am afraid that I have little else to say, and so, you will find a poem of mine below. Enjoy!

---------------------------------------------------

The Dark Corner

In a dark corner,

Laughing.

You and me

Against the world,

That wants to devour us,

Let's fight back.

Sometimes things are most clear,

When we can't see at all.

Your touch is beyond

Your appearance.

It's all an illusion anyways,

We don't need to see,

The lies made visual,

The lies made real.

Quiet exchanges,

As if words could reveal us to light,

The great tyrant,

The great magician.

Life's a joke,

And only in the darkness,

Can we laugh at it,

No one sees us anyways.

So here we are,

In a dark corner,

Laughing.

-Zero