Showing posts from February, 2019

The Painter's Wonder

A winter’s night saw a painter gazing vividly at the cold moonlight caressing the snow.   He longed to pick up his brush and make the moment last forever.   But it would not work.   It never did.   His art was always a creation of another moment entirely—of a memory.   And that was a fine thing.   But not wondrous.             Still, by day, he painted what he remembered, and it was enough that he had his living.   But by night, he stared and mourned and felt keenly the wistful longing.             Until a day, most pivotal to his artistic life, it dawned on him that the longing was, in fact, a thing in itself.   The moment was not something to be captured, held prisoner, forced to remain suspended in universal objectivity.   His art, a byproduct of memory, was all the more at rest for the nature of his longing.   But what would happen if his longing were fulfilled?   If he felt the desire for permanence satisfied?   No, the longing was a thing in itself.   Something meant to exi

The Boy and the Bear

Once upon a time a young lad went out to the river to catch fish for his dinner.   On the other side of the river stood a bear, his gaze transfixed on the fish-laden rushing water before him as he readied himself to take the plunge.             ‘Oh, ho!’ said the boy to the bear.   ‘Would you mind tossing a few fish my way after you’ve indulged?’   For it would be simple for the bear to do so, and it would save the boy the trouble.             ‘And why would I do that?’ returned the bear, looking up from his prey reluctantly.             The lad shrugged.   ‘It would be a simple thing for you to do,’ came his response.               The bear considered.   ‘I’ll do it.   But only if you find me a mate down the way into the forest.   It is Spring, and I should be getting around to it.’             The boy gave this condition some thought, and the idea of continuing his walk until he found another bear appealed—at least he would not have to get wet.             ‘Agreed,’ the

A Short Thought of Time

A woman sat on a porch, holding a mug filled with steam that wafted about the air.   The air itself was still.   Only the steam and a dog’s tail wavered back and forth.   Thus she sat in calm content, and thought of time.             Time weaves and flows and falls, she thought.   The edge of it never appeared… until it did; abruptly.   And all that once seemed a circle suddenly proves false, she thought again.   All those silly people never understood, never got it; that it was never the world, but time that lay flat—and was all the more epic for being so…             She blinked.   She had all the time in the circle… before it hit the edge.   It was, she thought, a truth with which it was well worth doing something.   And that, of course, made it all the more imperative to stand up, walk about, apply herself.             Naturally.             But the air felt cool on her cheeks.   And the dog sat next to her so comfortably.   Surely, just this once, time would keep moving

The Breath of the Wind

            The wind whirled and cracked.   Or maybe it had cracked something.   The house, perhaps.             Stepping outside in the midst of the storm was inadvisable, but the man wanted to survey the damage.   It was not the house that had cracked; it was the old apple tree.   The wind had split it down the middle.             He shook off the snow from his boots as he stepped back inside.             ‘Nothing hit the cottage,’ he said to his wife.             ‘That’s a relief,’ his wife replied, then went back to her sewing.             ‘But,’ the man began.   The wife looked back up.   And then she saw it.   The look in his eyes.   And she knew, even before he said, ‘It’s the apple tree.’             He left it at that, but a knot found its way between his brows.             His wife started to sink.   As though she could fall through her chair, as though the solid outlines of her world had begun to fade.   He watched her begin to slip away; it was a sight he ha