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Sitting there on that cold floor, removing one book at a time from
the dusty storage cartons, he was astonished at the growing feeling
that certain books could have been chapters in his own past life.
Was it possible that he had lived within the framework of other narratives?
As the twilight faded from the room with the fast approaching winter
night, the question slowly formed itself silently at first in his
mind: "If this is so, what is my narrative?"
And then, out loud, "Do I have one?"
A few contemplative days later, he decided to try to return to some
of those long abandoned sites, humanscapes of the mind, in search
of scraps of evidence overlooked or ignored at the time of the first
habitation, that might provide essential structuring of another, or
even a new, identity for himself.
"I have this strange feeling of needing to go back and find the
person I once must have been. He seems to have gotten lost somewhere
along the way," Jeremy wrote in his log. "I think the secret
of this displaced character was simplicity. That coupled with being
action bent," he wrote as if about a stranger, "riding a
favorite horse through the mountains, chasing Orion in a small sloop
off the Atlantic coast on a star studded, moon streaked, tidal swept
night, or writing inside a small shack at dawn, a wolf howling one
last mournful cry as the crimson line of a new day broke across the
high plains. I feel like I need to find him, give him his life back
and just let the universe guide the outcome."
He slept fitfully that night on the small cot in the third floor storage
room, pulling the two thin blankets this way and that but even with
sweat pants, tee shirt and heavy woolen socks, never able to get warm.
In the early morning, before it was light, he wakened to the sound
of a soft scrape on the landing at the foot of the stairway that came
up to the room. Barely audible, at the same time the first light began
to grow outside the curtained windows, Jeremy heard what he made out
to be the sound of quiet conversation on the floor below. He listened
intently for several minutes. The old house creaked with the winter
wind. |
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WinterCrossing |
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Ribbons
of Light |
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Stillife |
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Shadow
Realities |
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