Vulnerablility via Insperation
Janet has inspired me to post my process analysis paper, so here it goes.
Sunlight fell into the room, the only way it could those certain mornings in late October. It fell through the windows, tumbling onto the floor, sprawling accross the room, climbing into bed, and gently touching his face. A gentle touch, but just enough to wake him. He opened his eyes, and took in the ceiling, and prepared to take in the morning. Folding back the sheets, he placed his feet on the ground, and got up. He didn't streach or yawn, he simply got up. The floor, along with his bones, made a sound that let everything know they were old. "First things first." he thought to himself as he went to the kitchen, pulled a cup from the cupboard, and turned to the coffee pot. To him, and the majority of people his age, a cup of coffee in the morning gave him as much life as God himself. It never ceased to amaze him that his coffee pot made coffee all by itself. Of course, only when he remembered to put the coffee in it the night before. This morning, like countless others, he had not and stared briefly into a pot of hot water. He returned upstairs empty handed, and proceeded with the usual morning rituals. After showering, shaving, and clothing himself he made his way back downstairs, took his keys off the hook, and shut the door behind him. As he sat in the run down farm truck, he looked at the dormant radio and wondered how long it had been since silence was broken. Never the less, the radio remained dormant as he made his way cross pasture to the barn.
In the barn, stacks of fresh lumber lay waiting to be loaded. He dropped the tailgate, and did just that. When everything was loaded, he checked to make sure that the bucket of nails, and other necessary tools, were packed in the cab. When everything was secure, he climbed into the truck and headed to the end of the fenceline. He released a long sigh, climbed from the truck, and went about his mission. "Pull off the old plank, put it in the pile, cut a new plank, nail it into place...by yourself. You can do it, old man." He smiled when he thought of himself as an old man, he always took age with a grain of salt. The work started out slow, as he had expected it too. After a while, his mind began to wander, the same way your mind would in this situation. He thought of other things, other times. About how he used to play the piano, just to watch her smile. How they would share a cigarette and a cup of coffee down at the dinner, late at night. He was more entranced than he thought, for the next thing he noticed was a car horn. Looking out onto the road, he immediatley recognized the red truck, and the man in the drivers seat. The man gave a slight wave and a smile, which was returned, and then drove on. He knew how stupid it must look to his neighbors, him rebuilding that old fence. For what? He'd sold the livestock after she left, and the fence wasn't completely run down. It was at this time he remembered that poem he learned, only a few years back, it had said "better fences make better neighbors." How appropriate. It bothered him that he couldn't remember if he had stopped talking to his neighbors, or if they had stopped talking to them. Or, furthermore, when they had stopped talking. He looked down at this watch, and noticed that it was almost one o'clock. As if there were some strange connection, he immediatly felt hungry, and decided to postpone his work until he had eaten something. He thought about taking the truck back to the house, in lou of the weather situation, he decided to walk. There weren't many days like this left for a man his age.
He opened the icebox, and reached in for the small green bowl, but noticed that the light in the door refused to glow. "One more thing to put on the list.", he thought as he spooned tuna salad onto a slice of bread. He poured out some potato chips, and headed for the kitchen table. As he bent over the table to set down his plate, the picture fell out of his shirt pocket. He picked it up, and sat down simultaneously. It was a faded snapshot that he kept in his pocket all the time. There she was right in front of him, on a day just like the one he was in, blowing the seeds off of a dandelion. As he carresed the folds of the picture, he closed his eyes and remembered. He remembered walking the fence line with her that day in late October. They were just talking, and laughing, and being. When she saw the patch of dandelions, she picked one up and closed her eyes for a little bit, while he grabbed the camera out of his pocket. She oppened up her eyes, and blew every last seed off. He asked her what she wished for, to which she replied "Even Victoria has some secrets left." He remembered, they laughed. As he oppened his eyes he felt deep pain, and tucked the picture away. He left the plate where it was, and headed back to work.
He worked until the lightening bugs came out, and the air got cool. This was, for him, a good enough reason to call it 'quits'. He packed away the tools, and sat them in the bed of his truck, and drove back to the house. Once again, he looked at the radio, and new he had been all too silent. He parked the truck in the driveway, and went inside. After washing his face, he decided to take care of the silence problem, and turned on the record player. He thought he may be the only person listening to a record on the entire earth that night. Music hadn't poured out of anything larger than a dime in years. All the teenagers just ran around with wires dangling out of their ears. Still, nothing could compare to the way Billy Holliday sounded on that old 45. To him, Billy Holliday lived on that black vinyl surface. He opened up the windows, and the large oak door to the outside, and sat on the front porch. "Solitude" was sent spinning into the cool night air, and everything was harmonious. The lightening bugs, the crickets, the windchimes, the stars, all harmonious. And he thought about nothing. When the arm of the record player layed itslef to rest, he knew it was time for him to do the same. He turned off all the lights, put coffee in the filter, and relenquished himself to the upstairs bedroom.
Moonlight fell into the room, the only way it could those certain nights in late October. It fell through the windows, tumbed onto the floor, sprawled accross the room, climbed into bed, and gently touched his face. It was a gentle touch, but it was just enough to make him weep. And he did. She wasn't dead, they were never lovers, but she was so far gone. And in my life these two things are most certainly, well, certain. The first being that I am no carpenter, but I too am building a very large fence. And the second being that, everytime I unearth that photograph, I want to lay down and die.
Sunlight fell into the room, the only way it could those certain mornings in late October. It fell through the windows, tumbling onto the floor, sprawling accross the room, climbing into bed, and gently touching his face. A gentle touch, but just enough to wake him. He opened his eyes, and took in the ceiling, and prepared to take in the morning. Folding back the sheets, he placed his feet on the ground, and got up. He didn't streach or yawn, he simply got up. The floor, along with his bones, made a sound that let everything know they were old. "First things first." he thought to himself as he went to the kitchen, pulled a cup from the cupboard, and turned to the coffee pot. To him, and the majority of people his age, a cup of coffee in the morning gave him as much life as God himself. It never ceased to amaze him that his coffee pot made coffee all by itself. Of course, only when he remembered to put the coffee in it the night before. This morning, like countless others, he had not and stared briefly into a pot of hot water. He returned upstairs empty handed, and proceeded with the usual morning rituals. After showering, shaving, and clothing himself he made his way back downstairs, took his keys off the hook, and shut the door behind him. As he sat in the run down farm truck, he looked at the dormant radio and wondered how long it had been since silence was broken. Never the less, the radio remained dormant as he made his way cross pasture to the barn.
In the barn, stacks of fresh lumber lay waiting to be loaded. He dropped the tailgate, and did just that. When everything was loaded, he checked to make sure that the bucket of nails, and other necessary tools, were packed in the cab. When everything was secure, he climbed into the truck and headed to the end of the fenceline. He released a long sigh, climbed from the truck, and went about his mission. "Pull off the old plank, put it in the pile, cut a new plank, nail it into place...by yourself. You can do it, old man." He smiled when he thought of himself as an old man, he always took age with a grain of salt. The work started out slow, as he had expected it too. After a while, his mind began to wander, the same way your mind would in this situation. He thought of other things, other times. About how he used to play the piano, just to watch her smile. How they would share a cigarette and a cup of coffee down at the dinner, late at night. He was more entranced than he thought, for the next thing he noticed was a car horn. Looking out onto the road, he immediatley recognized the red truck, and the man in the drivers seat. The man gave a slight wave and a smile, which was returned, and then drove on. He knew how stupid it must look to his neighbors, him rebuilding that old fence. For what? He'd sold the livestock after she left, and the fence wasn't completely run down. It was at this time he remembered that poem he learned, only a few years back, it had said "better fences make better neighbors." How appropriate. It bothered him that he couldn't remember if he had stopped talking to his neighbors, or if they had stopped talking to them. Or, furthermore, when they had stopped talking. He looked down at this watch, and noticed that it was almost one o'clock. As if there were some strange connection, he immediatly felt hungry, and decided to postpone his work until he had eaten something. He thought about taking the truck back to the house, in lou of the weather situation, he decided to walk. There weren't many days like this left for a man his age.
He opened the icebox, and reached in for the small green bowl, but noticed that the light in the door refused to glow. "One more thing to put on the list.", he thought as he spooned tuna salad onto a slice of bread. He poured out some potato chips, and headed for the kitchen table. As he bent over the table to set down his plate, the picture fell out of his shirt pocket. He picked it up, and sat down simultaneously. It was a faded snapshot that he kept in his pocket all the time. There she was right in front of him, on a day just like the one he was in, blowing the seeds off of a dandelion. As he carresed the folds of the picture, he closed his eyes and remembered. He remembered walking the fence line with her that day in late October. They were just talking, and laughing, and being. When she saw the patch of dandelions, she picked one up and closed her eyes for a little bit, while he grabbed the camera out of his pocket. She oppened up her eyes, and blew every last seed off. He asked her what she wished for, to which she replied "Even Victoria has some secrets left." He remembered, they laughed. As he oppened his eyes he felt deep pain, and tucked the picture away. He left the plate where it was, and headed back to work.
He worked until the lightening bugs came out, and the air got cool. This was, for him, a good enough reason to call it 'quits'. He packed away the tools, and sat them in the bed of his truck, and drove back to the house. Once again, he looked at the radio, and new he had been all too silent. He parked the truck in the driveway, and went inside. After washing his face, he decided to take care of the silence problem, and turned on the record player. He thought he may be the only person listening to a record on the entire earth that night. Music hadn't poured out of anything larger than a dime in years. All the teenagers just ran around with wires dangling out of their ears. Still, nothing could compare to the way Billy Holliday sounded on that old 45. To him, Billy Holliday lived on that black vinyl surface. He opened up the windows, and the large oak door to the outside, and sat on the front porch. "Solitude" was sent spinning into the cool night air, and everything was harmonious. The lightening bugs, the crickets, the windchimes, the stars, all harmonious. And he thought about nothing. When the arm of the record player layed itslef to rest, he knew it was time for him to do the same. He turned off all the lights, put coffee in the filter, and relenquished himself to the upstairs bedroom.
Moonlight fell into the room, the only way it could those certain nights in late October. It fell through the windows, tumbed onto the floor, sprawled accross the room, climbed into bed, and gently touched his face. It was a gentle touch, but it was just enough to make him weep. And he did. She wasn't dead, they were never lovers, but she was so far gone. And in my life these two things are most certainly, well, certain. The first being that I am no carpenter, but I too am building a very large fence. And the second being that, everytime I unearth that photograph, I want to lay down and die.