2004-10-29

Lighthouses at Sea

One night, at the age of eight or ten, I read a short story about a storm. The brother and sister inside their lighthouse�a lighthouse at sea ready to guide the way for lost boats. I have closed my eyes, envisioning the image of a lighthouse standing�almost invisible�amidst the gray dawn, and the single, piercing drops of rain.

Distant lighthouses�such is true. Hearts have a tiny little buzz after all the Rogers that come into our lives�a small buzz of pain�no, not pain, exactly�heavy melancholy. After some time, that melancholy dances away into the gray distance, and one can still catch a faint glimpse�fortunately, the vision is much too blurred, and the lights that once illuminated such an image (so brightly!) now die away.

In the first novel I wrote, entitled Red Story, the main character had a line: �To remember would be painful�yet, to forget would be unnatural.�

That is how I constructed my main character�after my own image. I construct every character after my own image�even Kaleb Somers.

I was walking out of the library yesterday, probably at around eight O�clock in the evening. I realized that it doesn�t always feel like my beloved autumn�sometimes, it remains slightly humid. A faint breeze passed by, and the fabric of my skirt danced. Just a few feet away from the car, I felt compelled to stop�to listen.

Thoughts sometimes consume me at imponderable speeds, driving and enticing me to the point of insanity. I�ll sigh, and fall, and attempt to remember. Looking around, allowing my eyes to bring objects into focus.

My echoes still remain (and always will remain) in these familiar places. Every place in which I have lived traps my voice and memories, and in returning, I cannot help but recall old feelings. Old feelings, memories, and whispers�these are the things to which I ultimately make my return.

I saw my image there�painted roughly against the dark canvas of night�growing older, faster, and while not exactly old�more awake. The echoes were there, and old thoughts of past winter nights.

Geoffrey and I used to study together, and I�d grip onto my Casio, trying to graph the equations for the next day�s exam. I no longer have a Casio�I have a TI-84�why do things change? Why can�t I keep my Casio?

The leaves changed that spring, I remember, and in my hand I took hold of fragile, pink petals. I read Crime and Punishment in the park�it was an excellent book. Autumn came with changing leaves, and I thought that it was all a cycle�yet, not even the seasons remain constant.

Standing there, with books in my arms, pressed against my chest, I figured something out�the seasons change inside of us. The Ethan Frome winters seem to remain static�unchanging. We regard the seasons as unchanging�I call it �autumn�, or �winter� as if there were only one autumn or winter. We call it �love� or �pain� as if there were only one love or pain.

They all change�small details, certainly�but certainly all there. Everything is in constant change�we fish, and the ripples in the stream bend and dance in different directions. The seasons must be inside of us�constantly changing, and appearing to remain constant.

�Oh�here comes winter again�� Yes, but, which winter? Certainly not the same as the last one�they�re two different seasons.

One night, with rain splashed against cold, glass windows, I�d like to sit down with someone. I�ll point my finger out the window and explain the lost lighthouse at sea, and the changing of the seasons. I�ll swear that they too have seasons changing inside of them�Vivaldi must have composed for us all.

The little violin that starts the dialogue�he asks the question�we are little violins asking questions. In the end, it is resolved�seasons change, and with change comes resolution�damn it, it is expected

aeka at 7:25 p.m.