Meandering Through the Writings of Others as Lament Practice: Phantastes

“Gardens at Ceperley House” Phone Photo, DS

“One of the tasks of fiction is to offer models of human experience that are meaningful and that seem to be alive.” Arwa Haider, London Calling.

MacDonald, George. Phantastes. 1858.

935 words

*** Old fashion of Scottish Christianity . . . *** MacDonald illustrates, no the doubtful maxim that to know all is to forgive all, but the unshakeable truth that to forgive is to know. *** Aberdeenshire *** poverty *** sunny, playful man *** He had accompanied me all the way . . . *** poetry *** a faerie romance *** I awoke one morning with the usual perplexity of mind . . . *** Ah! That is always the way with you men, you believe nothing the first time . . . *** I looked deeper and deeper, till they spread around me like seas, and I sank in their waters. I fogot all the rest . . . *** I saw that a large green marble basin, in which I was wont to wash . . .  was overflowing like a spring, and that a stream of water was overflowing the carpet, all the length of the room . . . And, stranger still, where the carpet, which I myself designed  to imitate a field of daisies . . . seemed to wave in a tiny breeze that followed the water’s flow . . . *** After washing as well as I could in the clear stream, I rose and looked around me. *** No bird sang. *** I remembered what the lady had said about my grandmothers. *** Those you call fairies in your own country are chiefly the young children of the flower fairies. *** All for the good of the community! said one, and ran off with a great hollow leaf. *** By this time, my hostess was quite anxious that should I be gone. *** The immediately surrounding foliage was illuminated by the interwoven dances in the air of splendidly coloured fire-flies . . . *** I was too horrified for that. *** The face seemed very lovely, and solemn from its stillness, with the aspect of one who is quite content but waiting for something. *** I cannot put more of it into words. *** I felt as if I was wandering in childhood through sunny spring forests, over carpets of primroses, anemones, and little white starry things . . . Some of the creatures I never heard speak at all. *** I took my knife and removed the moss . . . *** a block of pure alabaster enclosing the form, apparently in marble, of a reposing woman . . . *** I had found myself, ere I was aware, rejoicing in a song . . . *** Great boughs crossed my path, great roots based the tree-columns, and mightily clasped the earth, strong to lift and strong to uphold. *** Come to my grotto. There is a light there. *** such a delicate shade of pink seemed to shadow what in itself must be a marbly whiteness of hue. *** I walked on the whole day . . . *** a self-destructive beauty *** Various garden-vegetables were growing beneath my window. *** folly *** delicate greens of the long grasses, and tiny forests of moss that covered the channel . . . *** I was so bewildered – stunned . . . *** We travelled for two days, and I began to love him. *** She carried a small globe, bright and clear as the purest crystal. *** Colour floated abroad with the scent . . . *** A pale moon looked up from the floor of the great blue cave that lay in abysmal silence beneath. *** At length I came to an open corridor . . . *** The sides of the basin were white marble . . . *** The waters lay so close to me they seemed to enter and revive my heart . . . I saw above me the blue spangled vault, and the red pillars around. *** The third day after my arrival I found the library of the palace . . . *** I read of a world no like ours. *** One evening in early summer, I stood with a group of men and women on a steep rock that overhung the sea. *** Though of a noble family, he was poor, and prided himself upon the independence that poverty gives . . . ***Cosmo began to comfort himself with the hope that she might return, perhaps the nest evening at the same hour. *** His engagements were neglected. He cared for nothing. *** Cosmo, if thou lovest me, set me free, even from thyself . . . *** One night he mingled with a crowd that filled the rooms of one of the most distinguished mansions in the city, for he accepted every invitation . . . *** At length I arrived, through a door that was closed behind me, in another vast hall of the palace. *** The pillars and arches were of dark red. But what absorbed my delighted gaze, was an innumerable assembly of white marble statues, of every form, and in multitudinous posture, filling the hall throughout. *** Instinctively, I struck the chords and sang. *** Ever as I sang, the veil uplifted, ever as I sang . . . *** I had no means of measuring time . . . *** A blessing like the kiss of a mother, seemed to alight on my soul, a calm, deeper than that which accompanies a hope deferred, bathed my spirit. *** Ere she had ceased signing, my courage had returned. *** I put my life in my hands. – The Book of Judges *** They were about twice our height, and armed to the teeth. ***

Meandering through the Writings of Others as Lament Practice: The Summer of Bitter and Sweet

“Campfire Ready for Later” Phone Photo by DS

Here are my explorations:

Ferguson, Jen. The Summer of Bitter and Sweet. 2022

993 words

*** This book is about an ice-cream shack, yes, but it’s also about real traumas teens face. *** Indigenous and Black teens *** Indigenous women, girls, and two-spirit people *** If you’re not ready that’s okay *** find healing in Lou’s story *** RED: Winter isn’t colorless . . . impossible buds on trees *** We’re a sight. Three pickup trucks traveling down the highway, each with one of the Creamery’s picnic tables overhanging the tailgate. And me, in the lead . . . my best friend Florence laughing . . . we’re tough enough. *** We’re giggling over the song lyrics *** No one asks where Wyatt, my boyfriend, is this morning. *** Florence wipes paint from my face carefully. *** Survival is always in the back of our minds. *** We kissed forty-six times. *** You don’t have to like giving BJs for you to … just pretend. *** Sometimes, life gets super clear. *** These days I hate lying to my family. *** Mom walks toward the fridge, but she stops to run her hand through my hair. *** A crow in one of the trees caws down at us. *** Like he didn’t call me his Native girlfriend . . . Why do you have to point out he’s Black? *** Wyatt, he shrugs. *** Why can’t he just be a man of mystery? *** It doesn’t bother me, King says staring at me, Black isn’t a bad word, Lou. *** Our customers, mostly teens, begin to dance. *** Calgary has a grad program I like though. *** It was always easier talking to people like this man when I was pretending to be white. *** ORANGE: The least popular flavor of ice cream, but one of the most popular sorbets. *** Today I unbraid my hair to wash it. *** I’m going to have to learn to swim in these new waters. *** It’s for the best, her being gone. *** Blue ink bleeds across the page like a wound. *** YELLOW: Dandelion wine or golden currant . . . All life exists on a spectrum, after all. *** Keesha kee taen *** I’m pushing to free myself of the mess *** He’s not himself, swimming in rough waters – in shock. *** By the time the tear at my hairline is stitched, I am all woozy. King helps me *** Sweat gathers on my upper lip. *** But secrets can burn down friendships too. *** What was he driving, do you remember? *** I can’t stop thinking about the fire and what will happen when he learns I caused him that pain too. *** GREEN: typically oregano. It’s spicy, for people who like things both hot and cold. *** We own a lot of people a lot of money. *** A firefly picks up outside. We watch it buzz and glow *** This part of me works but every time I try to imagine doing it with someone – with King – I tense up. *** Her long red hair is in a high ponytail *** BLUE: usually wild blueberries. It’s rarity that makes true blues special. *** It’s quiet in this house. My mom’s off-key singing to pop songs is missing. *** Today’s tee is bubble-gum pink and says, There is no Planet B. *** Lou, look. I asked you out and you basically ran. I get it. *** In this town I’m too Black – hell, on the prairies I’m too Black – but in my ma’s hood, at Westview in my classes, in my friends’ eyes, I’m not always Black enough. *** When I moved to Toronto, I had to learn to live in a place that is not all white space. *** BLUE: Borage flowers and honey make a delicious sorbet. *** Dear Daughter, Eighteen years of patience is something you cannot fully understand. I am not a patient man any longer – not after my time in the cage. *** The choice is yours – be my fierce warrior girl. *** When I make it back to the barn, to read the letter again, to memorize it, maybe do exactly what Florence suggested and burn it – the letter is gone. *** INDIGO: Saskatoon berries should be on every commercial ice-cream company’s rotation. To start a Michif/Metis Indigo, first you’ll make a classic jam . . . so it forms ribbons of flavor. As always, trust yourself. Try things. See what works. *** The tornado has me all out of sorts. *** She was drunk, Lou. *** He’s teaching me Toronto slang. I’m teaching him Dublin slang. *** Ty, I tried the tough-Native-chick thing with you for almost a year. It didn’t fit. *** The flies would prefer to land on or warm bodies, their little legs tickling us. Off in the trees, a crow watches us with interest. *** I take a break to scroll my mom’s Instagram. *** Text her. *** I’m more worried about you than if it was a bougie art museum like MOMA. *** Intrusive thoughts *** VIOLET: Fresh chokecherries are poisonous. Use this newfound power at your discretion. *** My mind stalls here, betraying me. *** We’re moving slowly, like goldfish in a tiny tank. *** I tongue the roof of my mouth and even that small pain doesn’t hurt as much as it feels exactly like living. *** VIOLET: At the far spectrum of the rainbow, we expect the most saturation. If you’re violet, you’re a violet. *** I turn my phone off. Something I never do. *** Clothing, deodorant, a few books, the braid of sweetgrass I was gifted at graduation, and with my bag hung over my shoulder, and my tent tucked under my other arm, I leave this house. *** Canola is in the air. *** Hand to G-O-D, he nods, then whispers, one day, Lou, I want you to read all my stories. *** She’s outside my tent. *** THE YELLOWS: Like a good dandelion wine, friends are sunshine. *** 

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