Avenue #writephoto

Avenue

avenue

 

Under the bright green canopy we do not feel the heat of the day, nor do we venture in the full light. You and I merely enjoy the peace, the remoteness from the living. Far away, we hear children playing, perhaps even the notes of a violin, invisible, beyond the orchard.

We have lived nearby, in a house full of memories, ours and many others’, who may have forgotten us. For we have escaped time, as we replay those cherished moments in silence, our puzzled, ethereal ghosts haunting this land forever.

Ascent #writephoto

Ascent

spiral

 

Inside was a blissful, cool darkness. As we stepped in, and the heavy door closed behind us without a sound, we admired the immaculate spiral staircase, and wondered. How long would we have to wait, and, perhaps, how far would we have to climb, before meeting the master of the house?

It was so quiet we dared not speak a word. Sun rays filtered through the curtained windows. The sparse furniture was polished to the extreme, the mirrors on the walls seemed to be veiled – or was it our imagination?

There was only one way to go, and this was upstairs. We looked at each other, and smiled: we hadn’t got thus far to abandon our visit. After all we were invited. We were invited, even though we did not know where the invite came from…

We were young, and beautiful, what did we have to fear?

We took the first step, and you took my hand. It seemed that the house had gone a little darker. You went first, I, as ever, following, it was not the first time we’d ignored a warning…

In the Land of Ago

A reading of 11.22.63 by Stephen King

3-front-quater-top-up-sunliner

 

How often do we think: “If only I could change this”, or, in whatever form, “if only I could have a second chance, go back, and do something different”? Going back, erasing, and changing the past is an old dream, the subject of countless tales and fiction works. Of course there is a second law of thermodynamics, to keep things simple, that says “no-can-do” – but still…

But imagine one could go back, reverse entropy, and travel back in time, would it be possible to change anything? Or, is the past resistant to change, obturate enough to stop, or at least oppose, a time-traveller interfering with what was, and, maybe, should be? And, even if the time traveller could change the past, what would be the cost? Perhaps more ominously: what would be the consequences?

Changing history is a special case. History, they say, is written by “the victors”, whoever they may be. It can also be rewritten, and this without, perhaps because of (not), going back to the past. There is the “official” version, and the “conspiracies”. A long-lasting, and still sinister, such story is that of the assassination of President Kennedy.

Jake Epping, not a crying man, is an English teacher at a high school in a small town in Maine. The year is 2011, and this is the end of term. Jake is, unique among his school colleagues, the customer of Al Templeton, the proud owner of the fat burgers diner. More than just a customer. He’s soon someone with whom Al is about to share a deadly secret. At the back of Al’s diner trailer is an anomaly: a fissure in time. Al has a mission, one he cannot complete, for he is dying of lung cancer. He wants Jake to take over, as he has identified Jake as someone who could, who will, bite at the bait. So Al teaches Jake, explains how this could work, and Jake listens. There is a first trial, then another. On the other side of the fissure it is Spring 1958, and America is young. Jake likes what he sees. He enjoys the fresh taste of root beer, the sweet air. Jake also has a personal objective: to prevent a domestic tragedy and help his friend Harry Dunning. The first leg of the story is there: the killing of Frank Dunning. Jake, armed with Al’s mission and notes, as well as dollars of the time, embarks on the journey.

Saving the Dunning family will take two attempts to get it “right”, or so Jake thinks. Then his personal odyssey will start , on the road to Dallas. For Al’s, now Jake’s, aim is to prevent the assassination of President John Kennedy, on November 22, 1963, nothing less. Jake has five years to adapt, plan, live, and, finally, execute Al’s mission.

Jake follows a route of nostalgia: an all-American Ford Sunliner, overnight stoppages in motels, drive-in cinemas, finally a small town, and an equally small school, in Texas. Later, much later, there will be Dallas and the horror. For a while it is (almost) paradise, his class, football, friends, a girl he falls in love with, America’s early 60’s: (almost) perfection.

Jake decides to stay, he won’t go back to 2011. But, in the end, he does. For fulfilling the mission has unpredictable consequences. When, on the threshold of his desperate return, Jake faces a dystopian 2011, he finally understand what Al had missed: that interfering with the strings of time has a price, and this is proportional to the change.

The novel concludes on a note of hope, an ending for which Stephen King credits his son, Joe Hill, at the end of the book.

11.22.63 is a great novel, to read, reread, and cherish. It is also a book to meditate on, seriously, listening carefully to the voice of its author.

Photo: Ford Sunliner 1958, via eclassicautos.com

 

The triangle #fivewords

Weekly Writing Prompt #132

Monastery_Garments-Cistercian

 

Francis wanted to capture the dream: for the third night, he had read the name of a place he had known, and, now, wanted to build into the story. There were three, at equal distance from each other, the monk had said. The last day, his stare fixed on some old manuscript he had dug out from the loot of a raid, years back, he’d looked for clues. In the morning, like today, he could not recall the names. Long ago, he had travelled, feverish, and briefly lived there, at the vortices of the triangle, carried away by the rage to discover the truth.

Where he was now, near the small park, in the city he loved, was one of those places, he was certain of it. He tried to lift his arm, and discovered he was almost unable to move: he would have to go back to his therapist. He had to work, look again at the archives.

In the park, he had met the shadow of an old monk, one night. That was before the first dream. The monk had spoken in an old, forgotten, language, and Francis had only understood a few words. Where were the other two places?

Picture source: Monastery Garments

Looking back… #Iamwriting

Berlin_Kunstbunker

 

Last winter, there was ice on the windows… Perhaps, now, we miss that cold edge to the air?

The long walks along the river, the parcs, the lakes. A cold Sekt on a bench, long rides in the vibrating forests, the discovery of ancient sites, the monuments to deep history…

The storm. Each day counted, a boat trip on the lake, an hour in the museum, Luther, Sans Souci… Ruinenberg…

Yes, some short stories, but the novel is still beached, going nowhere. Does it matter?

No, it was a good year. Each day counted, 1937, a look into a recent past, and, wrapped in mist, a further away time: what ghosts roam in those older streets?

Discoveries: characters to make alive, tales to tell, dreams to repeat.

Inspiration: each new dawn, nature fighting back, art… The dark Muse.

Books? Turing, Wittgenstein, The Plot Against America, Silk Roads, Musil…

We are grateful for every morning, in the City of Faust: a Moveable Feast…

Photo: Air-raid shelter in Berlin at the Reinhardtstraße. At the present it is used as a private museum for contemporary art of art collector Christian Boros. On the top of the shelter is a reproduction of the Barcelona-Pavillion.

By Times – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3950214

 

Blue #writephoto

Blue

light

 

So far away… Yet this is now home, the shelter where we can repair, rebuild our strength. 

Here they won’t find us, such a small planet, and a pale star, insignificant: on the edge of the known world, and the sea…

The blue ocean will hide us, we will build a village on these shores, our children will learn here, they will learn about Earth, and the Republic.

Then, one day, perhaps in generations, they will take again to the stars, and leave this world.

But, for now, the blue planet is our home.

 

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s last photo prompt of 2017, and a viewing of The Last Jedi.

Magic #writephoto

Magic

leafless

 

“So much light,” you said, “and here is the path, just across the little stream, do you remember?”

I do remember, we walked there, many times, you and me, when we were kids, and later. In all seasons, in winter like this, with sunlight filtering through the trees, reflecting on the snow, our hands in mittens, in spring, our hearts feeling the change in the air, the sounds of birds, and in the long summer evenings…

But it’s late autumn I remember most, the late season when the wind gets colder, when dark clouds gather above the forest. And then, that year…

And then winter was with us, so fast, and one late afternoon, just like this, you kissed me. You did, and I was taken aback, perhaps even a little frightened. Your golden hair, your red lips… It was there, near the stream, never had I had felt such fire in my soul…

We are old now. The fire still burns in our hearts. The forest is still there, and the sun, reflected on the snow.  We walk, hand in hand, listening to the light noises of nature falling asleep.

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