Mrs. Todd's Shortcut, by Stephen King

I found this photo on another blog, while trying to find the title of this short story, written by Stephen King.  I love short stories, and to me,  one of the ways to tell if a short story is a good one is how well and how long you remember it.  I remember this one in the summer, especially when driving down quiet country roads, although I had forgotten the title.  I think the character and the setting stand out particularly in this story.  I never really found it too frightening, more magical than anything else.  I myself don't take roads to create shortcuts, but to see where they do go. Maybe I could find myself in much more danger than Mrs. Todd.  Hmmm.

 I also like going for walks at twilight. The road in this picture is very inviting. The atmosphere evoked by this photograph really is perfect for the story, don't you think?
Stephen King's characters are so very real.  I think he has created some of the best out there.  Mrs. Todd is a mystery however.  I don't know if I could be brave enough to travel with her.  
Out where I live, there are many, many rough roads, created for the pipelines.  I am pretty sure I would end up completely lost, should I attempt to find a short cut from one home to the other.  Still, on a beautiful summer afternoon, it tempts me sometimes.  So far, I resist.  I tell myself all that I would find would be the pipelines and their monitoring systems, or hunters looking for moose.  The old spirits no longer wander. Or  do they?

"The real things in life are not houses, bank accounts, prizes, or promotions..."

..."love it is which wins the day.On this burning road, fenced with barbed wire to keep the goats from straying, I find for a minute what I came here for, which is a sure sign that I will lose it again instantly.  I felt whole. "

from lighthousekeeping, by Jeanette Winterson

In the novel by Winterson, the narrator steals a parrot because it speaks her name.  It says her name and she must own the parrot and listen to it say her name.  Eventually she is found out, and is sent to a psychologist.  As she explains to him, she was not talking to the bird - the bird was talking to her.  The bird reminded her who she was.  Which doesn't help him understand.  He asks her if she feels she has more than one life, to which she replies in the affirmative.  Robert Louis Stevenson, who figures as a character in this book, is who she looks to to help her explain:
"Do you know the story of Jekyll and Hyde?"
"Of course."
"Well then - to avoid either extreme it is necessary to find all the lives in between." 

A trio of bird cages ...

This photo, which I took this summer is currently one of my favourites.  They look so much better empty.
If one were to own a cage, maybe one would feel obligated to keep a bird in it? I think I would only want an enchanted nightingale. Or one that knew my name?
How many cages do we ourselves live in, unaware that we are inside?  What are those real things in life?

Winterson's character, Silver, says it is love.  "I think of love as a force of nature  - as strong as the sun, as necessary, as impersonal, as gigantic, as impossible, as scorching as it is warming, as drought-making as it is life-giving."
However, "my little orbit circles love. I daren't get any closer. I am not a mystic seeking  final communion.  I don't go out without SPF 15.  I protect myself."
The real thing is love.  But love does not equate only with happiness.  It has value, "the highest value", but it is not the "answer or solution".  It simply is.  Meaning is found through searching, through wonder, and if one is lucky, it can be found through love (love defined as communion and not just with people), which will make us whole.

"This intimate gift of silence which we know" ...

Bascove's Paris

I do not care to talk to you although
Your speech evokes a thousand sympathies,
And all my being's silent harmonies
Wake trembling into music. When you go
It is as if some sudden, dreadful blow
Had severed all the strings with savage ease.
No, do not talk; but let us rather seize
This intimate gift of silence which we know.
Others may guess your thoughts from what you say,
As storms are guessed from clouds where darkness broods.
To me the very essence of the day
Reveals its inner purpose and its moods;
As poplars feel the rain and then straightway
Reverse their leaves and shimmer through the woods. 

"Dreams"  by AMY LOWELL

 

 

Places ...Buildings at the U of A,

 

Quite a while ago now, when I was getting my first degree, I liked to walk through the buildings on campus, especially the ones where I had no reason to be, like the Business? building, or rather the huge corrider connecting the Tory and the Business building.  One of my favourite places was the Chemistry building, despite the chemical smells, which actually became familiar after a while. I can still smell this place.  There was a place to eat, a little lower down, outside, if you wanted a little privacy.  And I loved the old Physics wing, with its alternating little study rooms and small lecture rooms. I wish I had had a chance to take pictures of it, as well as what I called the hidden pool, which was situated in a little corner outside this area. Some places can remain fixed in your mind the way they were, despite the changes.  I also remember the old student cafeteria area in the student union building, before the renovations.  I guess I should go back and see what else has changed.

Now, here is a place where I spent a lot of time. I wonder if it still has the flags hanging from the ceiling inside. I remember sitting in a class once, and the prof was lecturing, and stopped, and said, "It's snowing!" in mid-lecture.  So we all turned and looked, and sure enough, there was the first snow of the season.  I remember that, but I don't remember what the lecture was about, although I do know that when we turned back around, the prof, I think, had been watching us.  Funny, the things that remain in our heads.  I was glad we had that room, with a window for a wall, where we could have the light stream in from the outside, rather than a bleak room down in the basement of the Tory building.

"Swan Lake"

Fall afternoons, so short and haunting. A serene sight this past weekend...trumpeter swans enjoying a leisurely outing.

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty Swans.

 W.B.Yeats