Jamieson Wolf's Blog, page 69

The You Tree – A Poem

The seed was

planted when you

first said my

name. The seed

pulsed inside the

earth, yearning to

grow. When we

first kissed, it

was the breath

of life to

the small seed,

water rich and

pure. The light

from your eyes

when you look

at me is

the sun, giving

the seed all

the light it

could need. Over

time, the seedling

grew into a

sapling, shooting from

the earth and

erupting all over

with little buds.

Over time, as

our love grew,

so did the

tree. Leaves sprouted

all along the

branches and flowers

bloomed, giving off

your scent. The

tree grew stronger

on your love

for me and

was nourished by

my love for

you. Soon, the

tree could no

longer be contained

within me. The

branches have grown

beyond the barrier

of my fingers,

the trunk is

larger than my

torso, the leaves

and the flowers

grow from me

and fly into

the breeze, falling to

cover the ground

behind me as

I walk towards

you. Every time

you take me

in your arms,

a breeze swims

through the branches

of the tree

that you planted

inside of me.

The You Tree

continues to grow

as our love

does, and will

forever reach for

the sky.

Believe in the Dragonfly – A Poem

Though I was walking in the sun,

my thoughts were drawn to

the other day. I had seen the man

who used to be my husband.

It was odd, looking at him.

Here was someone that I had loved,

but now felt nothing for him.

Not a whisper or murmur of

affection, just an echo of

what was and what used to be.

I knew that I was different now,

no longer content to just exist.

I wanted to live, to connect

with the world around me.

I was living my best life,

the only way I knew how.

Still, my thoughts were drawn

to him, to what he represented,

to the time in my life that

he had filled, overshadowing

my own self. I knew that

I was different now, that I had

gone so far down the path

towards the sun that I didn’t

recognize myself or who I had been.

I stopped at the stone steps

that led up to the bridge.

Looking down, I saw the word

Believe

etched there in black ink.

I stopped to look at the word

and when I looked up,

I saw a dragonfly. It came toward me

and stopped to perch

on my shirtsleeve.

I looked at it, at the stillness

of it as it perched there.

It as if we were regarding each other,

or the dragonfly was trying

to tell me something.

I knew that the dragonfly

was a very powerful symbol

of growth and transformation,

that seeing one is a reminder

to embrace the light and

let go of the dark. I looked

at the dragonfly and tried

to hear what it was telling me.

As I watched the dragonfly,

it flew up in front of me,

so that I could see it completely.

Then it flew down to the word

at my feet and landed on it.

Believe.

Whether it meant for me

to believe in myself or

to just believe in magic,

in something greater than myself,

it didn’t matter. I looked at it and whispered:

“I believe.”

A breeze sighed around me

and the dragonfly flew away upon it.

I watched its progress until I

could no longer see anything

but the bright sun.

Believe.

A Castle in the Sky – A Poem

We have built a castle in the sky.

Every day starts like a dream

with you by my side,

your body warm from sleep.

As I go through the day,

the dream continues,

thoughts of you filling

my head, heart and spirit,

making them all brighter and whole.

When I come home to you,

the dream continues,

as we converse, rhapsodize and confide

in each other, in what we have built.

When I go to sleep at night,

with you again by my side,

I realize that the dream that I’ve had

for so long is now a reality.

Dreams do come true, but when

they are brought into reality,

they are so much more wonderful.

You and the home we have built,

the love we have towards one another,

those were dreams before you.

Now that they are a reality,

I wonder what other dreams

can come true?

The Future and Beyond – A Poem

Last night, I

found myself in

my old basement

apartment again. There

were a few

differences, however. It

was bright and

filled with sunlight.

I looked at

the ceiling to

see if new

lights had been

installed, but there

were none. Then

I noticed that

the glow came

from me. The

phone in my

hand rang. I

answered it swiftly.

“Hello?”

The voice spoke

softly into my

ear, its words

filled with smoke.

“You don’t belong here.”

I looked at

the phone, wondering

at it and

the glow that

came from me.

“You left this place behind to find yourself. You can’t find yourself in the past, you can only look forward to what is coming.”

“Who is this?”

“Who are you? Who do you want to be?”

I looked out

a window that

hadn’t been there

before. I realized

at that point

that I was

dreaming. I

put the phone

to my ear

again, listening to

the man breathing

on the other end.

“I want to be free.”

I said softly.

There was a

soft click in

my ear. The

window whipped open

and I watched

as a storm

gathered in the

field beyond. Soon,

that storm transformed

itself into a

tornado of epic

proportions. The glass

in the windows

broke and shattered

like diamonds and

they floated in

the air around

I was

still clutching the

phone to my

ear. I heard

the man’s voice:

“Sometimes, transformation can come from the unlikeliest of occurrences.”

The line went

quiet again and

I let the

phone fall from

my hand. I

watched the tornado

coming ever closer

and knew that

it would never

hurt me, that

this was a

dream. But what

would it do

to my thoughts,

my dreams, the

things I held

dear to me?

Would I be

the same? I

looked down at

my feet and

saw I was

wearing a pair

of ruby coloured

high top sneakers.

This was my

dream, I thought.

Right before the

storm and wind

took me, I

clicked my heels

together three times.

“There’s no place like home.”

I said.

“There’s no place like home.”

Then the wind

took me toward

the future and

beyond.

Something Beautiful – A Poem

Everywhere I looked, there was bleakness.

The skies were grey and overcast,

the air was heavy with moisture.

The people waiting at the bus stop

looked tired and worn out.

I looked around to see if

I could spot anything of beauty

but there wasn’t anything I could see.

Slowly, it became brighter. The sun

was fighting to break free of the clouds.

As the sun shone its rays

down upon us, everyone visibly brightened.

People smiled at each other, others

said hello. It struck me then

how much joy a bit of sunshine

brings to people, how beautiful

the light made everything.

I looked down at the puddles left by

the rain that had fallen

and saw something moving

within the surface of the water.

It moved away quickly but then,

as more people walked by,

it was back again.

I crouched down to see what it was.

I heard birdsong coming from the puddles

and, instinctively, cupped my hands and

let some water flow into them.

I watched the shape I had

seen flow across the surface of

water and blinked in surprise.

I blinked again when I saw

what I held in my palm.

A sparrow, tiny and slightly ruffled,

looked at me and I thought

I saw more of the water

inside of its eyes.

Seeing my curiosity,

it let out a gorgeous string of notes

and the birdsong seemed to echo

along the rays of sunshine.

It occurred to me then that

there is beauty all around us,

even on the most bleak of days,

if our eyes are open enough to see it.

The sparrow stopped singing momentarily,

as if it had been waiting for me

to come to that conclusion

and flew from my hand in a flurry

of birdsong and sunshine.

What the Moon Had to Say – A Short Story

The world had become populated by zombies.

Not really, of course. The zombie plague had been wiped out years ago, thank goodness. No, what she was witnessing now was a whole other kind of zombie plague.

People around her were glued to their Mackpads, iTablets and BrainShares that they didn’t pay attention to the world around them anymore. She saw it all the time on the transit: people reading the newest novel on their ReadaLot, listening to the newest album on their wrist players, checking out the latest news feeds on their Callers. Everyone was so busy staring at tiny little screens that they had stopped paying attention to the world around them.

Kimberlee didn’t use any of the new fangled gadgets, she didn’t need them. If she wanted to travel to another world, she opened a book or created a piece of art. Of course, no one read paper books any longer, which was a shame. One of the most pleasurable scents she could imagine was the smell of a second hand bookshop filled with old books, their musty stories just waiting to be discovered.

She was considered avant garde in artist circles, too, still painting on canvasses and creating things with clay or marble or glass. She had to pay dearly for these items, of course. Paper was scarce and was worth a fortune, unless you knew where to look. Thankfully, she did.

Getting off the transit, she watched the cars zoom away from her, riding on air. She lost herself in the crowd of people. No one could report her whereabouts if no one saw her. The key to getting to the black market was to lose yourself, become invisible.

Taking the routes filled with the most people, she slipped through the transit station filled with its tracks of sleek, silent cars and lost herself in the crowd. She worked her way towards the hallways she knew were there. They led to the back of the station.

Most people didn’t know that the new transit station was actually built on the bones of the old one and that one on the carcass of the one before. Underneath the station was a nest of hallways and rooms that held riches, if you knew how to get there.

Making her way towards the hallways, looking behind her to make sure she wasn’t spotted, Kimberlee found the hallway she knew so well. It was marked with a symbol that few would notice unless they were shown, otherwise it would blend completely into the smooth silver floors. At the entrance to the hallway, the letters SM were carved into the floor. She wasn’t sure what they had used to carve the letters as this new material was supposed to be indestructible. The whole transit station was made from it.

She turned and walked a little further and saw the other marking, another SM. Most would only see a dead end. Kimberlee knew better. This marking was in the centre of the wall instead of on the floor. Walking up to the marking, she pressed it with her finger. It slid into the wall and lit up, a soft blue colour. The wall slid back just enough to let her slide through.

When the wall panel closed behind her, the hallway she was in lit up with soft white light. She could see stone walls and breathed a sigh of relief. She was home. Making her way along the stone hallway, she found the staircase leading down into the nest of still more hallways. This was the entrance to the black market.

Kimberlee made her way down the stairs with ease, having been here many times before. It had actually become a second home of sorts to her. She had friends here that she would never see above ground, even though they worked and traveled in the same circles. It just wasn’t done. However, down here, there was freedom.

As she went through the winding maze of hallways, she reflected on what human nature had become. When was the last time that people had looked up, looked around them and noticed something other than what was right in front of them?

She needed to do something to get people to stop, even for just a moment, to actually experience something, to engage. Not with their Mackpads or iTablets but with each other. She wanted to do something, anything, that would touch people; something that would give them an experience, something they would remember beyond pixels and dots on a screen.

Kimberlee heard voices and soft music and passed into the actual black market. The lighting had changed, this time painting the walls with little lights that looked like stars. She waved to people she recognized and made her way through to see Scribbler Moon.

Scribbler Moon’s real name had been Shirley Jefferson once upon a time. Now, she was only Scribbler Moon, Madame of the Arts at the black market. The black market sold anything you could want or wish for but Moon was the only one that sold art supplies.

“Art isn’t dead.” She said. “Music is art, writing is art and art is art itself.” She told Kimberlee this when she had first found her way to the market for the first time when a man she was seeing brought her to the market on one of their dates. That relationship had fizzled, but she had gained something from it. She had gained knowledge of the black market and had gained a friend in Moon.

The black market was hers, but she let others sell or trade their wares. “After all,” she had said, “You can’t survive on art alone. You need to eat as well. Remember that, little bird.”

Moon’s face brightened when she saw Kimberlee. She was a plump woman with an open smile, kind green eyes and a laugh that sounded like a foghorn. “Little Bird!” She said. “What brings you here? You already got a shipment from me this week. I hope those pigments were to your liking?”

Nodding, Kimberlee gave Moon a big hug. “Yes, they were wonderful. Worth every penny.”

“Then why are you back so soon? You can’t need more canvasses, paints or brushes? I’ve sold you so much already.”

“No no, it’s nothing like that.” She huffed out a breath. “I want to do something, anything to get people to look and pay attention. I want them to see.”

Moon looked her up and down and nodded, as if she saw something. She turned to her husband, Clay who worked with metals and made different kinds of sculptures . “Watch the fort, will you love?”

She wrapped an arm around Kimberlee. “Come on, we’re going to go have a drink.”

“Oh, it’s too early in the day for me.”

“I don’t mean wine or spirits, I meant tea. I just made a new batch, this one out of lavender. The tea brings calmness and focus. You’ll love it.”

Kimberlee let herself be led past the crowds looking at all manner of things: old televisions instead of BrainRays, old record players instead of SongTiles, old DVDs instead of HoloT’s. Everything that was lost and forgotten ended up here. Kimberlee loved the fact that, though the world had moved on, the people within it still searched for pieces of their past.

Moon led her through another warren of hallways to her private offices. “I love the hustle and bustle,” Moon said, “but sometimes, a little quiet does me good. Here, take a seat and I’ll put the tea on.”

Taking a seat in a plush armchair, Kimberlee let out a breath and relaxed. Moon’s private office was like something out of another time: armchairs that sat by a fireplace, art hung on the walls. If she didn’t know better, she would swear she was in an old parlour instead of underneath the very city itself.

The only thing that didn’t fit was the fire. It was electric, trees having gone by the wayside long ago. Kimberlee pointed to the fires electric flames dancing merrily in the grate. “Do you miss it?” She said. “Real fire, I mean?”

Moon turned towards her with two earthenware mugs filled with steaming liquid. “Oh, I miss lots of things, little bird. But I remember them, so that keeps them alive.” She set the cups of fragrant tea on a small table and sat down beside her. “Now tell me what has you in such a state.”

“I don’t know, Moon. I’m just at wits end, I guess.”

“Not so, if you were at wits end, you wouldn’t be here. If you were at wits end, you would be sitting in your own space, looking at the walls. Believe me, I know. Instead, you’re here, in my company, having tea. You aren’t at your wits end, you needed comfort and an ear, so spill.”

Warmth ran through Kimberlee, and not just from the tea cup she was holding. “How is it you know me so well?”

Moon gave a soft chuckle. “Oh, all artists know each other. We know what drives us and we wear our hearts on our sleeve. So spill it already and don’t keep an old woman in suspense. What’s bothering you?”

Kimberlee let out a breath and took a while to gather her words. When she did, her voice was calm. “I just don’t know anymore, Moon. People don’t look around them, they don’t look up. Everyone spends so much time staring at their Mackpads, iTablets and BrainShares or they’re using their ReadaLot or wrist units. I miss paper, Moon. I miss holding something that you could engage with.”

Moon took a sip of her own tea and gave Kimberlee a level look. “Well, they’re letting their brain tell a story, aren’t they, when they read? Is that not engaging?”

“Not when they would rather do that than talk to the person next to them. Have you ever watched people on the transit glides? They’re all staring down at their laps or their wrists or what they’re holding in their hand. Everyone is so quiet and no one notices anything outside of their own little bubble.”

“Well, then you’ll have to do something to make them pay attention.” Moon said, pointing at her. “You’ll have to make them look up.”

“I’ve tried Moon! I’ve done instillation pieces, sculptures, murals. I’ve even tried graffiti art.”

Moon gave her a sharp look. “If you had been seen, you would have gone to prison. You know that.”

“I know, but I had to try something. No one paid attention though and within a week, the entire series was covered up as if it never was.”

“Pah!” Scribbler Moon said. “Graffitti art was so last century, Little Bird. Plus you know the buildings repaint and clean themselves every week. Why do something that won’t last?”

Letting out another sigh, Kimberlee set her tea down. “Is this all there is now? Are we a society built around machines? Are we zombies or human beings?”

Moon gave her another sage look. “You need to do something grander. Something bigger.”

“Yes, but what?”

“I have an idea.”

*

Moon took her deeper through the warren of tunnels and stopped at a wooden door that was in the stone wall. The knock echoed around them like footsteps. Kimberlee waited nervously beside Moon who turned and put an arm around her.

“Calm yourself Little Bird. It’s nothing terrible, just a new idea that I’ve been working on. Alistair is working on how to get it done and just figured it out this morning.”

At the mention of his name, Alistair opened the door. He saw Kimberlee and smiled, running a hand through his tussled hair. “Sorry, I was in the back. Come on in. He held the door open for Moon and Kimberlee and closed it behind them, then threw the latch. “Can’t be too careful. What can I do for you?”

“I brought Little Bird here to see our newest project. I want to show her how it works.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. “You’re sure?”

“Course I’m sure. I want her piece to be the first of its kind.”

Alistair nodded and smiled at Kimberlee. He led them further into the small site of rooms and opened another door. Kimberlee let out a gasp. The entire room was white, pristine white, even brighter given the dark stone in the black market.

She walked into the room and saw several computers all hooked up together. There was a large piece of what looked like glass set up on an easel. There were wires running from it to the bay of computers.

“What is this?” Kimberlee said.

“It’s my mother’s new studio. She was tired of painting with pigments and wanted to try something else.”

“What will this paint with?” She motioned at the pane of glass on the easel.”

“The stars themselves.” Moon said softly.

Alistair let out a soft laugh. “Always more dramatic than she needs to be, huh?” He said to Kimberlee. “In simple terms, this makes holograms using lasers. Mom can draw anything and, using lasers, we can create moving images on any surface in the sky.”

Kimberlee was astounded. “How do you plan to do that? Surely you don’t have any lasers at hand?”

“No, but think about it this way: how many satellite’s did NASA send out over the years? The first safelight was launched in 1957 and, while the majority of them fell to Earth eventually, most of them are still circling the globe and there are hundreds, thousands by now, sitting defunct. Why not use them to our advantage?”

“How are you going to create art using lasers? Lasers can’t paint in the sky.” Kimberlee said.

“No, not just lasers. We’ll use the lasers to create what we need, something more lasting than just flashes of light or pencil on the paper. We’re using the lasers to create holograms.”

There was a moment of silence at this statement. Finally, Kimberlee spoke: “Show me.”

Moon went over to the easel. “Well, you paint on here, using the stylus. It will go on the glass like paint and the computers do the rest.” She picked up a small console and handed it to Kimberlee. “Here was our test run. It’s on Champ de Mars in Paris France.”

Kimberlee looked at the small screen and her breath was taken away. She was looking at the Eiffel Tower, surrounded by rubble and debris. Paris had become a wasteland. No one lived there now, so there was no one to see this marvel. “This is impossible. The Eiffel Tower came down during the revolution of 2100. It shouldn’t exist.”

Alistair shrugged. “And it still doesn’t, not really. It’s just a hologram, made with lasers and stardust.” He smiled when he saw her amazement. “We just wanted to see what it could do.”

She touched the picture wondering for a moment if the Tower would disappear the moment she pressed her finger to the screen. Kimberlee was speechless for a moment, wondering what she would create if given the chance. Finally, she asked: “Why the Eiffel Tower?”

Moon sighed. “Well, it was so sad. When all the monuments the world over went down. I always loved the Eiffel Tower the most, Clay took us there in 2065 when we got married. I always loved how it sparkled over Paris.”

She took the console away from Kimberlee and put it back on the table and took Kimberlee’s hands in her own. “So now the question remains, Little Bird. You talk about wanting people to look up, to see the world around them. What will you create? What will your canvas be?”

*

Kimberlee took a few days to think about what she wanted to do. How could she get people to look up? How could she get people to see what was round them instead of just inside their own little bubble?

She went to her window to look out at the night. The stars shone bright and she wondered how many people still wished on them. The moon shone above her like a white beacon in the sky…

The idea came to her, an image that filled her head fully formed. When it did, she wondered why it had taken so long. She only hoped that she could translate the image in her head into laser beams and holograms.

All she could do was try.

She took the transit glide to the black market and made her way through to Scribbler Moon’s stall. When she saw Kimberlee, she looked her up and down. She must have seen something in her face because she nodded and made her way over.

“So. You’ve decided? You know what you are going to do?”

“Yes.”

“Come on then, times a wasting.”

*

It took Kimberlee another day and a half to paint her image and bring it to life on the glass canvass. Alistair had actually rigged up a large MackTablet screen but he had been right: it was as if she were really painting.

“But what about the other part? What about the words she’ll say?”

Moon laughed. “Why we’ll use the stars of course. Here, use this, text what you want her to say. We’ll do the rest.”

“It’ll go live tonight?”

“Yes, Little Bird. You’ll be famous the world over, the artist of the very first holographic sky art. I think it’s beautiful, your best work, and I should know as I’ve seen it all.”

“Just go up top in an hour. It’ll be dark by then and it will be completely visible. It’s going to be gorgeous.”

Kimberlee hugged both of them. “Let’s hope this works.”

Alistair laughed. “If this doesn’t get people to look up, nothing will.”

Kimberlee went back into the black market and looked around for an hour, getting herself a cup of tea from a merchant. Making her way back into the main station, she took her tea outside, stared up at the moon and waited.

As if it were being painted by an unseen hand, the first lines began to appear along the surface of the moon. Kimberlee knew it was really her hand that had painted this, and that the holograms were really being recreated from her brush strokes.

Soon, the profile of a woman’s face was visible. Her eyes were wide open and she was gazing forward. Around her, people started to notice what was being painted before their very eyes. A woman stopped walking and looked up in wonder. She turned to Kimberlee.

“Have you ever seen anything like this? What do you think it is?”

Shaking her head, Kimberlee said “I don’t know.”

The woman in the moon had long hair that seemed to be fluttering in a breeze. She opened her mouth and the stars themselves seemed to float from her mouth, forming words beyond the moon. Now everyone was looking up into the sky, waiting to see what would happen next.

When the stars formed themselves, you could hear a hush run through the air. The station, normally a hub of noise and movement, was silent. Thousands of people looked up into the sky and read what the moon had to say.

They read: “I wish…”

Seeing the people looking up, looking at each other, with not one person looking zombie like at their tablet or wrist console, Kimberlee knew that her wish had been granted.

She knew that it would take time, that nothing changes over night, but it was a beginning, the start of a new cycle and seeing all those faces filled with wonder gave her hope.

That was enough for now.

Princess Taking Flight – A Poem

She sat down

beside me, her

purse hitting my

knee. She glanced

over at me

and smiled brightly.

“Oh, I am sorry. You know women and their purses.”

I was uplifted

looking at her

smile. I pointed

to her purse.

“It’s all right. It matches your walker.”

The purse was

purple, the same

colour as the

streamers she had

dangling from her

walker. She smiled.

“Well, it is my favourite colour.”

“Mine too.”

We shared a

moment of happy

silence as the

bus stopped next

to a high

school. Kids got

off the bus

and another group

of them ran

by the window,

calling out to

each other joyfully.

“Oh, to be that young again. Not a care in the world.”

“To have that freedom.”

I said. She

looked at me.

“You know, when I was a little girl, I had this scarf. I would tie it round my neck and then run.”

She gave a

reminiscent sigh and

patted my hand.

“I used to watch it as it streamed out behind me as I ran. It was as if I were flying. I felt like a princess.”

“You still are.”

I said. She

rewarded me with

the brightest, most

dazzling smile. I

blushed when she

patted my hand

again. She let

out another reminiscent sigh.

“I remember how free I used to feel when I ran, with my scarf flowing out behind me.”

She looked out

the window as

if she could

see herself there.

“That was my freedom.”

She said. Then

she looked at

me and instead

of patting my

hand took it

in hers.

“Are you free? Do you have freedom? Do you feel like you can fly?”

I thought of

everything I had

in my life,

how I had

finally found love,

finally started coming

into my own.

“I am and I do. For the first time in my life.”

She released my

hand and patted

it again, looking happy.

“Oh, I’m so glad. For its only when you learn to fly that you can truly see the world.”

She reached over

and pulled the

bell and waited

for the bus

to stop. She

stood and looked

back at me.

“You have a good day now. And remember to keep flying.”

I watched her

get off the

bus and when

the bus started

moving again, I

looked for her

but she wasn’t

there, as if

she had already

flown away.

A Forever Home – A Poem

We were nearing

the end of

the Forever Forest.

Sunlight was starting

to pour through

the tree tops

and it left

diamond shaped shadows

on the ground

all around us.

My hand was

still clasped firmly

in yours, it’s

warmth bringing me

comfort. I watched

the Forest change

around us as

we neared its

end. Gone were

the shadows that

had been ever

present, absent were

the dark creatures

that used to

fill the trees

branches. Instead, there

was only the

whisper of the

wind as it

moved through the

tree leaves, sounding

as if the

trees themselves were

whispering at us.

“What do you think we’ll find when we leave the forest?”

I asked. You

turned to me

and said simply:

“We’ll have to see.”

At the very

edge of the

forest, on the

top of the

highest branch, on

the very last

tree that graced

the path, a

black bird sung

to us. As

we watched it,

yellow feathers began

to sprout from

amongst the black

until the bird

was no longer

black but a

brilliant shade of

gold. I looked

at you, confused.

“What’s happening?”

“Don’t you know? You’ve changed, so the forest must change, too.”

As we moved

past the tree

and out of

the forest completely,

the wind increased

and I heard

cracking of wood,

and the bending

of branches. I

turned around, my

hand still clasped

in yours, and

watched the trees

change and morph

before us. The

burnt black bark

of the trees

began to flake

away, filling the

air with what

looked like soot.

As the pieces

of bark fell

through the air,

they, too, changed.

They began to

shimmer and pulse.

It took me

a moment to

realise that the

pulses followed the

beats of my

own heart. Everywhere

a piece of

bark fell, a

flower grew up

out of the

ground, quickly, as

if it were

thirsty for air.

Soon, the forest

floor was covered

with them. I

laughed out loud

to see such

brightness in a

place that had

held me prisoner

for so long.

“It’s beautiful.”

I said softly.

“So are you.”

You replied. The

heat that ran

through my body

whenever I thought

of you intensified

and for a

moment we both

glowed as bright

as stars. We

walked a little

further, into a

meadow filled with

grass and trees.

It astounded me

that, just beyond

the forever forest,

there had been

such beauty, just

waiting to be

found, but I

had been to

lost amongst the

shadows to see

Standing in

the centre of

the meadow was

one tree, still

blackened. I wondered

at its placement

so far from

the forest, and

amongst such beauty

as the meadow.

“Why is this here? Why isn’t it back there with the rest of the trees?”

You looked at

it for a

moment and thought.

Then you said:

“Even in light, there is darkness. As in darkness, there is light.”

We walked nearer

to it. Up

close, we saw

that it wasn’t

blackened by soot,

instead, the tree

was made from

what looked like

a black stone.

“It looks like black onyx.”

I said. Nervously,

I approached the

tree and ran

my hands along

its trunk. My

fingers saw two

similar shaped grooves.

I pointed them

out to you

and you came

closer to me.

“They look like handprints.”

You said. I

nodded and put

my hand in

one of them.

Nothing happened. I

looked at you.

“Maybe we both have to place our hands on the tree at the same time?”

I said. You

nodded and placed

your hand in

the second indentation.

Still nothing happened.

Then I had

a thought that

went off inside

my head like

a brilliant light.

I reached out

and took hold

of your other

hand. The moment

our hands were

connected, the tree

and the air

around it began

to hum. The

song-like noise grew

louder until the

very air around

the tree began

to vibrate and

started to glow

with its own

inner light. We stood

back and watched

as the tree

began to shift

and change shape,

morphing into something

new. It became

a curved archway

and I could

smell different scents

coming from it,

could hear noises

of people, strange

sounds so unknown

yet so familiar.

When the archway

was done shaping

itself into its

new form, there

was a blast

light that was

warm on our

faces. Then it

was still. We

looked through the

archway and saw

a new path,

leading towards what

looked like a

great mansion, a

house that stood

empty but even

from where we

stood, I knew

it was lonely

for someone to

live within it.

“It’s waiting for us.”

I whispered. Beside

me, you nodded

and squeezed my

hand. I turned

and stood on

my toes to

kiss you, trying

to communicate everything

into that kiss.

When I pulled

away, I saw

we were both

glowing once more.

You took my

hand and smiled

happily at me.

“Our forever home awaits.”

You motioned at

the archway and

the house that

waited for us.

“Shall we?”

“We shall.”

When we stepped

through the archway,

the forest, that

had held me

for so long,

let out a

chorus of birdsong.

It was the

most beautiful feeling

in the world

to me, outshone

only by my

love for you

and your love

for me.

The Scent of Ink – A Poem

I walk inside

myself until I

reach its resting

place. It looks

as it always

has, timeless but

aged nonetheless. I

run my hand

along its stone

rim, feeling its

warmth. I hear

the voices whispering.

I look down

into the darkness

of the well.

It smells of

water and salt

and something more.

There is a

scent of potential

in the air,

something waiting to

be described, to

be detailed on

the page. I

never know where

my mind will

go or where

it will pull

the stories from,

but they all

come from here.

They all come

from the well

inside of me.

Sometimes, the water

level is quite

high, the stories

and voices pouring

forth so quick

that all I

have to do

is hold the

page so that

it can catch

the droplets. Other

times, the water

level is lower

and I have

to use the

wooden bucket that

is secured by

a thick rope

to gather the

water within it.

This is one

of those times.

I start to

lower the bucket

gently downward, trying

to place the

scent. It’s not

brick or mortar,

nor grass or

soot. It is

something thicker, with

more substance. It

reminds me of

what wishes would

smell like, if they

had a scent.

The bucket hits

the water and

I feel the

rope pulling taunt.

As I begin

to pull the

bucket up, the

scent grows stronger

until it is

all I can

smell. Something clicks

within me and

I know the

scent. It is

indeed the perfume

of wishes. It

is the scent

of ink, waiting

to be shaped

upon paper into

words, into story,

into being. As

I pull the

bucket even higher,

I can hear

the voices of

characters I have

yet to write

speaking softly to me.

“Keep going, you’re almost there. Almost there.”

I give one

final pull on

the rope and

bucket is on

the edge. It

teeters for just

a moment, almost

righting itself, but

then it topples,

spilling all over

the ground. Where

it hits, waters

and plants begin

to grow, and

the land is

no longer barren

I feel the

water, the ink,

surging within, waiting

for me to

shape the ink

into places, into

people, into being.

I open my

eyes and sit

back, inhaling deeply,

the scent of

ink strong within

me.

A Letter to OC Transpo

I don’t normally post about this kind of stuff on here, but as it’s something I wrote and my blog will reach the highest number of people possible, I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.

To Whom It May Concern,

I wish to make a complaint about one of your drivers. Today (Wednesday May 20th, 2015) he was driving the 1 Ottawa/Rockcliffe at 3:02. It was bus number 5172.

The driver is normally rude and belligerent with passengers. I’ve watched him kick off multiple people for various reasons and even threaten to contact the police against a young adolescent. I realize that bus drivers have a stressful job, but that doesn’t excuse his behaviour.

This afternoon an autistic teenager got on the bus with his caretaker. He noticed a transfer on the ground so picked it up and tried to hand it to the driver. He had really poor motor control so he just kind of threw it at him. You have to understand: this teenager could barely speak, had difficulty walking and no control over his body.

The driver stopped the bus and told the kid and his caretaker to get off the bus. The caretaker explained that he was severely autistic. One of the things he likes to do is clean, so he was trying to be helpful. This was how the rest of their conversation went:

Driver: I don’t care, I don’t like s**t thrown at me.

Caretaker: Look, he has special needs. He’s autistic.

Driver: I don’t f*****g care, I don’t like f*****g s**t thrown at me.

Caretaker: Look, I get it. You deal with people every day. I get that. But you’re not looking at the bigger picture.

Driver: Go sit down.

The caretaker said it wouldn’t happen again.

When they went to get off, the caretaker said “Thank you for letting us stay on the bus.”

The driver made no reply.

I know that drivers have to put up with the public and that many of us can be rude or dismissive of bus drivers. They have to deal with many stressful situations that often bring their lives into danger. They do a job that I wouldn’t and couldn’t do.

However, no one, and I repeat, no one deserves treatment like I witnessed today. It was rude, terribly unprofessional and perhaps one of the meanest things I have ever seen. A special needs child was just happy to take the bus. He wasn’t doing any harm. Neither him nor his caretaker deserved that kind of treatment.

Bus drivers deal with the public on a daily basis. As such, they should treat riders as they would wish to be treated. Drivers are responsible for keeping their passengers safe. How safe do we as riders feel when we witness treatment like that? This is but the most recent in a string of bad behaviour from this driver. My only regret is that it took me so long to say anything.

I know that I will likely not get a response to this letter. To that end, I am posting this letter to my blog, Facebook and Twitter. It is my hope that someone sees this letter and does something about it. My opinion of OC Transpo wasn’t great to begin with, but it fell quite far this afternoon.

Yours truly,

Jamieson Villeneuve