Hello everyone,
This past week we slumbered in a dream state, half buried beneath awful weather, half-buried within dreams of spring. We started thinking about our writing projects. Perhaps you did as well. We went into our two brains to rummage around for stories. Some we shared with each other. Some we just enjoyed, lying dramatically on our recliners, hand over our foreheads, drifting on the lazy river that is the sequencing of our new books. How do you find happiness when the sun is lost? Despite being nocturnal creatures, best left alone and wandering in our neighbourhood as Julianna Barwick plays in headphones, we still need to know that the sun is there, like a friend who has moved to Newfoundland but still writes from time to time. A friend who, like the sun, has its own language with you.
Stories, to us, are like witnessing the night life of the Antler River. We live near the river, and it is always there, calling. It is a different river at night. It hums differently. If you stay still, the scene reveals itself in sequence, one bit at a time. We don’t mean to overstate this, but it’s something that we discover again and again. There is something beautiful about the quiet sequence of things, like a storm approaching, or (can we say it?) a conversation coming alive between two strangers in a bookstore.
It happened just like this in the past week when two regulars, who had not met, began discussing the meaning of life. We just backed away slowly into the office, hoping this lovely event continued. It did. It happened naturally. Their conversation eventually turned to ghosts, ambient music, and the afterlife.
It reminded us of the impressive poem by Meeting Midnight by Carol Anne Duffy:
—
I met Midnight
Her eyes were sparkling pavements after frost.
She wore a full length, dark-blue raincoat with a hood.
She winked. She smoked a small cheroot.
I followed her.
Her walk was more a shuffle, more a dance.
She took the path to the river, down she went.
On Midnight’s scent,
I heard the twelve cool syllables, her name,
chime from the town.
When those bells stopped,
Midnight paused by the water’s edge.
She waited there.
I saw a girl in purple on the bridge.
It was One o’Clock.
Hurry, Midnight said. It’s late, it’s late.
I saw them run together.
Midnight wept.
They kissed full on the lips
And then I slept.
The next day I bumped into Half-Past Four.
He was a bore.
—
We couldn’t find a better description of our states right now, both in the shop and at home. This is deep February. Everyone has that glossy look in their eyes. A few of us are liberated by this seasonal nonsense. Most of us, though, are exhausted. We find ourselves chatting about enigmatic things, like Space-Time, and apparitions. We sense a need in others for stories as well, even ridiculous ones, anything that will offer a sequence to this sunless world. Our neighbour has a religious candle in his window, and we find ourselves drawn to its reliably simple and beautiful life on our street. There’s a guy around the corner who has a bright red bulb in his garage. We never see into the garage. We just see hints of it’s holy red interior. What goes on in there, we ask? This mystery gives us fuel for days.
Much love,
Jason and Vanessa
