“ ‘Good night, my friends!’ said Galadriel… ‘Maybe the paths you each shall tread are already laid before your feet, though you do not see them yet.’ ” And that is a comforting thought, the idea that though decisions may be made, the path ahead of me is chosen and directed, laid out as one might lay out a meal or set of clothing, and requires only the willing participation of the traveler to bring it to pass. Hmm…encouraging, yes. Not sure of the theological accuracy, but interesting….
So. Today is the first of February. Ha. I have to be careful not to write for an audience, if indeed the blog on which this writing journal is posted does accumulate one. Knowing I have an audience elevates my speech to near ecclesiastical; even the use of that word is brought on by a rising urge for philosophical and literary phrases. (sigh) But that’s not the point of this. The point is to write, and work the muscle after a long absence.
Today whatever word I find will be used to describe a room. Not an inviting one, with a warm fire and close blankets, but an unfamiliar one, a room in which I feel very uncomfortable, cold, and in danger. And the time limit is ten minutes, from 10:09 to 10:19.
So, the word: giving (really?! Oh man. Well, here goes).
The middle room of his house was square in shape, with equal walls on both sides. Straight from the doorway ran a short hall, which opened into that room. A fireplace was at the end of the right wall of that walk, and from there the room lay in stark angles. He had done what he could to soften it: put comfortable chairs in the corners, hung a picture or two of sunsets and horses, and even laid a rug across the bare wood floor. But to no avail; there was an air in the room that sucked any warmth from it.
When lit the fire burned low and blue, casting a pale light that flickered on the walls. A single fixture hung from the ceiling, and before his time the frosted encasing had been cracked, thus allowing the light to spill out and form a swinging circle on the rug below. Shadows from the chairs grew tall and dark on the walls. He tried to light candles, but they only added to the problem, and sucked whatever air there was from the corners.
The air itself was a problem. Try as he might, he could not get the room to warm up. There seemed to be an immeasurable number of leaks and cracks in the walls, and no sooner had he plugged one up and thought the dilemma solved than he felt another draft floating in from somewhere, and his weekends were once more consumed with discovering it.
Nothing has been said of the one window in the room, which lay inset in the wall across from the fireplace. Through this window one should have had a decent view of the city below, but that was not to be. Instead it had a natural tendency to frost over the winter, and somehow remain blurred with condensation (from what warmth?) throughout all the summer days. Visitors, if ever one remotely happened to drop in, never sat by it. There seemed to be an encroaching feeling that something, or someone, was looking in from the outside.
The room was thus in a constant state of need, always wanting some thing to be what warmed it and kept it. As it was, it sat as a dark, empty room, motionless during the day and empty during the night, for he feared it and never sat in it, though at first he had tried. He had given everything he could to that room, but to no avail; it was a cold, heartless room, and nothing could bring it around.
A knock on the door. He walked from the kitchen and stepped quickly down the hall to the entry. By habit he wiped the thin layer of frost from the handle and swung it open.
And somehow, he was more surprised by who the visitor was than the fact that he had a visitor in the first place.
Meh. I was picturing my own living room and tried to make it cold and uninviting, which it is neither. I don’t think I succeeded. I saw my own room than I saw his.