Double-hearted
Thursday, January 06, 2005My house is set on a hill...one of my bedroom windows looks down a steep hill, over a thin strip of road, down more steep hill and trees, and down to the bottom of the valley, were a tiny ribbon of creek wends its lazy way down, a mile or so, under a highway, and continuing until it reaches the river.
Today, because it's been raining for several days, the ribbon is a rapids, over flowing it's banks, several times it's usual size. Part of my heart, the wilder part, glories is the too much cream coffee color of the waters, the little lace foam of the rapids.
It is the part of my heart that tells this story:
Once, the pixies made a nest in the crumbling concrete of a highway overpass...though the term was too grand, really, for the seven by twenty foot corridor that crossed over the tiny creek that the pixies once called home. It was a good nest, the babies seemed to enjoy the rumbling vibration of the vehicles passing over head. But recently, the waters rose, the splashing roar threatening the rare clutch of youngsters who would spread their wings, finally, after a gestation of ten years, and bring magic to the world.
Amberfgris knew she had to get someone big enough to wade in and carry the babies to safety, but who?
The other part of my heart wends it's way down with the water, too. But it does stop at the wash, it goes on, to the river, to the places it's flooding, to the people who lose so much. Furnaces destroyed, water sources damaged.
It tells a story more like this:
Mary watched as the waters rose mercilessly. She'd lost her job last year, but had been grateful that she owned the house free, knowing she'd never have to worry about being homeless. But now...everything was in doubt. The house could be saved, certainly, but would she be able to live in it?
As a writer, you're part fortune teller, part psychologist. Even if the future you're telling about couldn't possibly exist, you need to be able to see everything, all three sides of the coin. Its all about different possibilities and logical outcomes. But sometimes it really does kill the joy of things.
Permalink Cindy scribed this at 10:55 AM
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