macblaze.ca

8:23

Staring at the screen in front of me, I find myself at a loss of what to write. The story progresses, in fits and starts as it always has. Things change, plots evolve … shit happens.

Authorship seems to be very much the kissing cousin of the curse. A curse will slowly suck you into its tangled tendrils and wrap you in its weave until you find you and it indistinguishable from each other.

The story wraps around your mind, stealing parts, changing realities and eventually taking over the course of events until the intent no longer matches the reality. A story lies and breathes on its own yet remains powerless without the cooperation of the story teller. Together it grows and expands and hovers always on the edge of chaos. Always on the brink of becoming that which no longer has shape or form or even any discernible meaning.

Stories, like life, are the hardest thing you will ever do and yet one of the few true things that can guarantee you satisfaction in the end.

And my son is an magnum opus. The thing I am most proud of and the thing that, very often painfully, encircles my soul like divine geas.

On this day, I stare at my screen and wonder what to write. I wonder how to the tell the story of my child, my son, of the protagonist who has slowly slipped beyond my pages and grown beyond my imagination. And yet who will never truly be separate from the story of my life, who will always be a greater part of my storyline, and who remains the greatest tale I have ever told.

And who tells his own story now.

 

8:22

With age comes wisdom. Edward had heard that somewhere. Well, he had the age thing down. He wasn’t so sure about the wisdom, though. He’d spent a lot of time screwing things up lately, mostly because he hadn’t stopped and thought it all through. “Patience, my dear rabbit, patience,” he murmured to himself.

And so Edward found himself beneath the same bush, in the same park for the fifth night in a row. All the evidence pointed to this place; unfortunately, it didn’t seem to point to any particular time. Hence the patience mantra that had been rolling through his head these last few days and nights.

He’d watch the world go by, the insects speeding by at a rate that made Indy cars seem glacier like, and the passage of clouds drifting purposelessly across the skies. Young children had screamed by and an old man and his old dog had ambled across his sight lines twice a day, every day.

He’d miss that old couple. When they strode out, they had no place to go and seemingly nothing better to do. But Edward knew better than to write them off as the flotsam drifting at the end of a long life. Every day, twice a day, the two set out, companions and confidants, and faced the world head on. Twice a day, every day, they discovered new things, breathed new air and took in the world changing about them.

These are the observers: observers who  see the world and are not fooled by the masks and layers of social detritus that accumulate around them. Ancient archaeologists whose very years allow them to brush off the strata of time and change, and see the universe for what it is and what it is evolving into.

It is a pity, Edward thought not for the first time, that life holds to one of two cycles. Either we grow old and more childlike, seeing the world once again though an infant’s eyes but unable to affect it, or we grow ancient and wise, clear-eyed at last but without an audience. Either way the fates swing us, there may be only a tiny, select few, like Edward himself, who remain able to poke and prod and hopefully produce enough momentum to effect even the smallest of change to the raging currents of time.

And as the shadows slowly moved across the grass in front of him, Edward glanced across that mottled swath of green and saw the old white-muzzled dog awkwardly look back across his shoulder, catch Edward’s eye and wink.

 

8:21

“Bugger!”

The beaver had been hanging about Gareth’s apartment for eight hours, and there was still no sign of him. This was getting dangerous for pretty much everyone involved. And time wasn’t on his side with old cottontail out there somewhere and a bunch of beaver-napping lunatics on the loose.

For the fortieth time the beaver strode over to the window and gazed warily out at the street. It was dark now and nothing seemed to be moving out there.

“Bugger!” he repeated.

At which point the heavy wooden apartment door flew into the hallway with a resounding crash, and two dark figures quickly followed, dropping what appeared to be a matte-black battering ram.

“There!” the beaver heard come from one of them, and then they headed straight for him.

“BUGGER!” the beaver grunted for a third and final time as he flung himself at glass in front of him. His sixty pounds shattered the brittle glass with ease, and moments later the beaver found himself scrambling out of the dogwood and paralleling the building toward the lane. Fourteen feet up, he could hear a muffled curse and then the sound of a someone dropping into the poor abused shrub that he had just exited.

Muttering imprecations to himself, the beaver hung a right into the short lane and scrambled up the back of the old pickup and onto its roof. From there he could just reach the top of the brick wall that surrounded the dumpsters and boxes of the neighbouring shop. Along the wall and onto the canopy overhanging the back entrance, and then a quick hop onto the top of the large illuminated sign that wrapped around the building.

“There’s the bastard!” The beaver quickly slid around the corner and jumped awkwardly onto the canvas roof of the 450 SL that was parked in front of the all-night convenience store. He rolled clumsily across the hood, leaving a few claw marks in the shiny black paint job, and landed mostly on his feet on the side of the empty street. He could hear his pursuers running around the building, but he figured he at least had some breathing space now.

Across the street the park began, but it was all fields and didn’t offer much protection. He could make a stand there or try to head up the street a hundred metres or so and make for the protection of the park’s dense shrubs. All things being equal, the beaver figured the two pursuers weren’t much of a challenge, but he had already experienced a bit too much of other people’s hospitality and it was time to make like a banana and split.

Besides, maybe he would find his lemon tree in there somewhere. The beaver headed down the street, sticking close to the shadows of the buildings, and slipped into the trees just as one of the dark figures rounded the corner.

 

Whaa?

Oh … Yeah … Whaa?

Oh … Oh …

Oh. Fuck. Yeah.

Well twist my nipple with a gold-plated tie clip and call me sister. Damn.

I guess that’s it then.

My bad.

 

8:17

The beaver took another sip of the ice water and contemplated the bowl of fruit. “It’s good to be king,” he quoted. “I really could get used to having minions.”

Unfortunately for his newfound ambition, it looked like they were going to arrive on time, and that meant he’d better not get used to the luxury. It really was odd how well Albert seem suited to play the servant role considering his upbringing. Or maybe not. I guess he’d have had lots of opportunity to see how the other half does things, the beaver mused.

Be that as it may, in another four hours the beaver would be off, Albert would be out of his hair and luxury naught but a pleasant memory.

The beaver sighed, an expression of his mood: half contentment and half regret. It was nice to have some time and someone to talk to. The beaver had realized pretty quickly that, once he wasn’t around, any of Albert’s stories would be dismissed by any adults he tried to tell. That had made the boy a pretty convenient sounding board, and perhaps he had talked a bit too freely. Still, without an actual beaver to be found, no one was going to give any credence to ridiculous tales of a fur-bearing stowaway.

And having someone one to talk to had helped. Plans that had remained stubbornly nebulous had solidified as he had tried to explain them to kid. Nothing like having to dumb it down to make it clearer, the beaver thought. I’ll have to do that more often.

And now, hours away from his destination, a pretty precise set of plans and contingencies in hand, the beaver actually had a moment or two to clear his head and relax.

“It’s good to be king.” He smiled. “Now all I need is a piss boy…”

 

8:15

The normal cruising height of an airship was less than 300 metres. This allowed the captain and crew to keep an eye out on the weather and adjust accordingly. For some reason the builders had thus dictated that the heat from the engines could be pumped along the gangways and into the passenger cabins at need. Excess heat was circulated among spaces between the gas cells rather than vented outside.

This meant two things. One, the crew of a modern airship worked in an environment hotter than the engine deck of a steamship. And two, beavers’ well-insulated coats made excess exertion something to be avoided.