Alright, well here's my paper for Emergent Lit. I hope you all like it. I actually haven't even handed it in yet, so you might read it before Dr. Sexson. P.S. It's 10 pages.
Prelude:
There are moments in our life where we revel in the grandeur of existence. We listen to the waves roll onto the shore and can truly appreciate being there at that moment. These moments are different than our everyday because of how they make us feel. It’s that swell in our chest when we breath in fall’s harvest or that feeling of minuteness when out looking the Pacific Ocean. These moments are filled with a divine presence. Divinity exists in the remote corners of our lives. It can’t be seen or touched; it’s just there to be felt. When we least expect it, we turn a corner and find ourselves witnessing the most beautiful sunset we swear we’ve ever seen.
Demilune:
A half crest moon is always part of its full counterpart. It’s only the part of the full moon being illuminated that takes hold of the sky and blinds its viewers from the moon’s remainder. That half crest sliver that shines on us is only a small part of a mostly black whole.
A Dividing and Indifferent Blue
“only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine”
-Joseph Conrad in Heart of Darkness
The Moon
It was eight in the morning and it was cloudy. She normally woke up around eight, but this particular morning, she opened her eyes and seeing the clouds and remembering it was Sunday morning, she hit the snooze and fell back to sleep. It wasn’t until ten that Mrs. Demilune picked herself out of bed, content with wakening to the birds. While brushing her teeth she noticed a change in her attitude. She felt lighter this morning, not in the way of pounds, she caught herself arguing with her thoughts, but lighter in the weight of responsibility. Today, on this Sunday, she was absent of responsibility.
After her morning cleansing, which usually took ten to fifteen minutes, she walked to the kitchen to make some toast and look at her daily calendar. Glancing in the direction of the calendar, she thought of the day she had purchased it. In the store she saw dog calendars, cat calendars, and calendars with good looking people dressing in their skin. This certain calendar appealed to her in a way which she couldn’t understand. She didn’t own or ride a bicycle, but she chose the calendar with the bright colored pictures of different types of bicycles. Today, the picture was of a green bicycle. Parked on a rocky shore, its only flare was a tiny bell attached to the handle bar. Coming back to reality, she recognized the difference that today’s calendar had. It was blank. There was nothing. It was void of black ink. Taking a deep breath, she began to make her breakfast.
She had decided to walk to the marketplace. It was Sunday, and even though there weren’t as many venders as Friday or Saturday, her purpose was mainly to exercise. Walking with one hand free, her right hand held a wicker basket. Turning a corner, Mrs. Demilune stopped. It wasn’t for the beautiful view, but the recognition of an old friend, an old, annoying friend. Charles Ryerson came striding over, grinning as if he just conquered Pandora. “Mrs. Demilune, how are you? It has been too long,” Charles beamed. Mrs. Demilune smiled, “It has, but unfortunately I’m on my way to do an errand.” “She wasn’t lying exactly,” she thought. “I could come with,” said Charles, “let me hold your basket.” “No, no,” Mrs. Demilune answered, “I prefer to go alone. Thank you, however.” She smiled to Charles then walked away. When she looked over her shoulder she saw Charles tuning away, head down and hands in his pockets. Inside she felt awful, she knew that what she did was unkind. Looking forwards and up the street, her attention strayed.
A horse, not just a horse for that description would an insult. It was the most beautiful animal she had ever seen. It was a coffee bean brown with pure white feet and a white diamond, perfectly shaped, on its forehead. The owner of the horse, a pudgy and uncommonly jolly man, noticed her admiration. “Would you like to pet him?” he inquired. Calling her attention from the horse, she looked slightly startled by the man’s voice. “Yes, please,” Mrs. Demilune answered. “What is his name?” she asked while she started to pet the horse’s mane. “Well,” said the jolly man, “I call him Fatty Lumpkins.” Mrs. Demilune laughed at the absurdity, “that is spectacular.” The horse, seeming to understand, made a half snorting and half laughing noise. “I suppose I must be going,” responded Mrs. Demilune. “It was nice to meet you Fatty, and you Mr….?” “Bombadil, you can call me Mr. Bombadil.” “Yes, well it was nice to meet you both.” Mrs. Demilune walked on towards the marketplace with the addition of a wide smile that held itself on the brink of laughter. The wind, blowing against her back, brought with it the faint sound of Mr. Bombadil’s voice, “he knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless”(J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring). Confused, Mrs. Demilune kept walking.
Once at the marketplace, Mrs. Demilune was disappointed at the selection. She was hoping to find a unique vase or jewelry of some sort, but she didn’t see anything remotely interesting. One booth had, at one point, been selling crystal glass wear, but was packed and ready to leave. She wished she hadn’t woken up so late. Another booth simply held a collection of books, all of which were children’s stores. Across the market, there were two booths left that she had yet to look upon. The first, which was also packing as she arrived, only held Taro cards. The card on top of the deck was The Wheel of Fortune. Three women, standing behind the booth, stopped packing and looked up at Mrs. Demilune. “She recognizes it,” said the first woman. Mrs. Demilune became startled by the woman’s voice and strange appearance. “You’re scarring the poor girl,” said the second woman. These words held no comfort for Mrs. Demilune. The second woman seemed just as odd and eerie. “Do you know what this card means?” asked the third woman. Mrs. Demilune didn’t know how to answer. Finally, she responded with, “Only a little, I know that it means a new beginning.” “Yes,” hissed the first woman. “Look closer and we will give you a reading.” “No, thank you,” said Mrs. Demilune, “I really shouldn’t.” “Oh, but you must,” said the second woman. Something in the woman’s reply made Mrs. Demilune intrigued. “Alright, I will stay for a reading, but I am in a hurry.” “We have two more cards for you to see, then you can be on your way,” said the second woman. The three women smiled in their eerie way and the first woman flipped over Mrs. Demilune’s second card. It was The Hanged Man. Mrs. Demilune’s look was stricken. The first woman spoke, “This means rebirth. You must sacrifice in order to obtain your new beginning.” The third woman flipped the third card. It was The Moon. Mrs. Demilune didn’t seem so startled by this card, she was mainly relieved that she didn’t receive a card of death. “You have some imagination,” said the third woman. “This card is for those who live in a world of dreams and illusions.” Slightly offended, but more confused, Mrs. Demilune left the three women and walked to the last remaining booth in the marketplace.
The last vender was an old man with grey hair and glasses that hung on his abnormally large nose. He sold flowers of every kind and he introduced himself as Mr. Galeas. Mrs. Demilune held out her hand to shake his and replied, “I am Anna-Livia Demilune. You have a lovely assortment of flowers.” “Thank you,” said Mr. Galeas. “I appreciate anyone who finds divinity in the ‘balms or beauty of the earth’”(Wallace Stevens, Sunday Morning). “Divinity,” Anna-Livia questioned. “Why, do you speak of divinity?” Mr. Galeas shuffled over to the flowers and plucked a few petals. “Don’t you believe that divinity can be seen in nature? If you believe that God made the Earth, then it seems appropriate for him to incorporate his presence in His creation.” Mrs. Demilune looked thoughtful. She didn’t want to admit her inability to grasp what Mr. Galeas was saying, so she asked a question. “If you believe that divinity is in God’s creation, Mr. Galeas, then you also believe that divinity is in humanity as well?” Mr. Galeas smiled and nodded his head. Ana-Livia looked again at the flowers and caught site of something that incaptivated her attention. Her face went from joyful to thoughtful and Mr. Galeas did not miss the change in her expression. “What seest thou?” he asked. “Lilies,” said Anna-Livia. “Lilies were my father’s favorite and seeing them made me remember him.” Mr. Galeas looked sympathetic and then spoke, “To remember someone in good light is the sincerest form of flattery. By remembering them is to bring them back to this place, right now. Through your thoughts, they are ever present.” “Is it wrong to wish him here in the flesh?” asked Anna-Livia. “Wrong, no, it’s not wrong, but death, ‘death is the mother of beauty’ (Wallace Stevens Sunday Morning). Take these flowers. Maybe, they will find their way to your father.” As Anna-Livia walked home, she reflected on her encounter with Mr. Galeas. It seemed strange to her that she had experienced such a remarkable conversation with a stranger. “Although,” she thought, “he did not seem like a stranger.” She again, for the third time that day, felt confused.
After walking a ways Anna-Livia finally looked up from her lilies. She did not recognize the street she had come to. This was not any street that led to her home. Looking around her, she realized that the church graveyard was only a block away. “It must have been the subconscious need to visit my father,” she thought. She then realized that this was exactly where she needed to be. Walking up to the graveyard, she approached the rot-iron gate. She had never paid much attention to this gate, but for years she could remember walking through and out of its opening. However many countless times she had been at this very spot, she had never paid any attention. She laughed to herself, “If I had a calendar of gates,” she thought, “I wouldn’t have been able to pick this one from the other eleven.” Approaching the grave, she felt her chest clench and her face pucker. “I’m not going to cry,” she said. Turning from the gravestone, the wind hit her face and the fresh Sunday air loosened the ties in her chest. Feeling revived, she turned back to the grave and smiled at her father.
The Hangman
The wind, suddenly picking up in strength, discovered a new found chill that made her feel, too, like a cold stone. Anna-Livia knelt down and found herself face to face with her father. She placed the lilies on the green grass before her father’s grave. Looking upon the grave stone she read the chiseled words which her father had requested,
“They shall know well the heavenly fellowshipOf men that perish and of summer morn.And whence they came and whither they shall goThe dew upon their feel shall manifest.”
She had read the poem by Wallace Stevens, but never had its words resonated with her such as they did now. Standing up, she looked out onto the horizon. The day was still cloudy and she could just see the ocean waves crashing against the shore in the distance. The ocean’s presence made her recall the day her father and her went to the beach and played in the waves. As a family, they went to the beach often. When she grew older it became routine that her father and her took laps in the sea for exercise. Anna-Livia felt the need to, once again, visit the ocean. She turned away and walked out of the graveyard. As she did, she made sure to take notice of every detail in the rot-iron gate.
Stopping by her home, Anna-Livia put on her suit and grabbed a beach towel. The beach wasn’t far from her house, “maybe a twenty minute drive,” she thought. By the time she reached to ocean, the clouds had become more prevalent. The sky did not look promising, but she was dedicated. “Alone at last along the ocean,” she thought. Running head on into the ocean she jumped and dove over the first wave. A rush of cold washed through her body. It was still spring and the ocean did not have the chance to warm itself in the sun that day. Anna-Livia paddled faster and ducked under the second wave. She remembered the third wave being the worst. As she raised her head out of the water, the salt water stung her eyes. It was just in time that she wiped her eyes and saw the third wave start to crash. She again dove under and felt relieved as she came back up for air. However, today wasn’t like the warm summer days she had spent with her dad at the beach. It was windy and the sea was restless. She felt a forth wave hit her and this time she did not get a chance to dive under. Anna-Livia was at the mercy of the ocean. She rolled with the wave struggling to find the surface. When she came up for air, she realized it had started raining. A fifth wave hit her and again she struggled. This wave held her under longer and it was awhile before she found herself gasping for air. She wondered why she had chosen to go swimming and kicked herself for being so stupid. The realization of death crept into her thoughts and she found herself, surprisingly, calm. “After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure,” she thought (J.K. Rowling Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone). Anna-Livia released herself and stopped struggling. She let the sixth wave incaptivate her.
She “sat as silent as a stone,
We knew, though she’d not said a word,
That even the best of love must die,
And had been savagely undone
Were it not that Love upon the cry
Of a most ridiculous little bird
Tore from the clouds his marvelous moon.” (W.B. Yeats A Memory of Youth)
When Anna-Livia came to the surface once more, she found herself closer to the shore. It seemed to be in reach. The undercurrent had lessened in strength and she was able to weakly swim towards the beach. With a few more strokes she felt the sand under her feet. Crawling on shore, Anna-Livia plopped down onto the dry sand and coughed up the remainder of the salt water that had caught in her throat.
The Wheel of Fortune
Thankful to be alive, Anna-Livia sat on her couch at home cuddled up in her favorite sweatshirt and wrapped in a flannel blanket. The radio and the television stayed off. She sat in silence and in darkness looking out the window. It was nighttime and the moon illuminated the, now, clear sky. As she stared at the moon she thought of how it was a crescent moon. How it is the smallest of the moon’s wane, but, to her, it seemed to lighten her whole home. Somehow, this reminded her of her earlier experience. “The ocean will never cease to exist,” she thought. “’People come—they stay for awhile, they flourish, they build—and they go. It is their way. But’ oceans will ‘remain’” (Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows). Sitting in her home, on a Sunday night, Anna-Livia no longer felt confused. She only felt the need for a pen and paper in order to write down the following story.
