lost at sea...
Every year, in early December, he comes here. South from London to Portsmouth, then on to Fishbourne via ferry, then footpaths to Niton. Over the years the changes on the island haven't moved him. More shops, more tourists, more concerts and young people. In December, however, it's quieter than in the summer, and this fits his mood.
When these trips first began, he was a much younger man. Now, age and illness have taken their toll. Unsure of how many more times he'll be able to make this trip, he continues on through the cold winter mist and rain. He must do this, he cannot forget to do this. This is all that he has left.
At the cliff overlooking the sea, St. Catherin's behind him, the rain is even harder. He can hear the storm surf crashing below as he looks out into the gray as far as he can, searching, probing. He sits down, cross-legged on the ground, as he's done every year, rain or shine, leaning back on his backpack.
He waits, but, like so many years before, he ship never arrives. That fishing ship, lost so many years before, still lost.
"I miss you son." he says, as he's done every year. He tells his lost son all about the past year, like so many times before. His only son was a fisherman, like him, like his father before him, and his grandfather before him. But the sea took him, and the sea never gives up the lost.
Rising, he turns away from the sea, and walks back up to Niton, and goes to the same pub he has for years. The old men great him as he enters, knowing his story already they ask no questions. They buy him a drink, and gather around to talk of times gone by.Labels: character study
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
existential crisis...
He wakes at 5am, and washes his face and hands in a ritualistic manner. Donning his work clothes, and walking out of the house every day as he does, and down to the little shop on the corner has become his daily religion. People aren't surprised at his punctuality, or his regularity, and everybody knows his shaggy gray head, his mackintosh , and mud sodden wellies, when he walks down the foggy, early morning treeless village lane. He is as regular as the spring rain, as dependable as the winter winds, and as ever present as the moist sea air.
He greets his customers warmly throughout the day, and thinks of them like family as he mends their shoes. He is a cobbler, by trade. He takes the tired and the weather worn, and repairs it in order to give it new life. Shaping and molding and cutting new leather with his torn and wrinkled fingers all day long, he sings. He hums church hymns in a quiet and tuneless voice, and talks to God as his fingers blacken with polish throughout the day. He works for hours, in silence, alone, and has done for three decades.
When the day's light is struggling against the fog as it's angle deepens, he sorts his tools, cleaning them one by one. He lines up tomorrow's work, as lovingly as he would were he putting a child into a warm bed. Putting out the light of the one oil lamp by which he's worked all day long, he walks out of his shop, neglecting to lock the door. The glow of the sun is almost gone as he walks out and disappears in the mist.
When he walks into his tiny home, near the cliffs of the western coast, there is a warm but simple meal awaiting him. A young girl, his youngest daughter, has prepared it, and has been expecting him at this exact hour, as she has since taking over the duties of feeding her father four years prior. Her mother gone, she has become her father's house maid.
After the simple meal, and some quiet and simple conversation about the day and the village, he walks to the kitchen, and begins the task of washing the black grime from his wrinkled hands. He will not do his next task without clean hands. After reducing the black grime in his hands to the tiny, unreachable wrinkles in his caloused fingers, he retires to the hearth, where he sits by the warm peat glow of the fire and lights a single lamp by his worn and threadbare high backed chair. From under the table, he pulls a leather bound Bible. The leather of the Bible mimiks the leather of his hands. Worn and used. He reads.
He exists. Every day. He resists the urge to change to something else, the desires of the world to gain more, drive faster, earn bigger. He lives. He moves through his life with such a sense of duty and contentment that it baffles my mind. How can a man find such contentment, in the midst of such mundanity? Perhaps, because it is real. He is real. He simply is what he is, and desires nothing more. Desire is the downfall of mankind, some say. This man has no desire but to be what he is, right now. He exists, he is, his existence is for others. Perhaps that's more important than desire?
This song, Shades of Blue, by Hans Christian (track 3 on the album "Surrender"), made me feel real today. Get it here: Magnatune.Labels: character study
