an unfamiliar face

May 30, 2012

Dearest Clara,

I have boarded a bus bearing west—the only one that runs out of that town of ours: the E5. As I moved to sit, I wondered if the little old man behind the wheel recognized me. My dear, please understand: along this journey I am to take, I do not mean to resurface amongst the lives of any aside from myself, but I cannot deny those tiny grits of recognition sticking itself in the corner of my eye as I pass through this narrow history. I did not recognize the driver, nor have I recognized anyone since I first set foot toward the unfinished puzzle under the arbor beams of that empty church—the grit seems lodged not in certainty, but rather in a thousand blind grasps.

If I create my own history, what can I term delusion? “Perhaps succumbing to another’s history,” you once suggested.



My Dearest Clara,

I awoke this morning bathed in cold sweat and dusted with flakes of stone. It seems a fierce fever overtook me in the night, rendering me all but helpless. My damp form huddles weakly in the corner of our cabin, and a haze has fallen over my eyes. I long with each passing moment for a draught of water, though my supplies have already run dry. The blankets I had stowed in my traveler’s sack have all been thrown about my sodden skin, and though I pull them tight, a bitter chill still hounds my core.

In these aching hours, I find myself pouring through E.L. Wheatley’s tome further, hoping, perhaps in vain, for some manner of reprieve.

Following the tale of the man in the paper boat, there is a story of a boy and his dog, wound tightly in the space of a single page. Though they had always lingered close in life, the boy did not appear upset upon the untimely death of his faithful companion and only friend, who had been struck down by some strange pestilence in the eve of summer. On the contrary, his smile brightened with each passing day, and his jovial laughs rang clearly through the garden for all to hear.

It was only when his parents told him of his friends demise did the sun leave his face. He stared about his legs, horror filling his eyes. Upon their curious stares, the boy informed them that since that eve, his pet had found voice, and spoke to him in the garden while they played as a dear friend. It was only now, the boy said, that the dog was gone.


I have come to the conclusion that I must leave this place, though the mere notion of abandoning my search for Dana Elizabeth Allen burns hot and sick in the pick of my stomach. I wonder, dear Clara, if you could forgive me such a retreat, and if I may be able to reconcile the loss myself once I reach the base of this lonely hill. With a half day’s rest, I shall commence the first arduous steps down the path, leaving this spot of empty homes and paper swans in the hands of the slippery sea creatures. In its hands I lay the decision to drown alone, or resume eyes on the shore beyond parted waves.


Dear Clara,

I have stumbled upon a crack spread across the inside wall of the second to last cabin down the left. I would have passed over it—my heart pulls painfully to the west, and as soon as I have fully realized this place, I feel I must depart, lest become ensnared in the chaparral of past years—but the brazen, rusting nameplate over the arch of the door frame snared my trawling eyes. It read: “Allen”, but some rough hand had carved “Dana Elizabeth” into the margin. The marks looked ancient—I would gladly proclaim them older this hill, if I were to find some solace in self delusion.

Dana Elizabeth Allen. Could you be Dana Elizabeth Allen, or rather some other Dana Elizabeth Allen, name marked up in rust with by some rough hand with an old slippery knife. I could count all the Dana Elizabeth Allens in the world and still come up one short. But what of your crack, O’ house of Dana Elizabeth Allen? What of your sheltered pitter-patter behind hollow bricks?

I have begun to shift the stone of the bricks by hand and nail. Already, I find my blood smeared upon the stones in a crimson jigsaw, of muddled form and shadowed complexion. I cannot write you and slather a half cocked Mona Lisa smile upon granite canvas in congruence, and thus I leave the history in the hands of another, and make my own.

With traveler’s hammer clutched in bloodied fist, I lay down blow upon blow, widening the crack as with the line of my modern antiquities and threaded nows. I weave a history of my own, a timeline not of Mona Lisa and Easy Rider, but of missing puzzle pieces and all the other Dana Elizabeth Allens. With your voice at my side, I have turned this hollow wall into the jigsaw masterpiece, watched the chips fall away, leaving a missing piece shaped hole over the arch of the stone, like some rough handed sea creature has parted the stone before it, slippery voices whispering out.

I write you these final verses from beneath our arch. I cannot sleep through their fetid whispers.


Dearest Clara,

I have decided to stay up here one night longer—I feel as though its grasp on me is slipping, yet I fear cutting the umbilical cord too soon. There seems to be something out of place here, something in the wind that tugs on me unpleasantly, as though a great leech has found skin. I remember the girl Henry spoke of, Dana. There is a part of me that cannot help but wonder if her voice is what I hear brushing past my ears in the early morning hours, cradled in morning dew and crumpled letters, and that wonder has taken staunch alliance with my quest for the last piece of your puzzle, thrusting me out the door of our past cabin and about the faded grounds for answers amongst their hollow skulls.

Each untouched door upon unremembered home calls out in falsetto tones, each piercing deeper than the last. Still, I must hold myself back and go carefully. Perhaps under some stone, some discarded bed spring nestled in the corner, her stowed voice hides, waiting to unmask the secret of the paper swans.

I paused for the evening at the ninth cabin, halfway through my excavation, having happened upon soggy, dust mucked copy of a book of stories with the title page torn out. All that remains of identification is the author’s monicker, listed in small silver print as E.L. Wheatley in the corner of the spine. But what has captured my eye most about this book is the engraving of a swan on upon the cover. I have committed myself to its completion. Perhaps Dana’s fate lies within it, and in hers, my own.


The first story in the collection tells of man adrift at sea on a paper boat, remaining aloft only by his faith that he would reach the far shore safely. The slippery creatures of the sea came up from the water to meet him as he furthered his trek, parting the waves before him in line with the rush of their slippery flesh. And their slippery voices called up from the foaming tides, a slippery hum of some lost ethereal ballad, a sensuous siren’s song culling back the waves in line and calling for his eyes. But still, he stood strong, and the folds of his boat held firm and onward it sailed, the far shore slinking ever closer, cutting through the tide as the creatures sank back below the surface.

Undaunted, the slippery creatures of the sea plotted against the man in the paper boat. He had sailed straight through their dominion on an impossible boat, and they wished to claim his soul to the ocean as an eternal warning to all who would trespass as he had. And all the greater, they said to one another, if he should choose his fate.

Once more, the slippery creatures parted the waters before him with a cut of their slippery tails and rose to greet him. The greatest of them rose up around the boat’s sides, slathered in earth, as if land had come to greet him early, and they called out to him as a lover would, begging him to leave his paper boat and join them in forever bliss. But still, the man stilled his eyes toward shore, his paper boat held steady, and the creatures silenced their slippery voices and dove back into the sea.

Rising once more, the creatures turned their slippery voices to the heavens and begged for winds and rains to wash the man away, and they came. But still, through the stormy haze, the man knew he would reach the shore safely, and thus remained dry and afloat. The slippery creatures, enraged by the mans persistence, moved as one, parting the waves before him a final time, all the way to the sea’s floor. As the boat settled onto the dry ground, surrounded by a torrent of swirling waves, the creatures laughed, expecting the man’s strength fail him, and the boat slip away as the waves came crashing down, but to their fury, the man stayed his faith, his eyes steady on the far shore.

Seeing this great show, the sea carried the man and his paper boat up from the sea floor and landed him upon the dry shore, where he was greeted by friends and strangers alike with feasting and celebration.


an absense

May 26, 2012

My Dear Clara,

I find myself roosted at the feet of giants–great, ashen aspens rise up in every direction, grave markers of our faded history, and still I am unable to to bear anything but a grin. My love, I have returned to the cornerstone of touching flesh. As my fingers trail along its walls, all cracked and dry, I see a mural of hands clasped over piles of unsorted puzzle pieces. Here, I have found dwelling in the annals of our wretched, beautiful timeline To have considered passing by this landmark now seems a bitter crime, of which I can hardly forgive.

Something has taken hold of me here, on this spot of creaking cabins and humming aspens, something I do not quite recognize. It has wrought in me a certain passion, alien in nature, yet somehow familiar all the same. It as though it commands me, yet frees me from the fetters and knots upon my mind. My merest whims seem as though they have clamored a certain holiness, though I am not a religious man.

As I gazed upon the shadow blasted wall you thrust me against with such shameless abandon and fervor in that year gone by, the very same undignified glee gripped me with iron tendrils. I rushed down the mountainside, falling twice, splitting open the skin of my shins and knees. The pain fell silent within the moment of my resume, though, and thus I pushed on until I reached the town once more. Procuring food for the evening and a set of paints and inks I returned to the cabin. I felt myself fade into a brief oblivion as my hands began to move, and when I resurfaced out of the miasma of mind, I saw, splattered upon the wall in crisp detail, the piece of the puzzle we never could find. I had near forgotten we had left it incomplete on the floor of that church that day, lonely and gathering dust.

I cannot help but admire that missing puzzle piece, that little wave washing our paper boat astray.

All these untapped desires, these paintings and laughs, had sunken in teeth and wrapped me in their ribbons, though I fear the marionette strings are beginning to come loose, looser still even as I pen this letter.


first, unsteady steps

May 25, 2012

Dear Clara,

My journey is a long one to be, I know this to be true, and yet, I find myself pressed against the glass of another fragile fragment of our unpenned past. I found myself today up against the dusty window of that old shop where we first touched hands, pleading with fate to have delivered you unto me a mere day sooner, but it seems time has set an unpenned path of his own. That old shop, the one with the speckled mug painted in the doorway, seems to have died along with our leaving this place, as if we had stolen the life up through the cracks in the tiles. Perhaps we had. Perhaps with the tide, life is carried from the grasp of one into the arms of another.

It was strange, laying eyes on that decaying old shop, like looking upon the skeleton of ship beached long ago. What was so alive, now so still. I am now able to see why so many cling to the idea of the soul—without life, it all seems so hollow and cavernous. I could call songs of love into its walls and be returned only my own words, whispered into my ear in some foreign key. I would like to imagine that you would want to see it once more, but I cannot bear the pen steady enough to draft it just now. My hand shakes with the thought of my own husk lying alone, life slipping away like grains of sand between sapped fingers.

I recall back to that day we spent under the arbor beams of that church, its boards asleep beneath our feet. It seemed to have been left for us, you claimed as the doors were flung wide with a gust of salty island air. Lying outstretched in the aisle between the silent pews, we listened to the spring grasses rustle, the faint whistle of the caves along the shore exhaling. I see you now, clear as then, perhaps clearer, pour the stream of puzzle pieces from the bag you kept at your side, them scattering on the floor. And that we harmonized them under the eye of the orange sun, it cradles me, and I am lost in a sweep of nostalgia in this moment now.

The people here do not recognize me yet. I would claim that their memories had withered away in under the breath of the ages, but in the mirror’s frame, even I do not know those eyes. I have changed. As I sat under the overhang on the porch of the inn outside town as the sun sank below the yellow hills beyond, I nursed a glass of stale tea as one of them approached me and struck up conversation. I admit, having receded primarily into silence since I departed from you, I have all but forgotten how to speak with any but my own dulcet head tones, but this man, grinning with weary cheeks and wiping his hands on faded factory garb, saw within me the spirit of listening, and so hushed me before I sputtered myself dry. I wished upon him in silent voice the blessings of a man far greater and wiser, though in that moment, I could think of none of matched endowment.

He was a man called Henry, his father’s and his mother’s father’s name. He told me no more of himself, and I did not ask. The question itself seemed to whisper with grasping against my yet unchallenged messenger of fate. It was as if a prophet had joined me upon the aging planks of that porch, speaking of futures not my own. My purpose was only to bear witness and draw out of myself for those mere minutes.

Woven around me was the story of a girl called by the name of Dana, who had disappeared into the winding hills that bear upon our tiny little town and had not returned. She was the daughter of the sheriff, untainted, untroubled, but gone all the same. They had searched weeks for her, Henry told me in hushed tones in respect for the unfound, but found naught but a folded paper swan nestled upon the water pump of the now abandoned cabin grounds, bearing her name penned in a strange hand.

I am wracked with the thirst to see this place again, as though I had never glimpsed their lush trees and violet streams on our solitary stay up there, when their walls still held life. There is a certain purpose within its mystery, a purpose I cannot help but become intoxicated by, starved regular human presence for so long. As I make my travels of our life these coming weeks, I welcome this branching path. Perhaps I will drink again the warmth of us, soul on soul huddled within those walls of log.