Variation on a Theme: The Secret Garden
I once walked by the shore in search of something I knew not
I walked endlessly
I hoped someone will step before me out of the darkness
I wished I would be rescued out of my abyssal heart's silence
Never for a moment did It occur to me
That stranger could be me
I walked endlessly
I hoped someone will step before me out of the darkness
I wished I would be rescued out of my abyssal heart's silence
Never for a moment did It occur to me
That stranger could be me
The past two days have been absolutely amazing, completely making up for the idiotic comment Jones made to me at the beginning of the week (more on that later). My week began on with a off-beat rhythm as I interviewed and rejected more candidates to be gf.
I'd completely given up hope in that department. (Still have, actually). I'm packing. Well, that's not entirely true. I should be packing. Instead, I'm writing. I'm moving out of my apartment. That's right. I've given up on the roommate idea. I can't seem to find a suitable person. But that's okay. I've found something infinitely better. And it's not a smaller apartment.
I know what you're thinking. Jones has stopped being an idiot and asked me to move in with her. She has professed her undying love for me, realized the error of her ways and told me that she can't possibly live without me. She has stopped behaving like a condescending idiot and treats me like a person with some iota of intelligence and common sense. No. I said NO. None of those things have happened. Although they may happen in the future. And Jones has apologized nicely. (I said I would tell you what happened, and I will, just not in this diary.) In fact, if you think that anyone has professed undying love for me and asked me to move in with them, you would be completely wrong.
Let me tell you this:
Some months ago, I discovered a secret garden. Of sorts. I had a class the semester before last on the other side of the campus and someone mentioned a nearly forgotten parking lot over there where no one ever parked, thus leaving me free to park far closer to the building than I would have thought possible. I was in a hurry the first day, I didn't see it. However, on the way home from the following class, I suddenly came across a fortress of magnificence. On my left, causing me to slow slightly to take it in, was a tall white picket fence. I say tall because it was about my height, 5 & 1/2 feet. I think this is a feature unusual to white picket fences. And accenting these wooden bars, flowed scarlet roses that licked and suckled their way along the prim white fence, disturbing its innocence with their wanton frenzy of growth. These roses grew to such multitudes that it was impossible to see anything but a tall, creamy, Victorian spire off to the left (as I approached) and a humble square sign that read "Garden Valley Nursery".
At the time, I had places to go and people to see, but I vowed that I would visit the nursery again, and see if the roses were as untamed on the other side of the fence as they appeared. I never did. I was always coming or going, not stopping.
Yesterday, however, yesterday. Yesterday, out of a sense of despair and a case of what can only be called the out and out blues, I went for a drive. I drove to school and dropped off the graded papers, happily avoiding all contact with Jones, and just kept going. Until I almost, once again passed up Garden Valley, but this time didn't.
This is why I believe in Fate, i.e A Universal Power:
When I parked my car in the small paved lot next to the large Victorian house, and wandered down a flower accented walkway on the left, I found myself staring into the face of an angel. Literally. There, where the path took a small circular detour, was a white painted sculpture made of thick wire ropes. Have you ever seen Alexander Calder's mobiles? Looking at this woman, wings flowing down in soft folds from her back, I was reminded of Calder's Medusa, where every angle brings new meaning to the woman. One side vixen, one side Madonna.
I was so mesmerized, I didn't hear the approaching footsteps or realize my awe had an audience. I stepped closer to the figure and moved to one side, watching closely the way the wires curved to shape her face, her lips, her shoulders. She was taller than me, and I'm sure more majestic, but her sloped shoulders gave her a humble air. I moved in closer, staring at the slant of her eyes.
"You can touch it, if you'd like." A woman's voice, behind me. I jumped.
"What is this called?" I asked, still looking at the form before me, contemplating whether or not I should touch those sweeping wings.
"I call it Original Sin."
Startled, I looked at the woman. She was dressed in paint stained overalls and had her hair pulled back into a long, shaggy braid. There were goggles on her head.
"Why?" I asked. It certainly wasn't a title that would have occurred to me.
"There's nothing like a beautiful white angel, is there, to remind a person of how carnal and imperfect they are. Are you looking for something specific? My usual customers take the other path. (Note: I hadn't seen another path) It leads down towards the gardens. This goes to my workshop."
"I-" I hesitated, not wanting to admit my whim, yet unable to come up with a better excuse. "I have no idea, really." I said, a sheepish grin lighting up my face. "To be honest, I just liked the look of the place. I've driven past here a hundred times, wanting to know what was inside and today I just decided I'd find out."
"Well, that's as good a reason as any. Would you like to see my shop? You seem to have appreciation for my work. Let me show you the piece I'm working on right now." She cocked her head towards some place further on down the path and tramped forward, leaving me to follow.
I followed the woman. Her name, as it turns out, is Angelica. She feels that her parents were ridiculous to name her that, as she is so obviously not a person whom others can comfortably call Angelica, or Angel, or Angie. She goes by a shortened version of her middle name, Josephine (another name she wasn't entirely thrilled with either), and asked me to call her Jo. So I did, and do.
Her workshop is a medium sized warehouse, about 200 square feet. It is filled with every bit of junk and scrap metal and many, many long metal rods and cans of paint and sculptures. The sculptures are lined up against the wall, some of them are tag-marked with the names and numbers of buyers. Most of them don't have tags. I don't know why. They are phenomenal. Each of them is as good as Original Sin; some of them are better.
"They don't pay the bills," Jo told me, "They pay for the supplies, but I have the nursery so I can support my habit."
I laughed. "You make it sound like an addiction."
"It is, really. Isn't there something in your life that just consumes you so much that to even contemplate living without it makes you want to hit something?"
I thought about it for a minute. Nothing came to mind.
"Not really. I'm assuming women don't count?"
"Well, they have their uses, but I'm talking about your soul here. Like food for your soul."
"Nope. I guess I'm not an artist."
"Well, it doesn't have to be art, but that's beside the point. My nursery has two-fold benefits: it keeps a roof over my head (a nice one, I was thinking) and gives me a chance to display my garden art."
"It's certainly worth displaying," I said, pointing to a piece featuring a man and woman in passionate embrace,” They’re sort of like a mix between Calder and Rodin."
"I never thought of it like that," she said, "but you could be right. Who knows?"
"Thanks for showing me around your shop," I said as we walked out of it and past the other side of the house.
Suddenly I stopped. There was a guest house in front of me: a small, cream colored cottage with a large bay window in the front.
"That," I said,” is adorable."
"Yes, it's the guest house. It's completely empty, except for a few boxes and knicknacks I didn't know what to do with."
"Have you ever thought about renting it?" I asked, drooling. "You could make some extra cash."
"No. I mean, I did, but finding a good tenant would be so hard," she said.
"How about me?"
Several days and a lot of smooth talking later, and now I am close to living at my secret garden. I'm almost thankful that Becca ran out on me. The guest house has HARDWOOD FLOORS! And the cutest little kitchen and breakfast nook. And an old, clawfoot bathtub. And a bedroom window that looks right out onto the gardens. I think I'm in love.
I'd completely given up hope in that department. (Still have, actually). I'm packing. Well, that's not entirely true. I should be packing. Instead, I'm writing. I'm moving out of my apartment. That's right. I've given up on the roommate idea. I can't seem to find a suitable person. But that's okay. I've found something infinitely better. And it's not a smaller apartment.
I know what you're thinking. Jones has stopped being an idiot and asked me to move in with her. She has professed her undying love for me, realized the error of her ways and told me that she can't possibly live without me. She has stopped behaving like a condescending idiot and treats me like a person with some iota of intelligence and common sense. No. I said NO. None of those things have happened. Although they may happen in the future. And Jones has apologized nicely. (I said I would tell you what happened, and I will, just not in this diary.) In fact, if you think that anyone has professed undying love for me and asked me to move in with them, you would be completely wrong.
Let me tell you this:
Some months ago, I discovered a secret garden. Of sorts. I had a class the semester before last on the other side of the campus and someone mentioned a nearly forgotten parking lot over there where no one ever parked, thus leaving me free to park far closer to the building than I would have thought possible. I was in a hurry the first day, I didn't see it. However, on the way home from the following class, I suddenly came across a fortress of magnificence. On my left, causing me to slow slightly to take it in, was a tall white picket fence. I say tall because it was about my height, 5 & 1/2 feet. I think this is a feature unusual to white picket fences. And accenting these wooden bars, flowed scarlet roses that licked and suckled their way along the prim white fence, disturbing its innocence with their wanton frenzy of growth. These roses grew to such multitudes that it was impossible to see anything but a tall, creamy, Victorian spire off to the left (as I approached) and a humble square sign that read "Garden Valley Nursery".
At the time, I had places to go and people to see, but I vowed that I would visit the nursery again, and see if the roses were as untamed on the other side of the fence as they appeared. I never did. I was always coming or going, not stopping.
Yesterday, however, yesterday. Yesterday, out of a sense of despair and a case of what can only be called the out and out blues, I went for a drive. I drove to school and dropped off the graded papers, happily avoiding all contact with Jones, and just kept going. Until I almost, once again passed up Garden Valley, but this time didn't.
This is why I believe in Fate, i.e A Universal Power:
When I parked my car in the small paved lot next to the large Victorian house, and wandered down a flower accented walkway on the left, I found myself staring into the face of an angel. Literally. There, where the path took a small circular detour, was a white painted sculpture made of thick wire ropes. Have you ever seen Alexander Calder's mobiles? Looking at this woman, wings flowing down in soft folds from her back, I was reminded of Calder's Medusa, where every angle brings new meaning to the woman. One side vixen, one side Madonna.
I was so mesmerized, I didn't hear the approaching footsteps or realize my awe had an audience. I stepped closer to the figure and moved to one side, watching closely the way the wires curved to shape her face, her lips, her shoulders. She was taller than me, and I'm sure more majestic, but her sloped shoulders gave her a humble air. I moved in closer, staring at the slant of her eyes.
"You can touch it, if you'd like." A woman's voice, behind me. I jumped.
"What is this called?" I asked, still looking at the form before me, contemplating whether or not I should touch those sweeping wings.
"I call it Original Sin."
Startled, I looked at the woman. She was dressed in paint stained overalls and had her hair pulled back into a long, shaggy braid. There were goggles on her head.
"Why?" I asked. It certainly wasn't a title that would have occurred to me.
"There's nothing like a beautiful white angel, is there, to remind a person of how carnal and imperfect they are. Are you looking for something specific? My usual customers take the other path. (Note: I hadn't seen another path) It leads down towards the gardens. This goes to my workshop."
"I-" I hesitated, not wanting to admit my whim, yet unable to come up with a better excuse. "I have no idea, really." I said, a sheepish grin lighting up my face. "To be honest, I just liked the look of the place. I've driven past here a hundred times, wanting to know what was inside and today I just decided I'd find out."
"Well, that's as good a reason as any. Would you like to see my shop? You seem to have appreciation for my work. Let me show you the piece I'm working on right now." She cocked her head towards some place further on down the path and tramped forward, leaving me to follow.
I followed the woman. Her name, as it turns out, is Angelica. She feels that her parents were ridiculous to name her that, as she is so obviously not a person whom others can comfortably call Angelica, or Angel, or Angie. She goes by a shortened version of her middle name, Josephine (another name she wasn't entirely thrilled with either), and asked me to call her Jo. So I did, and do.
Her workshop is a medium sized warehouse, about 200 square feet. It is filled with every bit of junk and scrap metal and many, many long metal rods and cans of paint and sculptures. The sculptures are lined up against the wall, some of them are tag-marked with the names and numbers of buyers. Most of them don't have tags. I don't know why. They are phenomenal. Each of them is as good as Original Sin; some of them are better.
"They don't pay the bills," Jo told me, "They pay for the supplies, but I have the nursery so I can support my habit."
I laughed. "You make it sound like an addiction."
"It is, really. Isn't there something in your life that just consumes you so much that to even contemplate living without it makes you want to hit something?"
I thought about it for a minute. Nothing came to mind.
"Not really. I'm assuming women don't count?"
"Well, they have their uses, but I'm talking about your soul here. Like food for your soul."
"Nope. I guess I'm not an artist."
"Well, it doesn't have to be art, but that's beside the point. My nursery has two-fold benefits: it keeps a roof over my head (a nice one, I was thinking) and gives me a chance to display my garden art."
"It's certainly worth displaying," I said, pointing to a piece featuring a man and woman in passionate embrace,” They’re sort of like a mix between Calder and Rodin."
"I never thought of it like that," she said, "but you could be right. Who knows?"
"Thanks for showing me around your shop," I said as we walked out of it and past the other side of the house.
Suddenly I stopped. There was a guest house in front of me: a small, cream colored cottage with a large bay window in the front.
"That," I said,” is adorable."
"Yes, it's the guest house. It's completely empty, except for a few boxes and knicknacks I didn't know what to do with."
"Have you ever thought about renting it?" I asked, drooling. "You could make some extra cash."
"No. I mean, I did, but finding a good tenant would be so hard," she said.
"How about me?"
Several days and a lot of smooth talking later, and now I am close to living at my secret garden. I'm almost thankful that Becca ran out on me. The guest house has HARDWOOD FLOORS! And the cutest little kitchen and breakfast nook. And an old, clawfoot bathtub. And a bedroom window that looks right out onto the gardens. I think I'm in love.
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