I'm sorry if I was flippant."
"Flippant? I don't think they've invented a word to describe how you were. ‘Antagonizing’ comes close."
"Was I so bad?" Come to think of it, his eyes weren't pure chocolate; there were some bronze flecks in there.
Little smile. "Nah, you were perfect. I have to admit it was funny."
"Can you walk?"
"You kicking me out?"
"No.” Because his staying wasn’t in the least a dangerously appealing idea. “Just asking."
"Yes, you are. I can tell." His tone said he could tell a lot of things, maybe some things I wasn’t telling myself yet.
A couple of different replies jockeyed for position, but I reminded myself about snapping out of it. The moral she-was-there-first ground was definitely the easier path. “Okay, a little, yeah, I am kicking you out. I need to work on my drawings a little, before dinner."
"You know what? I think you owe me for laughing at me so much. Tell me what this big dyed-cloth project is all about." He didn’t act like a man about to vacate the premises.
I shook my head. "It's not that easy, sorry. I have to work it out more myself."
"Come on, maybe talking about it will help."
Why did guys keep trying to force me to discuss my vision? I had a process that worked best in isolation. “Nope."
"Right." He stood up, gimpily. Was he actually offended? "See ya at dinner, then."
And off he limped. Through the studio windows, I watched him find the right path to his cabin, stopping to rip the offending branch off the tree. He took it with him.
The sun shone through the indigo cloth like sea glass in a tide pool. Instead of taking the sketchpad, I started to speak to the view about the project. Talking to yourself isn't supposed to be a good sign, but when you're as alone as I am, it comes naturally.
"Okay, Chains is about love, it's about Pappa and Gran and how the parts, the elements, the links in their lives all came together. Even though they both started in Ireland, he was a man on his own deliberately coming here from Liverpool, and she was a child in the middle of a family that didn’t mean to wash up in Houston. But they went from being two to being one and from being one to being a family. The three children, and Zach and I, Ireland and Texas and the Atlantic between them." I was pacing, I was gesticulating, I was mumbling. Must have been quite a sight.
"It's about them, about how they're the consummate love story, about how they completed each other and made a new life—not just Dermot and Bernadette and Matthew, but a reality of life, a lifestyle, together. Ups and downs, babies lost and stories told and learning to grow crops and picnics by the creek and sleeping on the train to their honeymoon. So, it's a chain, there will be links. A link for me, a link for Matthew, a link for Pad Maguire. Broken links for Berneen and Albert. Broken links for Pappa's family back home. A big link, central, holding them both—or two links, intertwined? Sketch it. I don't know. So, each link is a story, each link is the thing itself but in relation to Pappa and Gran, but there needs to be a consistent style to them all. More traditional? No, yes?" I stopped a moment. "Not traditional. New. They left the old country, moved to a new land, found a new life together. So, new style."
Now I had to stop pacing, had to go sketch. Barely made it to dinner—Caleb had changed into shorts—took down the cloth and fell exhausted into bed, too wiped to even brush my teeth.
Next morning, I was up early what would become the base for the quit top, and doe was back in the clearing working the salt lick. I suspected she’d eaten the corn the prior evening. When she started and ran off towards the stream, I wasn’t surprised to see Caleb emerge from the path, putting a lens cap on his telephoto attachment. I waved.
“Hungry?” he asked when I came to the porch to let him in.
“No. Give me a sec and I’ll grab my shoes.”
“Well, I got some good shots before you scared
"Flippant? I don't think they've invented a word to describe how you were. ‘Antagonizing’ comes close."
"Was I so bad?" Come to think of it, his eyes weren't pure chocolate; there were some bronze flecks in there.
Little smile. "Nah, you were perfect. I have to admit it was funny."
"Can you walk?"
"You kicking me out?"
"No.” Because his staying wasn’t in the least a dangerously appealing idea. “Just asking."
"Yes, you are. I can tell." His tone said he could tell a lot of things, maybe some things I wasn’t telling myself yet.
A couple of different replies jockeyed for position, but I reminded myself about snapping out of it. The moral she-was-there-first ground was definitely the easier path. “Okay, a little, yeah, I am kicking you out. I need to work on my drawings a little, before dinner."
"You know what? I think you owe me for laughing at me so much. Tell me what this big dyed-cloth project is all about." He didn’t act like a man about to vacate the premises.
I shook my head. "It's not that easy, sorry. I have to work it out more myself."
"Come on, maybe talking about it will help."
Why did guys keep trying to force me to discuss my vision? I had a process that worked best in isolation. “Nope."
"Right." He stood up, gimpily. Was he actually offended? "See ya at dinner, then."
And off he limped. Through the studio windows, I watched him find the right path to his cabin, stopping to rip the offending branch off the tree. He took it with him.
The sun shone through the indigo cloth like sea glass in a tide pool. Instead of taking the sketchpad, I started to speak to the view about the project. Talking to yourself isn't supposed to be a good sign, but when you're as alone as I am, it comes naturally.
"Okay, Chains is about love, it's about Pappa and Gran and how the parts, the elements, the links in their lives all came together. Even though they both started in Ireland, he was a man on his own deliberately coming here from Liverpool, and she was a child in the middle of a family that didn’t mean to wash up in Houston. But they went from being two to being one and from being one to being a family. The three children, and Zach and I, Ireland and Texas and the Atlantic between them." I was pacing, I was gesticulating, I was mumbling. Must have been quite a sight.
"It's about them, about how they're the consummate love story, about how they completed each other and made a new life—not just Dermot and Bernadette and Matthew, but a reality of life, a lifestyle, together. Ups and downs, babies lost and stories told and learning to grow crops and picnics by the creek and sleeping on the train to their honeymoon. So, it's a chain, there will be links. A link for me, a link for Matthew, a link for Pad Maguire. Broken links for Berneen and Albert. Broken links for Pappa's family back home. A big link, central, holding them both—or two links, intertwined? Sketch it. I don't know. So, each link is a story, each link is the thing itself but in relation to Pappa and Gran, but there needs to be a consistent style to them all. More traditional? No, yes?" I stopped a moment. "Not traditional. New. They left the old country, moved to a new land, found a new life together. So, new style."
Now I had to stop pacing, had to go sketch. Barely made it to dinner—Caleb had changed into shorts—took down the cloth and fell exhausted into bed, too wiped to even brush my teeth.
Next morning, I was up early what would become the base for the quit top, and doe was back in the clearing working the salt lick. I suspected she’d eaten the corn the prior evening. When she started and ran off towards the stream, I wasn’t surprised to see Caleb emerge from the path, putting a lens cap on his telephoto attachment. I waved.
“Hungry?” he asked when I came to the porch to let him in.
“No. Give me a sec and I’ll grab my shoes.”
“Well, I got some good shots before you scared
Similar Books
