Hello again Fellow Adventurer,
I think I should just stop referring to the speed at which time seems to pass at the beginning of every newsletter. Therefore, this newsletter will only start in the next sentence – my newsletter, my rules.
First up in this newsletter is a new piece of flash fiction. It’s the first in a collection, so it’s more of an introduction than a standalone piece. Then I give a (relatively) quick update on the previous newsletter and some final thoughts.
Flash Fiction: Layered Shadows
From here the dusty footpath led into the woods. At its border, two large trees stood slanted; their boughs tangled and overgrown with hanging vines that swayed their grey tendrils back and forth. The wind from the west carried dark clouds and the faint smell of wet soil hinted at the first of the summer thunderstorms. Deeper shadows gathered beneath the trees as I lingered on the footpath, their depths promising a respite from the bright heat of the sun.
The wind swept some of the dust into the air and I turned my face away from the sudden sting in my eyes and nose, almost dropping the lantern I held in one hand in an effort to shield my face. I blinked frantically as the dust settled and coughed. The lantern swung, its metal handle’s hinges creaking. I bent to my right to put the basket I held in my right hand down for a moment to get a better grip on the handle. It was heavy, laden with everything I thought I would need to cut the ties behind me, release the weight I carry on my shoulders, and craft something better.
Standing up straight, I breathe in; pushing past the tightness of worry and anxiety. Pushing everything aside as I breathe out. And take my first step towards the woods.
The trailing plants caressed my cheeks as the shadows beneath the boughs embraced me. Here the ground was strewn with the leaves of past years and the layers muffled my footfalls. In the canopy birds chattered.
At first, the path led me straight on between the trees; following an ancient road that was built so long ago that it came before the first trees covered the plain. Since then, the road had shrunk until only this first part remained before it split into many meandering ones. Many came to walk these woods at times of change. As I chose the right path at the fork in the road, I wondered if I would find what I sought.
The darkness gathered fully beneath the trees and I lit the lantern. Moths coloured a ghostly white soon followed me, fluttering around the light that flickered and led me on like some will-o’-the-wisp. Snippets of half-forgotten-half-remembered songs sounded in my mind as I walked beneath the trees. Songs of trees, but also of the plains and the far-off sea where the skeletons of ships and wanderers lay in the deep, dark waters.
The meandering path led me to where an ancient tree had fallen and had left a clearing next to a shadowy pool. Its trunk lay next to the water, covered by moss and ferns like a mound above an ancient king. The other trees that surrounded the clearing had been festooned with ribbons and lace and small bells that tinkled when the wind moved them and when I pushed past to reach the fallen tree.
I extinguished the flame in the lantern. Here, under the open sky, there would be no need for its dancing light until night fell. I sat down on the mossy seat next to the water and placed the basket next to me. For a long while I stared at the water, listened to the sound of rustling leaves and clinking bells, breathed in the scent of wet soil and green leaves. Only then did I dare to open the basket.
It was filled to the brim with fabric and scraps, ribbon and lace, buttons and thread. A silver chatelaine, complete with a needle case, thimble, and scissors, lay on top. I took a piece of plain, undyed linen from the basket; it would be as good a starting point as any other. Scraps of colourful fabric and felt followed.
I cut patterns and motifs from the scraps, letting the scissors lead me as my thoughts drifted to the past and sought memories and tears long hidden and almost forgotten.
Birds and flowers I cut from the coloured cloth and started stitching them to the undyed linen. Stitch by stitch I thought and stitch by stitch I remembered. Each memory I held in my mind, turning it over and over as if I wanted it to catch and reflect the light like a jewel. Stitch by stitch I cried and let the layers of fabric absorb the emotions and lock them in the fibres. Perhaps I would return to them again one day, but – for now – they could remain there. Close enough to touch, but no longer a part of me.
An Update on the Previous Newsletter
Where the Stars Used to Sing
In my previous newsletter (over a month ago!), I noted that I’m busy with the line edits for Where the Stars Used to Sing. I’ve honestly not come very far with those edits as my focus has been mostly on the flash fiction for Threads, but I think I’ll try doing the edits during the week and write new stuff over the weekends.
Books and reading
I’ve finished The Amazing Thing About the Way it Goes: Stories of Tidiness, Self-Esteem, and Other Things I Gave Up On by Stephanie Pearl-McPhee and am starting another book by her, titled: Stephanie Pearl-McPhee Casts Off: The Yarn Harlot’s Guide to the Land of Knitting.
The Amazing Thing About the Way it Goes had me both laughing out loud (and nearly spitting coffee all over my work computer) and crying (a bit awkward when reading at the office) and really reminded me why I love this type of collections and essays. I actually started reading the Yarn Harlot blog years ago when I started knitting again, so I was already familiar with Stephanie’s voice (in this case it sounds far too academical to call her only by her last name) and her sense of humour and this volume definitely did not disappoint – I can highly recommend it, even to non-knitters and non-crafters.
(Side note: I usually link to the Kindle books in this newsletter, but I’m not an affiliate. Sometimes Kobo doesn’t have books available in South Africa, so I tend to shop all over the place. Brick-and-mortar bookstores do still remain my favourite… not to mention the kind of secondhand bookstore that looks more like a labyrinth.)
While I’m seemingly on an essays binge, I think I should also go and get 107 Kaalkoppe by Nataniël upstairs. I bought the volume last year and actually saw Nataniël’s show “Prima Donna” a few weeks ago with a friend (the show was even better than I’d imagined it would be).
The 2024 SASMARS Conference and the Academic Article Yet to be Written
I still don’t have a firm idea for the article, but I’m still on the path for doing something with “beneath the canopy” and the whole Odin/knowledge/wisdom/magic runes thing. I’m also going deeper into the Elder Edda, specifically “Völuspá”, “Hávamál”, “Grímnismál”, and then also the Ynglinga saga. Then there are also the “memory drinks” in “The Second Poem of Gudrun”, “Lay of Sigrdrifa”, and “Hydla’s Song” – not to mention Odin’s ravens.
It may still sound all over the place, but it’s actually coming together slowly but surely. As of today it’s just 284 to go before the conference starts!
I may have also gotten lost in some of the footnotes in the Elder Edda about kennings, fetches, and disir…
Inspiration and Thoughts: Threads and More
Coming back to the new flash fiction I’m writing… The working title for the complete collection is Threads, and the first and last stories will form a frame story for the others. Although this started out as an “Alphabet Superset” project, I seem to have already started to veer off the path of doing 26 stories that follow the alphabet. To be honest, though, I’m just glad to be writing fiction again!
I’ve also started a Pinterest Board for Threads, which can be found at this link. I’m adding to it as I go along, but I think it already gives a glimpse of the type of things that are inspiring me. One of the main things, however, is to keep from falling into any number of rabbit holes.
I’m also not trying too try too hard to pin down the exact influences on the stories, as there are so much that goes into a story that purely happens in the subconscious. I guess it’s always easy – or easier – to see patterns and influences once something is finished, but doing too much introspection while I’m busy writing them will, I feel, probably just make them feel “flatter” somehow. Instead of trying to see where the stones came from, I should rather just enjoy the view of the ocean, I guess –
“A man inherited a field in which was an accumulation of old stone, part of an older hall. Of the old stone some had already been used in building the house in which he actually lived, not far from the old house of his fathers. Of the rest he took some and built a tower. But his friends coming perceived at once (without troubling to climb the steps) that these stones had formerly belonged to a more ancient building. So they pushed the tower over, with no little labour, in order to look for hidden carvings and inscriptions, or to discover whence the man’s distant forefathers had obtained their building material. Some suspecting a deposit of coal under the soil began to dig for it, and forgot even the stones. They all said: ‘This tower is most interesting.’ But they also said (after pushing it over): ‘What a muddle it is in!’ And even the man’s own descendants, who might have been expected to consider what he had been about, were heard to murmur: ‘He is such an odd fellow! Imagine his using these old stones just to build a nonsensical tower! Why did not he restore the old house? He had no sense of proportion.’ But from the top of that tower the man had been able to look out upon the sea.” — Tolkien, J. R. R.. (2012). The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. HarperCollins Publishers. Kindle Edition. “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics”.
Or, as Tolkien notes in his essay, “On Fairy Stories” (1939): “In Dasent’s words I would say: ‘We should be satisfied with the soup that is set before us, and not desire to see the bones of the ox out of which it has been boiled.’”
I also have to remind myself that nothing I create can ever be truly perfect, but that this imperfection doesn’t necessarily equate to it being “bad”. As in N.P. Van Wyk Louw’s poem “Ex unguine leonem”; that which we create is only a shadow and sliver of knowledge of the actual universe.1
Anyway… now it’s on to some more writing, some more reading, and – let’s be honest – more crochet and knitting as well.
Until next time, keep well and keep safe.
Carin
The poem, which appears in his collection Tristia (1962), ends with the words:
Wat ek van mense of van God wil meen,
word in my dofheid dof.
Iets staan in sterre-en-helderte geskryf,
en ek skryf na in stof.