diary entry

Experiment:

 

I’ve been closing one of my eyes while driving. 

 

Writing on Place:

 

When I went into the backyard, that I used to haunt, it wasn’t the same. They had torn out the fence. I commented to the young many who now lives in the house how I loved the fence. I didn’t tell him about the picture that I had drawn of it.

 

Creative Writing Fiction Experiment:

 

    The fence in my backyard was torn down and replaced with a new one. It’s not really my fence anymore. Someone else lives in that house. But I live only a couple houses down the street, and every morning I ride my bike past that old house. And I don’t know why I still call it my house. But anyway this is about the fence. It was the texture and color that I enjoyed most. It was the weather that had been sucked and now appeared into the fence. The fence soaked up the weather like a sponge. Now it looked like the weather. All the different kinds of weather at once. It was the weather. It was white on the bottom and toward the top it was grey: a perfect gradient. It looked like death with the color being drained out of it. But it was a beautiful death. I was so enamored with this fence that I once drew a picture of it. In my minimalist streaks of throwing things out, it’s one of the few things that I have actually kept. I focused not the texture of the fence. 

    I think it may have been the sprinklers, year after year, that gave the fence it’s aesthetics. The sprinklers washing out the color on the bottom, blanching it like bones that have been dried out in the Utah sun. There’s something beautiful about bones that aren’t bones, something beautiful about things that appear to be bones but are not. It’s a reminder. It’s a way to access the human body without the human body. Its good to see nature empathizing with me. It’s good to see that the bones in my body are worth mimicking. 

    The aspen trees that grew behind the fence were perhaps the only thing that kept the fence standing. I remember once plucking the leaves off of that tree and using them to make a pinecone creation (but that is for another essay). To say the least that small grove of aspens trees reminded me of my wife. They cut the trees down, and the fence soon followed. I remember lamenting the fact that the trees were gone. Recently I had tried to recreate the pinecone project, but found that I couldn’t find aspen leaves that were as clean, colorful or just the right size. My neighbors had some aspen across the street, but their’s were too bug bitten and large. This makes it all the more difficult to accept that the trees are gone. 

    But I don’t own that space. The trees and the fence have been passed on to another. I own the metaphysical memories, but the things that these memories came from are not mine to own. And I feel that at first the memory was mine, but now that the trees have been passed onto someone else they are there to finish my memory, and now my memory is no longer mine. They get to finish, they get to chose, they get to decide how the narrative concludes. It comes to me horrifically that I do not own the land, or the trees, or the even the story of my own memories. And because I don’t own them I can’t claim any authority on them. How am I to come to any conclusion on my accuracies. 

 

Letter to Dad:

 

    Why write a letter to you about anything other than gratitude? I suppose that I could explore other avenues of love, but this one seems paramount to me at the moment, to me at the moment of Thanksgiving upon us, at the moment of God bestowing us with the beauty that we try to explain by naming it Autumn. I’m trying to name my love for you gratitude, but to call it just that, to call Autumn just Autumn, would betray the actuality of it. 

    Renee Margrite, created a painting entitled “This is not a pipe.” Interestingly enough that’s all the painting was depicting: a pipe. What he meant to say is that this painting of a pipe was not a pipe at all, but rather it was a painting of a pipe. I want to say the same about this letter that I am writing to you: This is not love, this is just a letter of love. That’s all that I can say when it comes to how you have always prayed for me, always thought about me, always sent letters of love, always respected me, always bothered me by doing exactly what dad’s should do (I say that with my tongue in my cheek).

    Dad, thanks for the birthday money. Thanks for the birthday letter. Thanks for the phone calls. Thanks for the text messages. Thanks for the clam dip recipe. Thanks for coming back into my life. Thanks for sticking in my life. Thanks for being a writer. Thanks for encouraging me to be a writer. Thanks for writing two novels. Thanks for being blind. Thanks for being my dad. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Tell Kelly thanks as well.

I love you.

Merely,

 

Zach T Power