that involved cutting through the town forest. No paths were marked on the map, but whoever heard of pathless forests? He ordered a brioche, took out the memo pad, tried again to find the poem:
negligent is to forsake as
mendacious is to deceive
What came next? A poem hid in there, he could feel it, a brilliant poem, the kind that would find its way into the language, be quoted, change the way people thought. But whatever came next didn’t come. Julian paid his bill, left the brioche half eaten. Not very good anyway, not a real brioche, and his authentic pronunciation of the word had confused the serving girl. No tip.
A few minutes later, he entered the town forest, the wind dying at once, as though someone had cut off the power. The path—of course there was a path, with the odd root sticking up, the odd rock, but easy for him, he sped up if anything—led through silent woods. This was a good place: Julian knew so at once, full of shadows and strange perspectives. The word that followed
deceive
began to take shape deep in his mind, just out of reach. He passed a little clearing, heaped here and there with beer cans, and the word receded inexorably, like a falling tide.
Julian climbed a long rise, glimpsed a tiny oblong of water in the distance. The blue flicker blinked out the moment he started down, the path now winding. Julian stopped pedaling, just coasted, as silent as the forest around him, the only source of wind he himself. Then water flashed again on his right, many oblongs of it now, the trees concealing them until the last moment. He heard a voice, a child’s voice.
“Don’t do that, Zippy.”
Julian paused by a boulder, the granitic type left by departing glaciers, peered over the top. Below lay a pond, almost a perfect circle, another glacial remnant. On a strand of frozen mud about a hundred feet away stood a girl in a blue jacket with yellow trim. A large mutt was shaking itself off, spraying her with water. Almost a Norman Rockwell scene, but it was much too dark in this forest for Norman Rockwell, and except for the blue-and-yellow jacket, there was no color at all.
“Zippy!” The girl—she wore a strange hat of some kind—raised her hands ineffectually. From that single gesture, and from her piping voice, Julian could tell how commonplace she was. Now the girl threw a stick into the water. The dog refused to chase it. They both stood there, child and dog, gazing, or gaping perhaps, at the expanding circles the stick had made. How bored they were, girl and dog both, and how boring. It would take a very dark Norman Rockwell to make art of this little nonscene, an upside-down Rockwell, and the result would not be uplifting. Julian titled the imaginary painting
Lumpen Child
and rode on, silent, through the woods.
Trees, trees, the wonderful sensation of having the planet to himself, except for the little girl and her dog, of being very big, of bringing the wind: this could go on forever. He’d barely had the thought before the forest journey was over. No trees, the real wind, now in his face, and he was at the edge of someone’s backyard.
Julian paused. A big, unfenced backyard, with woodpile, swing set, a dozen or more tennis balls lying around like dirty yellow flowers, patio, bird feeder. The feeder was in the form of a cute little house, white with black trim, someone’s idea of cozy comfort. A crow stood on the perch outside the tiny door, not feeding, but watching him. Beyond the patio rose the real house, which seemed to have sprung from the same sort of esthetic: also white with black trim, also cute, also cozy. The only difference was the tall red-brick chimney, too tall, really, almost unstable-looking, as though a giant could topple it with one casual swat. A matching brick walkway led around the side of the house, past a deck, coiled garden hose, trash cans. Julian dismounted, prepared a suitable tale—the woods, a little lost, fill in your own blanks—and walked his bike over
negligent is to forsake as
mendacious is to deceive
What came next? A poem hid in there, he could feel it, a brilliant poem, the kind that would find its way into the language, be quoted, change the way people thought. But whatever came next didn’t come. Julian paid his bill, left the brioche half eaten. Not very good anyway, not a real brioche, and his authentic pronunciation of the word had confused the serving girl. No tip.
A few minutes later, he entered the town forest, the wind dying at once, as though someone had cut off the power. The path—of course there was a path, with the odd root sticking up, the odd rock, but easy for him, he sped up if anything—led through silent woods. This was a good place: Julian knew so at once, full of shadows and strange perspectives. The word that followed
deceive
began to take shape deep in his mind, just out of reach. He passed a little clearing, heaped here and there with beer cans, and the word receded inexorably, like a falling tide.
Julian climbed a long rise, glimpsed a tiny oblong of water in the distance. The blue flicker blinked out the moment he started down, the path now winding. Julian stopped pedaling, just coasted, as silent as the forest around him, the only source of wind he himself. Then water flashed again on his right, many oblongs of it now, the trees concealing them until the last moment. He heard a voice, a child’s voice.
“Don’t do that, Zippy.”
Julian paused by a boulder, the granitic type left by departing glaciers, peered over the top. Below lay a pond, almost a perfect circle, another glacial remnant. On a strand of frozen mud about a hundred feet away stood a girl in a blue jacket with yellow trim. A large mutt was shaking itself off, spraying her with water. Almost a Norman Rockwell scene, but it was much too dark in this forest for Norman Rockwell, and except for the blue-and-yellow jacket, there was no color at all.
“Zippy!” The girl—she wore a strange hat of some kind—raised her hands ineffectually. From that single gesture, and from her piping voice, Julian could tell how commonplace she was. Now the girl threw a stick into the water. The dog refused to chase it. They both stood there, child and dog, gazing, or gaping perhaps, at the expanding circles the stick had made. How bored they were, girl and dog both, and how boring. It would take a very dark Norman Rockwell to make art of this little nonscene, an upside-down Rockwell, and the result would not be uplifting. Julian titled the imaginary painting
Lumpen Child
and rode on, silent, through the woods.
Trees, trees, the wonderful sensation of having the planet to himself, except for the little girl and her dog, of being very big, of bringing the wind: this could go on forever. He’d barely had the thought before the forest journey was over. No trees, the real wind, now in his face, and he was at the edge of someone’s backyard.
Julian paused. A big, unfenced backyard, with woodpile, swing set, a dozen or more tennis balls lying around like dirty yellow flowers, patio, bird feeder. The feeder was in the form of a cute little house, white with black trim, someone’s idea of cozy comfort. A crow stood on the perch outside the tiny door, not feeding, but watching him. Beyond the patio rose the real house, which seemed to have sprung from the same sort of esthetic: also white with black trim, also cute, also cozy. The only difference was the tall red-brick chimney, too tall, really, almost unstable-looking, as though a giant could topple it with one casual swat. A matching brick walkway led around the side of the house, past a deck, coiled garden hose, trash cans. Julian dismounted, prepared a suitable tale—the woods, a little lost, fill in your own blanks—and walked his bike over
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