Wednesday Workshop: Vis Brevis


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Wednesday Workshop
18 April 2018
Vis Brevis

Rain. Persistent rain. Cornish mizzle that chills and wets. Basque chirrimirri penetrating flesh and bone. Low cloud blankets buildings, wraps itself round the windshield. Clings with the tenacity of Saran wrap. Visibility variable, now clear, now a muffler round the car’s headlights. Darkness gathered, still gathering. Lights moving, cars moving, the road moving, blending first with the lights then with the shadows, shape-shifting.

Down the hill now, out of the city lights, into the countryside. The road changing, patches and potholes, lights flickering in and out, darkness and light. Small animals of light, the potholes, shimmering, bumping by. Another pothole, moving, turning from side to side, a pothole with a ringed tail and two tiny eyes. A baby pothole, misses the front wheels, not the back. One dull, dry thump.

What were you doing there, in the middle of the road? Why alone? Why no mother, no brothers? Why so small? I didn’t mean to … I didn’t want to … Why me? Why now? If only …

Light breaks through the darkness clouding my mind. Memories: the driver on the road to Kincardine, chasing a jackrabbit, trapped in the headlights, a Belgian Hare, dodging down the middle of the country road. Laughing, the driver, with the joy of his hunt. Then: one dry thump. The car stopped, the hare, still twitching, held by its long ears, shown as a trophy at the car window, then thrown in the trunk. Memories: two lads in a half-ton, on a back road by Grand Lake. A sunny Sunday. Spotting the ground hog at the roadside. Driving at it with the truck. Swerving to hit it. The joy and laughter in their faces, looking back. One dry thump. The ground hog, front half viable, spine fractured, back legs paralyzed, dragging itself with its forearms to the roadside, dropping into the ditch.

Legend tells of the man who met Death in Cairo. Death looked surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?” he asked. Fear filled the man. He ran, packed his bags, left Cairo with its vision of Death. Travelled to Bagdad. Met there with Death, who welcomed him. “Why were you surprised to see me in Cairo?” the man asked. “Because we had a meeting here in Bagdad, tonight,” Death replied. “And I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“Every morning, at day break,
oh Lord, this little prayer I make,
that thou wilt keep thy watchful eye,
on all poor creatures born to die.”

Dylan Thomas wrote those words in his poetry play for radio, Under Milkwood. All poor creatures born to die. That’s us. That’s you and me. We don’t know how, or why, or where, or when. And it doesn’t matter. That’s the whole point: it doesn’t matter. Our death is born with us, walks with us, lives inside us, and one day will take us, each of us, we poor creatures born to die. What matters is that we live while we can, rejoice while we can, thrive while we can, think while we can, write while we can …

Enlightenment came last night, at the darkest, wettest of times. It followed me home and crept with me into my bed. I thought of all the creatures found each spring morning, their lives cut short at night along the sides of our New Brunswick roads: deer, porcupine, squirrels, groundhogs, foxes, domestic and feral cats, dogs, skunks, and yes, one, very special, baby raccoon, a tiny raccoon, so small as to be almost invisible in chirimirri, mizzle, and mist.

His spirit came to me in the under-blanket dark, wrapped itself warm around me, and brought me comfort. “You too,” he whispered. “You too. But not just yet. My work is done. I can go now. But you still have lots of work to do. Remember: Vis brevis, ars longa,”  his raccoon spirit nuzzled me and I reached out and patted him. Then both of us settled down to dream our different dreams of a life and death that is surely nothing but a game of touch and go.




10 thoughts on “Wednesday Workshop: Vis Brevis

  1. A wonderful piece of writing emerged from your encounter with the baby raccoon…it’s very sad how some seek to take life on purpose just for fun…I hit a squirrel once and still feel uncomfortable about it.

    Your description of a rural road at night feels so familiar…for example ‘small animals of light’ and a pothole ‘moving, turning from side to side’.

    We are like all other living creatures in that we die eventually—except we know about it, though not when it will happen.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks, Janice. All poor creatures born to die … that’s us. But so many don’t believe it. The road was alive beneath the rain. It was a living being, a creature that I rode upon. It changed shape and color and writhed beneath the car. In many ways, it was an out of this world experience. Thank you so much for writing ‘so familiar’ … sometimes I feel I am going crazy. ‘Just tarmac, mate, WTF you goin’ on abaht?’

      Liked by 1 person

      • The living creature metaphor fits well..besides the heaving surface which rolls tires at its will there is the visual experience which at night and in mist is so different than during clear daylight. Interpreting lights and shadows is like being in another world. It’s probably those people who are unaware of mortality who barrel through the dark far faster than they can possibly see.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Oh Roger, this was a beautiful, melancholy piece of writing, but ending with a positive message. Do what you can while you have time. I am happy to have sunshine today for I sorely need it! This long, dreary winter is making me very blue.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I know how you feel, Meg. It’s a long, slow process up here too, and I felt so sorry for that lonely little fellow on the highway last night. So tiny, and twinkling in between the twinkling potholes and puddles. Maybe his destiny was to provide us all with some inspiration and keep us working … I love your recent drawings incidentally. The ballet toes were great … art inspires us in so many different ways.

      Liked by 1 person

      • I must admit that my creative spark, after having left me for a while, seems to have returned. I’m busy with an unexpected return to a short story I’m extending into a longer piece and with some new short pieces as well. I make the ‘blues’ work for me. Thank you regarding the artwork! I can see why there are art programs in mental hospitals – it really does calm the disquieted soul!

        Liked by 1 person

      • Indeed it does. I have started another cartoon book after a prolonged absence. Spooky but funny. Art drifts like the sun and moon in between clouds. Even when we can’t see it, it’ still there, waiting for us. And talent is almost always multi-talent.

        Liked by 1 person

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