A Day in the Life of Jackie's Place: 12,045 Words

First another glimpse of the dreamscape that began the novel:

The wind rustles the tree tops, its own song of whispers, of breath, of secrets. You know this language, it is the tongue of your mothers and your mothers and your mothers. Listen to it, feel its sweet breath even as yours leaves your body, then comes back in anew. Such is the nature of breath, dear one. A death and a rebirth every moment, will you pause and behold the simple wonder of living?

The trees dance to this music, swaying in their own rhythm, their own time. They keep their own counsel, hold the wisdom of years unknown, unseen. The richness of the earth holds their roots, nourishes them, the gifts of the sweet earth traveling up, and up, and up extending to the ends of their swaying arms as they reach hopeful fingertips adorned in leaves toward the light of the sun. Nourished from below, held in thrall and exalted by the sun. I see your lips curve into a smile and I see that you feel this in your blood.

And what shall we make of this crow as she lands, bending the branches that will happily bear her weight? She screams with the rough voice of the crone, but it is sweet wisdom and blessings she imparts, will you hear them? Another joins, and another, and another. The branches bow and hold with the strength of ages. A cacophony, a chorus, and they call to you.

I know why you feel such sorrow. It is our sorrow you feel, the grief of your people. The losses pile up and click together like dry bones and you feel this in your heart, dear one. My heart is your heart so I know this to be true. It is in you to feel this, such is your gift, but do not let it become your burden, dear one. Lay down the sorrows of the past that are not your own. Let the dead carry that which is theirs to carry.

The light of the otherworld is dim. Do not let it steal your light.

I don't quite know what has happened, but Jackie's Place has taken a turn toward the eerie. I decided that I would write a typical day at Jackie's Place (which is likely to take me at least another writing day), and I have to say... something seems really off about Jackie's Place from this vantage point! 

She sets Jackie’s in front of him, and he pauses in his activity to take a slug from the mug. He winces in appreciation, just as Dylann does the same. They exchange smiles, then each turn their attention to the day’s early morning tasks. Dylan reviews her notes from the previous day, frowning slightly at the word scrawled on the page- she doesn’t seem to be able to make any more sense of the notation than we were… but she moves on quickly. She doesn’t tend to linger on things she doesn’t understand. She opens her laptop and pulls up the document she saves at the end of each day, even though at the end of each day it remains blank.

               Jackie goes about the business of pulling down each clean glass, polishing it with the filthy rag that is always present in his hands or over his shoulder. The sparkle of the glasses we perceived in the rosy glow of the morning sun has faded- they now appear spotted with filth, smeared with lipstick imprints and fingerprints.

               The music begins to pick up the pace now, drums, and chords, and words and the bittersweet feeling lingers.

Never was much of a romantic/I never could take the intimacy/And I know it did damage/Cause the look in your eyes is killing me…

The door opens and a man walks through. The light of day enters with him, but only makes it a few feet before it is absorbed into the relative dimness of Jackie’s Place. The man whistles a tune, and improbably, or perhaps inevitably, it is the chorus of Runaway: and I always find yeah I always find something wrong…

               He wears a grease stained shirt with the words ‘Virgil the Handyman’ emblazoned across the front. Beneath this, it reads Virgil’s apparent areas of expertise: Tiling * Painting * Drywalling * Decks and Fences. He carries a tool bag in his arm, and swings it jauntily along with his whistle.

               Without turning, Dylann greets the man, who also seems familiar to her. “Hi Virge,” she says, “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

               “You know I can never turn down a cup of Jackie’s special roast,” he says with good humour. He is a friendly man, you can tell. A happy man, with work to do that he finds fulfilling. He has friends and family who love him, a home to return to, a dog to pet. All of this seems very familiar to the three people in this tableau, as though this were the same morning playing out every single day, rehearsed to the point of rote repetition, and maybe it is. Maybe it varies slightly each day- maybe sometimes it is Jackie who greets Virgil, or Dylann who polishes clean glasses with a dirty rag, but it seems likely that some version of these events occurs each day, and one thing is for certain, Virgil never does turn down a cup of Jackie’s special roast. That would be against the rules. And people don’t like to break the rules in Jackie’s Place.

               “What do you need today, boss?” Virgil asks, grimacing as he takes a sip from the steaming mug of coffee.

               “Well the lights don’t seem to be working quite right today,” Jackie replies, his hands on his hips as he looks around the bar. It is unclear what he means, since the lights seem to be working perfectly. If anything, it is brighter than usual in Jackie’s Place, which usually has something of a cavern-like aesthetic.

               “I see what you mean,” Virgil replies with what I think we can now call characteristic good humour.