Adjusting to normal life where I have to cook and clean and everything is…hard. And I still can’t enumerate all that I’ve gained during my time there, so I’ll share something instead. Below is a piece I wrote while there and left a copy behind.
Enjoy!
The weight of the light fell on the mountain opposite, keeping it from reaching toward the sky bleached with heat and sun. Even the trees—so loving of sunshine—shrank from its harsh mass, though they tried their hardest to create shadow for the living things that scuttled beneath them.
Swans paddled sullenly on the lake, blinded by their own snowy feathers. The blades of grass on the hill silently communicated to each other–as grass does–that it was too hot for October. It should be the time of no mowing and frostbitten tips, not the ceaseless parching of the past few days.
The chateau sat complacently, preening even, since it looked its best in the sunshine and the temperature didn’t matter to the stones. After all, it was easy enough to throw open the broad casements to catch even the slightest of breezes. And even in this late season heat, its basement was blessedly cool, so the house rested on its chilly haunches and contemplated the scenery.
The house itself had an infestation of artists, though the chateau wasn’t particularly embarrassed by its condition. All grand houses had some problem or another, and it preferred artists over damp in the cellar or a leaky roof. Mostly, these “creatives,” as they referred to themselves, were harmless, though a few painted the walls in bright colors or nailed things here and there. By and large, the chateau liked the hustle and bustle they made.
The village, however, was becoming querulous and demanded that the chateau do something because the artists had begun to spread to the houses bringing with them wine and noise. But the chateau ignored the pleas. After all, the village was rather jealous of the chateau with its stables and outbuildings—even if those places too had become overrun with the odd creatures that wandered about at all hours from roof to basement. Worst–or perhaps best—of all, the creatives had the tendency to change everything.
The writer dripped the blazing gold from the walls into her words, making them shimmer and dance.
The painters purloined colors from the woods and clarion sky. They stole the pond and the swans and smeared the whole lot onto canvases and boards.
The photographers snapped a piece from the chateau’s soul, shattered it, and developed it into something shiny new.
Those who dealt in collage took oddments, smatterings of nothing, like sticks and leaves and wove them into fantastic novelties.
Those who wielded both word and color created fire and trains and goddesses.
One used flame to melt and twist metal into bright baubles inspired by the elegance around her.
They all took and mixed and repatriated the world around them.
Secretly, in its heart of heart, the chateau loved the artists because their laughter brightened dreary days, and they left it gifts, even if it had no idea what some of the things were.
The chateau spoke the tongue of stone and age, not the effervescent chatter of creatives, but if it could have understood the language of the artists, it would have known how much they loved it too and how much they wished they could burrow in and stay forever in its protective embrace.
D.S.Dehel 