A Talk In The Woods

A stern talking to...
“I hate to interrupt your reverie, my dear boy; but you do know that you’re trespassing…” I didn’t actually; I didn’t know I was anywhere that would warrant such a remonstration, let alone a polite (albeit patronising) one. I opened my eyes and looked up at the deep wheezing voice that woke me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t even know how I got here…” This much was true. “Where actually am I?”

“I’ve heard most excuses before, cock; but that’s a new one on me... “ He chuckled but his gaze never left mine. Taking in the rest of him, gruff bear-like physique that had seen better days; salt and pepper beard and moustache, one might think his best days were behind him… but his eyes told a different story.

“It happens to be true, Sir.” Politeness was the best policy until I understood where I was, let alone how I got here. He shrugged his shoulders,stared at me again with his head askance before nodding.

“The storm is coming; sit where you are much longer and you’ll probably catch your death. The cottage isn’t far away, you may as well come in for a cuppa and a chat whilst you get your gist back.” I nodded and was about to thank this strange benefactor but he’d already started walking away; and by the time I’d packed my rucksack and folded my stool away I had to run to catch up. Suffice to say I was out of breath when I reached him which made him chuckle even more. 

“Are you sure there’s a storm coming?” I asked, trying to make conversation. “There didn’t appear to be anything on the news…”

“And you believe that over your own senses, eh?” He retorted like a whip. “Or maybe you’re one of those sorts that don’t communicate with that side of yourself anymore? Maybe that’s how you’ve ended up in this predicament!”

I could only shrug and follow him through the woods. The trees were densely packed together, the towering oaks and beech allowing little shade; and let there were clumps of brambles and bracken strewn around acting as makeshift hedges to the well-trodden path. The scent of damp loam was occasionally tinged with the heady scent of a fox marking their territory. I had a hard time keeping up with the old man. The paths were incredibly muddy and yet he seemed to have no difficulty navigating the boggy tracks, whereas I found myself either getting stuck or nearly slipping over completely. 

“I know you’re not one for following in other people's footsteps, but you might try every once in a while, eh? At least give it a go in the instance? Not much farther though -you’ll see the smoke soon… Nothing like a roaring fire.” He exclaimed and it was then that I saw he was brandishing a walking stick. That was how he’d managed to stay stable throughout the trek. “I wondered when you’d notice; aren't writers supposed to be observant?.” He laughed. Now how could he have known that I was a writer?
Soon enough I saw the smoke whisping out of the little ramshackle cottage. I felt a pang of jealousy as I’d always dreamt of living in a place like this. I knew that it would never work in reality, of course; as much as I hate to admit it, I rely on people too much and I hate myself for it.

“Home… no place like it.” He proudly proclaimed as we walked up to the front door.

 “Leave your shoes inside the front door and then make yourself at home. I’ll put the kettle on and brew us a coffee. Milk and two sugars alright for you, cock?

I nodded, no longer questioning his powers of guessing. “Who needs to guess when you know?” He joked as he walked into the kitchen. I barely even registered this remark as I was now exploring his front room area. It seemed far larger than I had anticipated and looked like heaven to me -walls full of bookshelves brimming with books, dvd’s and cd’s. 

The books I expected but the cd’s and dvd’s seemed anachronistic to such a curmudgeon. Looking at the titles made me regret my assumption, they seemed to mirror my own tastes but were so much further on in his collection. I’d only just started getting into world cinema but he’d covered the great directors (Fellini, Bergman and Antonini) and moved on to others I could barely pronounce let alone type. 

His music collection was the same; as was his taste in books -or rather comics. This made me chuckle and wince at the same time, eclectic was too weak a word -this was becoming too much of a coincidence now and I suspected foul play. Part of me wanted to get the hell out of the cottage; this was becoming too weird and yet there was a part of me that wanted to know more.

“So… which part of you are you going to listen to?” The man asked as he walked into the room, carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee and a plate of bourbon biscuits. “Sit… sit!”

“Do I have a choice?” I asked.

“That’s a stupid fucking question… of course you have a choice… Too much of one, really -otherwise this sort of interaction would never have been necessary.”

I sat and took the offered mug and picked up a couple of bourbons. This was one of the more bizarre situations I’d found myself in and for once I had no idea of what to say. I stared into my coffee cup;, blowing on the surface creating whirls and eddies... anything rather than make eye contact. It made no difference.

“hmm...What to do, hmm?...hmm What to do about you…. Of course, you know that you can’t be doing this sort of thing anymore.” I looked up as if to try the innocent schoolboy routine: ‘what me, Sir?’ but knew that wouldn’t wash with him. His voice was stern but not unfriendly. “You’ve rather let this inconsequential crap get the better of you, haven’t you?”

“Wh.. what would you have me do?” I snapped, despite myself. I wanted a reaction but didn’t get the one I expected. He laughed.

“That’s the ticket… finally a proper reaction, eh Mort?” 

“That’s pronounced Morse… not Mort!” I snapped. “Wait a minute… that’s not my name…” I didn’t know where to look and shuffled in the chair uncomfortably, even though the chair was perfectly snug. “How did you… how do you know all about that?”

“How disconnected are you? They know that I’m you, so why can’t you recognise it? Have you let the world's trivialities affect you that much that you fail to see your own truth? I mean, when was the last time you truly wrote anything?”

“I no longer have anything to say.” I whined.

“I don’t think that’s true at all.” His voice was the opposite to my childish protestations, the mocking parent; but even that was laced with a knowing irony. “I think you have too much to say but you’re too scared to say it.You lack the balls -everyone else has sold out but you don’t want to rock the boat.”

“Who’s going to listen? I mean, what’s the point? I feel like a man out of time.”

“So you forget yourself because you're walking your path alone…. That’s never stopped you before.... Why are you a writer? What good are you as a writer unless you stand alone for what you believe in?”

“No one wants to hear…”

“No one wants to hear YET. Ignorance is like a virus; easily caught and spread and people are too easily manipulated. They lack the responsibility and the discernment to make a difference and unfortunately you’ve let that get the better of you.”

“Why bother catering for people who lack the intelligence to grasp the deeper meaning?”

“Has that ever stopped you in the past?” I paused, his questions were hitting home every time and there were no real answers.... but I tried nonetheless.

“I’ve always been searching, trying to better myself… trying to understand, goddamnit.” I snapped again. The peel of thunder made me jump and I dropped the bourbon I had been trying to dunk right in the coffee. The man laughed and I couldn’t help but smile. “You were right about the storm… why am I not surprised?”

“You noticed the dampness of the loam; you saw that it had been raining heavily up until recently, was it really such a jump of awareness to presuppose it was going to rain again?”

“But that’s not what you meant.” I looked out through the window to the stratifying rain outside; listened to the splatter and patter of the drops hitting the trees and ground. I felt warm and snug and grateful to be where I was.

“No… but it doesn’t have to storm. It’s easy to rail against the world, to be angry at the people; to be let down and disappointed by what you see around you. It’s even ok to feel contempt for those; and you won’t be the only one to feel that way, cock. But who do they turn to when and if they realise there’s another way? 

"It’s a writers responsibility to tell their own truth regardless and bear that responsibility the same way that Theseus bore his mirrored shield. Use it to reflect back to the people -they can either be shocked  and turn to stone (for indifference and ignorance are just as inflexible as stone) or they grasp your meaning; it could be the first step on their road to understanding.... but this isn’t your burden to bear.

“I’ve felt so isolated but connected in ways I never dreamed before; been swept up in the Emperor's New edicts whilst still being that poor boy who could see the truth. But no one listens to that boy anymore; they listen to the fearmongering and scare-tactics and bury their heads in the sands.”

“But YOU don’t need to be like that. Pity them; they suffer far more than you can think as you have a way out. You’ve worked at it, worked bloody hard, cock (and should feel proud at what you’ve accomplished) and you can see a way through it all whereas far too many people are trapped by their ego’s -the same ego’s that the edicts are crushing. There’s another way though for all of them, you included.”

I looked at the man and smiled. “Bellkipeg?” 

“Not necessarily. This is Bellkipeg; right here, right now. Bellkipeg is your name fo the process... to be clear, it’s the still point in your life when you can step outside your space and time and just be. 

"Where you can know yourself and follow your feelings. It doesn’t change anything in the outside, but knowing yourself can change the way you view the world, or at least your part. You take off the blinkers that grind you down... the world hasn’t changed; there’s just a new illusion to see through. Cultivate yourself -all aspects of yourself.

"Don’t be afraid to grow in whatever way is necessary -and you won’t necessarily know that until you try it. You can’t hold yourself to other people’s standards and expect any kind of results; but you can grow to your fullest potential.. And keep climbing.”

“I would thank you.” I said to myself, but there was nobody else there. “But you’re right. There’s no need for the illusion anymore.”

"No need at all... and this cottage will always be here waiting for you." The old man said, smiling benevolently now. "When the time is right... Time to wake up?" I nodded and smiled back. Everything he had told me... was true and I had just lost sight of... 

It was enough to write and be in the writing - I write because I'm compelled to, not for the pandering to the readers but because of a drive to explore and to understand.  

I woke up to the green wood and the truth was still there waiting for me.