The girl I am writing about, ‘Trees’ an assassin, which is her birthright, is a lot like me -- compartmentalizing many of the more traumatic episodes in her life along with those that are genuinely good. They share the same storage box, only divided by balsa wood separations, the grooves cut in irregular intervals of the drawers allowing more then one memory to be contained. Think, apothecary cabinet. I still can’t figure out my own filing system until I need to retieve something.The Grand Canyon is today’s memory and the drawer slides out; cross sections of other memories relating to that surreal place are contained in here. I want to use the Grand Canyon analogously in my book.
(excerpt from book)
The Grand Canyon had looked so surreal, like a backdrop painting in a Western being filmed. As I stood there on the rim, I wanted to reach out my hand and touch the canvas to see if the paint was still wet. Actually, I wanted to drag my fingers across the canvas smearing at it, because I knew in my mind that it couldn’t be real.
That memory now retrieved from its cedar drawer has texture in my mind. I can recall it with clarity, just as I saw it, standing there those many years ago. I didn’t get to close, I still had, as I do now, fears of falling -- vertigo --which my character has also inherited. And with that memory -- another slot in the drawer opened up -- reminding me that a friend of mine Patrick had been with me on that trip. I hadn’t thought about him in… I don’t know how long, that drawer wasn’t opened at the moment.
But I believe that Trees sees things the same way I do at times, a little of the surreal leaking into her imagination -- watching from the sidelines.
(excerpt from book)
“Life is like Billboards racing past at 70mph. They are large enough to make an impression, but pass quickly by, with acknowledgement to the designer -- sometimes -- for their creative insight, if they leave a lasting impression.”
Trees watched the man die -- commit suicide right in front of her eyes with the same fascination she had when seeing the Grand Canyon. The artist had been talented, it looked almost real to her eyes, and her hand lifted to the canvas wanting to test the paint, seeing if it was still wet.
I think that’s what watching someone die would be like, that’s how my mind would interpret it. Life on film or a master’s oil painting hung in the Louvre. Real, but wet with paint.
This reminded me of the first hospital rotation I did while working on the ambulance. I was in the emergency room of Allegheny General Hospital. A gun shot victim was wheeled into trauma and I watched with detached interest, like watching a movie. I didn’t smell it, I didn’t feel it, I was sitting there on the leather seat at the Metropolitan Museum admiring the painting, and how realistically God paints. Could I get close enough to see the brush strokes? Or a stray hair from the sable brush still embedded in the medium?
That was how I viewed trauma, that was how my brain kept me sane in those instances, that is how I kept my psyche in tact and I know that is how Trees does it too.
(excerpt from book)
Her mind shields her from the reality, making it beautiful to watch, and she smiles a secret smile, something no one else would notice or understand as they passed by her in that moment as she looks at the painting. Most people would just flinch and pass on by. But she sees the genius in the brush strokes, the attention to detail. The way the light falls just right, turning what should be bright red into muddy brown and she smiles because she knows the artist personally, intimately, and in the right hand corner of the canvas she sees her name.
