To See the World
Photography by Katharine Weinmann
“A perfect example of the spirit of Wabi Sabi - the beauty in life's imperfections and contradictions.”
Published internationally in literary journals and anthologies, Katharine Weinmann writes poetry, walks long distances, sees beauty in life’s imperfections and photographs its shimmer. She blogs at A Wabi Sabi Life and lives on the Canadian prairies with her husband and their dog, Walker.
https://www.awabisabilife.ca
IG: @a.wabi.sabi.life / FB: @katharine.weinmann
https://www.awabisabilife.ca
IG: @a.wabi.sabi.life / FB: @katharine.weinmann
Press and Slide
Fiction by Jen Eve Thorn
Under my grandfather’s desk with the puzzle box. It’s smooth wood, the grain and stain alternating in geometric shapes. Press and slide. Press and slide to find the bit that moves and solves the puzzle.
I’m in a towel, hair in wet slippery snakes. In my grandparents’ house, the guestroom is also the office, this desk the Professor’s desk, the professor my grandfather. This is where I stay while my parents are away. It’s where I am after my shower, where I am when I see a man through the window. The man who is not my grandfather, but that is all I’ll say, this man doesn’t matter in this story, ok? He’s a man who shouldn’t be outside the window. I press and slide the puzzle box under the desk. Press and slide.
I’ve heard we should alter our narratives, tell a new story of our past; we’re unreliable narrators and it’s fucking with our hearts. Is this moment a memory or an invention? What if I am under the desk dreaming because I am a dreamy girl? Maybe I always hide under desks? Press and slide. Press and slide. A dreamy girl who can’t resist a good desk under which I’ll invent worlds, where I press and slide. Press and slide.
I am under the desk to find joy, I am under there singing, I am under there in starlight, I am sword fighting, picking clovers. I am under there with bunnies, whole herds of bunnies. I am with myself, my grown self, she’s under there too, making a burrito of me, wrapping me tightly in my towel. I am holding me there in my arms. “Press and slide,” I sing to myself. I am small. I am afraid. I am the universe. I press and slide. Together, we open the puzzle box, I and I.
And this story is inside it, like a Russian doll, the story of me under the desk with the puzzle box. It’s smaller. It’s identical. It’s the size I remember it. It’s the size I’ve told and retold it. It falls out into our hand. We look at it together. We say, “What is this trifle then? This bit of fluff? This nothing?” It becomes a dandelion. We blow it away.
There it goes.
Under my grandfather’s desk with the puzzle box. It’s smooth wood, the grain and stain alternating in geometric shapes. Press and slide. Press and slide to find the bit that moves and solves the puzzle.
I’m in a towel, hair in wet slippery snakes. In my grandparents’ house, the guestroom is also the office, this desk the Professor’s desk, the professor my grandfather. This is where I stay while my parents are away. It’s where I am after my shower, where I am when I see a man through the window. The man who is not my grandfather, but that is all I’ll say, this man doesn’t matter in this story, ok? He’s a man who shouldn’t be outside the window. I press and slide the puzzle box under the desk. Press and slide.
I’ve heard we should alter our narratives, tell a new story of our past; we’re unreliable narrators and it’s fucking with our hearts. Is this moment a memory or an invention? What if I am under the desk dreaming because I am a dreamy girl? Maybe I always hide under desks? Press and slide. Press and slide. A dreamy girl who can’t resist a good desk under which I’ll invent worlds, where I press and slide. Press and slide.
I am under the desk to find joy, I am under there singing, I am under there in starlight, I am sword fighting, picking clovers. I am under there with bunnies, whole herds of bunnies. I am with myself, my grown self, she’s under there too, making a burrito of me, wrapping me tightly in my towel. I am holding me there in my arms. “Press and slide,” I sing to myself. I am small. I am afraid. I am the universe. I press and slide. Together, we open the puzzle box, I and I.
And this story is inside it, like a Russian doll, the story of me under the desk with the puzzle box. It’s smaller. It’s identical. It’s the size I remember it. It’s the size I’ve told and retold it. It falls out into our hand. We look at it together. We say, “What is this trifle then? This bit of fluff? This nothing?” It becomes a dandelion. We blow it away.
There it goes.
Jen Eve Thorn is a writer living in San Diego with her husband and teenagers. She founded and recently retired as the Executive Artistic Director of MOXIE Theatre, where she produced new plays for 18 years. Her work has appeared in the Los Angeles Review. She writes prose & poetry and is nearing completion on her first novel.
