Part 9

      Going over to the windowsill, I pick up the tile I had brought home with me. It still surprises me with its weight, as well as the vividness of the colors. I've cleaned it off, and the varnish over the paint reflects the light, still crystal-clear and smooth over the hand painted swirls and tiny flowers.
      Sitting back down beside my drawing, I look from the tile to the paper, and try to decide how to balance the detail of the tile with the drawing... If I draw in every line of every tile, it will distract from everything else, and make the whole drawing look too busy. I suppose I can let the water blur out some areas, where only impressions of colors come through, and the reflection of the sunlight on the varnish will block out some as well. I draw in the first few tiles, the ones nearest the viewer, with the tile close beside me for careful study. I draw in every detail as accurately as I can, planning to smudge or erase bits of the patterns later when I add in the water and highlights. Once I get to the tiles farther back in the picture, I set the tile over on the couch and view it from a distance, getting a feel for which shapes and portions of the pattern would be seen from farther away...

      Eventually, I notice it's harder to see my drawing, and looking up, I find that it's gotten dark out. I can't help but laugh at myself – I can get into such a trance with a drawing, I had no idea hours had already gone by. I uncurl myself and try to stand up... and stagger a bit, laughing, I'm so stiff! My fingertips are all raw, my legs refuse to budge, I'm parched, probably hungry if I think about it...
      But I'm happy, happier than I've been in awhile. I cross the room to turn on a light, and take a look at the drawing. There's still lots to do, but, I'm really happy with how it's coming together. The colors already mirror the rich wealth of the tiles, there's a good sense of how the light's falling... I haven't finished the boy, but the shape of his face is right, and I can see his expression taking form.
      I stretch, and make my way to the kitchen to get some water and some food into my system, before I get sucked back in again. God knows when I'll come out of it again next!

      No matter how tired I am when I get home from work that week, I force myself to put in some time on the drawing – and I'm always the better for it. It's amazing, how much more contented I feel, when I've accomplished something like that... Going to work is being productive, feeding myself is a necessary thing, but drawing... it's always given me such a deep sense of satisfaction, and I can rest easy at the day's end, like... I don't want to say it's like giving birth, because a., I haven't done that yet and am thus not qualified, and b., I'm pretty sure drawing is a lot more instant gratification than a child, whether it's the nine months of pregnancy or the eighteen years until the kid moves out. A drawing might take days, weeks, however much time to finish, and I guess no-one's ever a hundred percent satisfied with the results, but... a kid's a much more iffy prospect. There's no one point where you're finally like, oh yeah, I'm done now, it's finished. No-one's life is ever finished... not even when they die, really. People still remember those who have died, their family and friends, and the effect their life had continues on, whether it's in the children they brought into the world, or something they wrote or drew...
      Or a garden they planted, tended and loved. I'm sure someone's walked through the woods, and smelled the sweetness of those honeysuckle vines, even if they never set eyes on the garden itself. And me... no matter how much or how little more I ever learn of the place, even if I never set foot in it again, it's given me this drawing, at least, and it's a gorgeous one. And my drawing, in turn, I'm sure will someday touch someone, somewhere... All of us leave some trace of our life behind, some glimpse into the world that only we really saw.
      There's some glorious early summer weather during the week, and I cling to the hope that the weather will hold for my next day off. The thought has occurred to me that I could get a quick hike in before work some morning... but it never seems to happen. I start in washing dishes, or oversleep, or get phone calls... It's amazing how many silly little distractions are stitched together to make our days.
      When I do finally get a day to myself, I crank up the volume on my iPod and head into the woods. I'm trying hard to think only of the boy, and not the aggression I felt in the wind the day I saw the woman... But the sky is clear today, no more than a gentle breeze dancing among the leaves, which are now in their full emerald splendor, the rich green fresh and vibrant with summer youth. A melodic piano line comes into my ears, then collides with an energetic rock backdrop to a hyper Japanese singer. (Must be something by Ayumi Hamasaki – one of my roommates got me hooked on her music, great stuff for surviving all-nighters.) If there weren't branches and vines blocking almost every step, I'd run for awhile, just for the sheer joy of motion in the song, in the early summer air, in the warm sunlight...
      I can't keep from smiling as I near the place where the creek runs under the fence... until I see that my hole has gone. Gone! Only a week, and already the vines are covering it again! Luckily, I have my knife with me again – though I forgot the gloves, so my hands suffer a few brush burns and green stains in the process of hacking out an opening again.
      Finally, I wriggle under the old iron, bursting into the summer sunlight, the light making the garden almost glow, the leaves and flowers are all such rich jewel-tones in this golden light. I was going to turn down the music, letting the atmosphere of the garden soak in... but a favorite song comes on, Kill Hannah's “Crazy Angel” - a bit of a guilty pleasure, the band is one of the slew of alternative emo-punk bands that cropped up around The Killers. But I love the song anyway, it drives right along, and the guitar and vocals just soar into the stratosphere through the bridge... and I'm a sucker for angel references. I turn it up still louder, and let my body burst into the run it's been dying for, the song flying from my throat, “as your wings discard the feathers on the ground, I see a halo, ah-ah, up above you...”
      I pause by the bench to drop off my bag, then take off at a sprint along the tile path. It's clear enough to run on, the plants that cover the tiles – and later, stones – are all low enough to pose no problem. “I look at the stars and dream that the universe was ours...”

      When the song ends, I slow down, catching my breath. I haven't run like that in years, God it felt good! Just to stretch out my body to the full, pushing my muscles to the limit, breathing in this bright air... I skip through a few songs, all too mild for my mood. I leave it on something by The Church – warm, cozy, '80s college rock. A calmer song, but their stuff is always so pretty, and suits summer days like nothing else. I hum along – suddenly realizing that my water bottle is in my bag, which is probably quite a ways away. I grin wryly at my own lack of forethought, yes, let's run full-tilt, away from the water bottle...
      Remembering that I'd seen a fountain somewhere around here, I look around me, thinking it might be closer than the bench. It's not, which is just as well – they were probably still making pipes out of lead when this place was built. I set off back along the path, at a more sane pace this time, looking around me as I do.
      Still masses of mounded greenery. Some of the plants are huge, and some have overextended themselves, the growth underneath is all dead and dry, the branches spindly. I wish so badly I could see the place as it once was, when the plants were properly tended... I'm sure half of the plants have gone entirely, lost to frosts or bad weather, or starved by these plants that got so big.
      There's a marble pillar here, broken off at about waist-height. Was it always like this, mirroring ancient ruins, or did frost or vandals break off an upper portion? It's Roman in style, anyway, I recognize the design of the base from an art history lecture. The top of the broken pillar is indented a bit, making a shallow bowl filled with stagnant rainwater. I find a stick on the ground and lift out the dead leaves and debris. Not much I can do about the discolored water itself, but it looks a little better, anyway. Between vast mounds of green leaves, some plant with spikes of tiny blue bell-shaped flowers shoots up. The blue is striking against the white of the pillar... I wonder if that was the original intent? Crouching down to take a better look at the plant, I see a big clump of field grass crowding against the base of the flowering plant. I'm far from an expert at plants, but I spent every morning of my childhood summers weeding the family vegetable garden. Obvious weeds, I recognize, though I have no idea what anything is called. Kneeling on the stone walkway, I reach down at the base of the grass, and wiggle it free of the earth. I'm careful to keep from snapping the roots, so that the roots will come out of the ground and not just grow the leaves back again tomorrow. After a few minutes, the grass is out, and I lay the bundle neatly on the stone path, away from the pillar. While pulling that out, I spotted some dandelion plants, and other things I knew wouldn't have been purposely planted, and I decide to keep weeding a bit.
      I know full well I could never weed this whole space, but... but even helping this one pretty little flower to keep blooming, to sustain this one bit of beauty in this place... it makes me happy to do. I vow again to pick up a flower identification book, I know I've seen these bright, almost crayon-colored blue flowers before, but I have no idea what they're called.