Careless Thoughts and Reckless Rambles Introduction

By: Chase L. Currie

“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.”

-          Carl Jung

“Above all, a well-imagined story is organized around extraordinary human behaviors and unexpected and startling events, which help illuminate the commonplace and the ordinary.”

-          Tim O’Brien

“My life is storytelling. I believe in stories, in their incredible power to keep people alive, to keep the living alive, and the dead.”

-          Tim O’Brien

The smell of coffee fills the air. The melody of people getting their cup full of the dark stuff and then stumbling into the large room to find a seat had been the music of this place for the last few days. There are still days to come for the morning song to be played, but I can’t seem to think about it now. All I can focus on are the many faces finding their seats in the circle. Some of these faces I knew well. Some I have never seen before in my life, but I will know these people better than any of their lovers by the end of the morning.

                There are even a few faces once upon a time were lovers of mine mix in these chairs, but things didn’t work out. Time had changed our hearts, there is no going back. There is no need to go back.

I still kind of want a kiss.

                I glanced around the room at all the yawns, the few kittens playing in the giant bread bowl in the center of us all, it seems no matter how many years I come here there are always kittens in need of a home. The irony, maybe – a twisted of fate, perhaps, - for there are so many souls here in need of the same thing.

                The room is old, far older than me. Older than most of the people sitting here now.

Elizabeth Ross, the matriarch of Airy Knoll, called among the kids who have come here over the years the Farm, sits in her own chair against the window, so she can watch the door. We are not wrong for giving Airy Knoll this name because it is truly a farm. The house, the barn, the schoolhouse which is simply a bedroom made to look like an old-timey schoolhouse, the fire pit, all sit in the Shenandoah Valley on a large farm. Larger in my mind and my writing than the actual fact of the place.

                Elizabeth sits in her chair, waiting for everyone to wake up and find a seat. Writing circle is about to start, setting off the day for the art classes, and no matter how late you fell asleep the night before, you had to be in the circle during the morning time. It didn’t matter if you didn’t sleep at all.

                I had come here a lot over the last few years. I believe at this point in time, I have been here six or seven times now. It all seems so new to me and yet at the same time as if I had stepped into my childhood house.

                Home.

                Not home.

                Either way, I’m welcome.

                And I know the room we are all gathered in was the home of Elizabeth when she was a child. She grew up on the farm, working and loving the land. But time has changed it, things are not the same, except for the walls and the old iron stove behind me. We have been told the house was used as an old fort of the Virginian's regulars fighting off the Indians of the state before it was a state. I have been told Elizabeth’s family was given this land by the King or Queen or both of Germany. They have never left it.

                The human-size wooden beams stand out against the roof of the old house. I hear people moving upstairs getting ready for the morning. Above the living room is where all the ladies of the farm sleep, but I have never been up there. I have no idea what it looks like. Rules do not allow men up there.

                I do not mind.

                Elizabeth orders everyone to their chair. One of the poets in the class started to read a poem. My heart finds that we still enjoy poetry. We are no good at writing it, but for weeks after the Farm, I dream about being a poet.

                The poem comes to an end, and we are allowed to write. We free write for no less than thirty minutes. At first, it is hard for the newcomers to put pen to a page because they know whatever is written down; they will have to read it out loud. The old-timers have learned little tricks to get around writing the truth of their minds. Write a story about a squirrel. Read a poem someone else wrote. Skip only once, if you are allowed.

                And yet, I have seen people write out some of their dark thoughts in the circle. A lover hurt me. A father touched me. I want to die. I want to love, again. I’m lost.

                Tears rain in down in the circle and everyone knows whatever is said in the circle stays there. No words are utter outside of the walls. Those walls in that house whole more secrets in them than any other place on the face of the earth. If you dig those secrets out of the walls …well, if only …

                By the end of the class, thirteen days? Fourteen days? I don’t recall anymore. I would spend a lot of time before classes start up there helping. But by the end of class, everyone had cut off a part of their heart and left in the bowl in the middle of the room.

                I miss this place.

                I miss the hills, the fire, and the single apple tree on top of the hill. I miss it all, but I have writing from those times. I have my memories of the Farm and how it would be home for a few days at a time. I hope to get back there one day. I hope to walk among the hills once more, even if I’m alone. Actually, I would rather like being by myself up there.

                But I know Airy Knoll whole a place in my heart and my writing.

                I looked back over the journals from that time, seeing I should write like I did back then. I should write memories about my life before everyone knew me. I can change things in those memories, pull out the little parts of life in them, and share them with everyone.

                I can ramble about the thoughts filling my head about God, art, death, love, lust, right and wrong. I get to share them with everyone in the circle. People tell me I should write more about those things. I guess I will, one day when I get around to it.

                I guess I’m getting around to it.

Here I am writing about all the thoughts in my head, not the stories I wish to work on, just thoughts. They are careless little things going on in my mind, which I hope you enjoy. I almost dream you might find some wisdom in words. Maybe, wisdom is the wrong word. I want you to relate to my words, and know you are not alone in this mundane life. That you and I can find great stories in all of our lives, all we have to do is simply look for them. I hope these careless thoughts and reckless rambles will help you find your story.

  

(Photos not taken by me but friends at the farm.)