The End

The last session was over and our little class of seventeen or so had decided to check out the edge of the desert, which was apparently not too far away from the town centre. We piled into three cars and we drove. We passed many an orange tree, some sad houses and a water park that was closed for the season. The rest was brown, green scrubland.

We pulled up to a large mound of sand that we couldn’t see over, this must be the edge we thought. It was warm and comforting in the sun and sand sifted quickly into our shoes as we ran up the dune. We looked out over the undulating expanse of sand and we’re quiet.

“Its not really the desert, is it?” said Liz.

Suddenly we were all laughing and running around like little children. Jumping up and down, whooping. For some reason we couldn’t stop stomping on these little wild watermelons growing everywhere on the ground. Such pleasure was ours when we heard the crunch and squelch of the little fruits bursting under foot.

Atop a high dune some of us lit cigarettes and were quiet again. While it wasn’t the desert, it was beautiful. Yellow-orange sand, shaped by the wind into gullies and hills ballooned out before us, only to be cordoned off by green trees all around. It was like an inlet or a bay.

We stayed there, all together, for a couple of hours. We wound down. We knew it was all ending soon, our togetherness. We passed around something that wasn't a cigarette and reminisced on the festival we had shared.

On the car ride back to town we were once more like little children, tired and quiet from our outing. I stared at the changing sky the whole way home. It was magnificent, watching it change.  Like the slowest water-colour painting you have ever seen. The top of the page was the lightest blue and extended for a long distance. Once near the bottom the sprinkles of light pink and gold were introduced, followed by weak red, maroon, lilac, purple and countless other colours I can’t capture. The point where the sun dropped below the horizon was pure paint with hardly any water. It was searing and vivid.

Take Comfort Where You Can

A woman from the audience was asking Anthony Lawrence and Eileen Chong a question. It seemed she was about to burst into tears with every croaky word she spoke. I had heard her in the last session too. She went on and on about herself and I was beginning to get exasperated. I looked around to see the reaction of everyone else in the room. My eyes alighted on Sharon Olds.

In contrast to everyone else, she had a look of concern and interest on her face as she stared at the grey, teary woman. I realised that Sharon was a woman of supreme kindness and empathy. I realised that when Sharon said she only knew how to write about real life, she was telling the truth. Her poems are all tinged with kindness and I haven’t read one that is hateful or bitter. Even when she writes about her ex husband she infers warmth and love. I feel like divorced couples are capable of incomparable hate and vehement yet she shows none of this. And I do not believe she hides it either.

Strangely, this made me worry and I felt uneasy. I wasn't brimming with good thoughts and empathy. I was rolling my eyes at this brave woman. How was I going to sell any books with my narcissistic attitude and scathing manner? 

I let myself fret for about 2 minutes before I remembered all the weird and sadistic books I had read that weren't all about love and daisy chains. The book Lolita by Vladamir Nabokov is literally about a paedophile obsessed with nymphets and its considered one of the greats. Its about how you write not what you write. Oh Lewis, you have outdone yourself.

My mind came back to where I was, question time was over and everyone was leaving. I picked up my things and left with my classmates. As soon as we were free of the throng of people, one of my classmates said “Can you believe that woman?”

I smiled.