Somewhat of a continuation from here:
Azelea was kneeling by the hedges, writing out her samples from the garden onto her workbook on the ground. She was structuring her pickings and arranging them onto a tableau. She began to map out her findings in points on a number plane.
Meanwhile, Wilson lay on his back, letting his hair be dirtied by the soil. Wilson faced the sky, stole some pens from Azelea’s collection and started to trace the swirled pattern on his finger tips. He followed the curves of the swirl, he followed the continuous lines to their unexpected curves on the tip of his finger. He rolled over to his stomach and began to join the dots on Azelea’s number plane.
He joined them swiftly, quickly- not paying attention to the balance on the page. The points were joined to produce the image of a circular pattern, but it was greatly skewed towards the left side. Azelea scrunched up her face and Wilson began to run his pen covered fingers through her hair. She threw them off and twisted her long light brown hair into a top knot. She rejoined the dots to where they were meant to meet, carefully balancing them to produce a correctly balanced pattern on her plane.
“I can’t focus” Wilson said, throwing himself back onto the soil to look at the sky. “I know, I can very obviously tell.” Azelea replied. “But look,” she continued, “I’ve got these samples to collect and we’ve only been allowed back to the garden for a couple more weeks before they close it again, and start working at it to open it to the public.”
“You’ve got your samples, but I have no story. I’m sick all these folk tales of flowers and the gardens and the woods. I can’t come up with anything insightful, compelling or new.”
“I thought you said this was the perfect place to work on your novel.”
“Yes, but that was when the words came so easily to me. I haven’t been properly writing for weeks. I get ideas, but I cannot piece them together. Everything I come up with is fragmented and incomplete.”
“Wilson. You procrastinate don’t you. I get the feeling you just love that word “fragment. I’m sorry honey, but do I need to remind you about your whims on postmodernism and progression. You always tell me, plot the fragmented progress.”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, rolling into the grass. “I just can’t help but think this whole life isn’t for me.”
She rolled her eyes, and joined him to face the sky, ready to hear him out.
He continued; “I’m caught in verbosity, not saying anything. I’m lost in description, not knowing what I am trying to depict. It’s typical isn’t it? We get thus far, and I have a personal crisis and say “perhaps I am meant for something else.” But maybe I am! Have I gone down the wrong path? I’m so stuck in working out of rejection from all I was brought up in, that I am stagnated. I’m so careful to do something differently, that- I cannot seem to move at all.”
He moved his eyes, his glance, his head towards Azelea. She continued to stare to the sky. He watched her chest begin to rise and fall as she breathed.
“Maybe I should get back to the timber yard like the old man. But babe, I just wanted so much more. You know I got into college for engineering. Thinking it was more than a couple of steps up from the woodwork I spent my youth in. But you remember me when I was there. I hated it. I wanted to get out. Write. Travel the world. Live as a bohemian. What a princess I was. But even still, I go about “wanting more”. But you know babe, I thought these signs pointed towards these writing pieces. I was always so set on challenging the “wheel that comes full circle”- I wanted to put a spoke in the wheel, get off the road entirely. And now, I’m just lost.”
“Wilson, it’s not a road we are on.”
“I know honey. You taught me exactly that.”
“It is not in the ‘a to b’. It’s not in numbers, nor results, but in the patterns that they make. It’s in how we interpret them, how we negotiate them and what we take home from them.”
“Yeah but sometimes I can’t just “negotiate” the road that has been laid out. It is so set that I find it difficult to “apply my own perspective.” You know how many generations it’s been. The wheel keeps turning, and soon the business will be turned over to me. And how is the timing, what will I do? It’s typical really. Just as I try to mark out my own path, just when I release myself of my usual context, my family background, the rest, and give myself over to the writing- I’m lost.
“Lost for what my love? One minute you are seeking a place to get lost, and the next, you are rejecting what is predictable-”
“I’m lost in marking out a new path with my shaky hands and feet. I’m lost in winding new some road, some journey to no end.”
“‘Oh Eliot. I know what you’re getting at, but you know what? We laid those seeds a year ago, and we haven’t ventured the hedges the whole way in for that long. It always happens in a similar way. We follow the path, the moon waxes and wanes, I take my collections, and you gather your thoughts. Sometimes you are closer than you think.”
She paused, she looked across the hedges to the rose bushes on the far side.
She continued, “It takes time; from seed to rose, but the miracle is in the fact that it grows…. You finished your ficto-critical piece, albeit with my help, by November last year.”
“That was a year ago.”
“And you continue to plot your progress via these milestones. Wil, you always taught me the opposite.”
“I taught you that the progress is in the subtle growth that we can only see over time when we carefully observe and remark the slight shifts.”
“Yes. You were the one who got upset at people for defining themselves by their census status, but you are attaching yourself to it as we speak. Wil it is not you. You were the one who told me the path was no winding wheel.”
“I think I’m kidding the both of us sometimes.”
He stared back at the sky.
He was in one of those moods. So she propped herself up, took her pens and got to her work.
He began to murmer his thoughts, whispering half prose into the sky; “‘You will eat of the fruit, you’ll look behind every door and see what spices, honey and perfumes the world has in store. The day is bright, the light is mid-morning, and we will continue until the sun casts shadows and we will find refuge in the shade of one another.”
“Alright, now that you’re back and caught up in gathering your inspiration can you leave me to do my stuff for a couple of minutes. Look,” She pointed, “you’ve screwed up my these plottings. Look at these dots you’ve mismatched.”
He rolled back towards Azalea and took the pen out of her hands. He hid them under his chest and reached out to touch the tips of her fingers.
“You might well note that the path we are on is not dissimilar to the prints on my finger tips.”
She gave over her hands for a moment.