Waste Land to a Scream: A Gay Science

Novel 017

17. “There are no facts, only interpretations.” Nietzsche

March, New England, 1917

In the once along a half-forgotten path stood a young man tracking his way through the wilderness along some forgotten trail in the woods. It was light snow that was just dusting from the clouds and it was simply light frosting. He did not mind it in the least because this was his milieu: here it was still winter though collapsing rapidly into the early part of spring and it suited him just fine. He knew that down in New York City or Boston, there would be commotion at the training snow and some mutters as to when the spring should finally come. The trolleys carried men to their work and back again among the buildings which strewn everywhere in the city.

Moreover, the towers of the city far away were blooming ever higher. he realized that the word city would mean a very different thing in 20 years than it does today. he imagined the spires in their glory and decided that he would rather have the city of yesterday than of tomorrow. or live here in the rural countryside. because after all, poetry did not mind where it was created or how it was reduplicated. He looked around to each direction and side that the past was going to go anonce, whatever his own opinion was.

But this was not his finding because he could see the conifers still fighting to hold on to the burgeoning winter with torturous delight.

He was putting out people's pockets in the areas that required them, but there were long moments of pine trees that secluded be rich maple goodness that he eagerly succors. It was the deep resonance of the sap draining from each tree and into the large spigots to reduce to syrup. It was a good life and it meant that he could think, and think about poetry while doing a menial task. In the present, the menial was more important because it had tangible results while the poetry meant very little to the rest of his compatriots. Perhaps that would change. he did not realize that he whistled while he worked because it was as natural as spring. Even the spring of the cold. His buckets were cupped between his shoulders and little did he feel the weight of them: he was not quite as strong as an ox but he would do in a pinch.

Then he reached a crossroads and did not know which direction he should trod because in both directions there were maple trees here to be slaked. one way went up into the atmosphere begging to reach the highest hill while the other was down towards the valley and towards the village which he would go to once his job was done.

He stood a long time and thought. One road led down and there was an abundance of the sweet syrup but it was in many different smaller trees which each had to be pounded and ground to get at the river full of bark. It was a troublesome way of getting it. Getting their way was up towards the top of the local mountain, and on the near top were old trees that harbored the rich grain. Each bucket contained ample reservoirs of the Golden goodness and he only had to put the buckets because each one was already brimmed and primed for the taking.

Downwards was grassy and easy to the touch. And he could imagine just skipping along even though he would have to nail the screws one by one in each gullet. The other one was not trod at all. He realized how long it was before the maple trees supplanted the pine trees and how long he would have to trudge before getting to the deciduous Valley.

Then he realized that it might well be that he only had one road to walk down until next winter and that the road not locked down would be untouched until the next year. And he realized that no one would make the decision for him nor question his ability to do so. It was only his choice and no one else's.

It was a long decision. But then he made it suddenly: he would go up and brave the cold to get the sweeter victory. This was his judgment and he finally made it with the determination that it required.

So he gambled that the smooth syrup from on high would be the better repast over the next year. And so he said his course upwards to the celestial sky. the snow began to increase and wickedly betrayed its malevolence. It was a cruel God of the mountains but he moved on because there was an inner presence. Perhaps it was that he was a New Englander, though of recent extraction.

The woods were in agreement. So he followed his own advice.

And that made all the difference.