to have an impression

the invitation of possibility

In the Land of the Impressionists

Like a thirty-thousand-piece puzzle laser-cut from the stories that make up a life, there are fragments everywhere—at the edge of the table, hidden in the cream carpet on the floor, stuck beneath one of the pieces you thought you’d lost during the move—and most of the ideas that move me to keep writing novels do not come at the writing desk, where I am writing to you now, but out there in the world, when I can only jot down impressions.

Here’s one of those impressions that I wrote while I was at the edge of Normandy. At the end is a 1-minute piano piece of two chords—yet another example of an impression.

---

1

To have an impression.

The invitation of possibility.

Lavender hues and lavish meadows. The sky a cloud blue, its reflections in the water pink.

Bask in the cool shadows of trees and the frothing of the waters below the waterfall.

From far away it all feels so close.

In the nearness, it all feels so foreign far away.

To have an impression.

A trick of the light. Of the lines and the tangible ground.

Taste the skin of a tangerine.

Hear the squeeze of a clementine.

Picture yourself by the borders of a river. Look to the flock flying elsewhere, forever flying toward the horizon.

Out here in the vale, the crickets sing their incantations. A poplar in the breeze plays the string section whilst the distant forests and their purple canopies inhale the sun, their trunks hidden beneath the canopy, churning like a stew.

Cascading hilltops like arrows pointing towards the vale. Out here there are only the slightest hints of civilization: hay barrels glowing in the warmth of a setting sun; cottages with thatched roofs darkened from last night’s storm; cavernous dwellings and the rocky cliffs to the north—they have sharp edges, this is true, but this is springtime in the country, and life is lush with meditation.

2

But out there in the harbor protected by the peaceful, dizzying cliffs, an armada creaks in the waves, its hulls carrying the greatest weight. It groans on the landscape as it moves, civilization, threatening to squash everything in the vale and The Beyond.

An engraving on a tombstone built high in the north of town:

These seven

Airmen fell

We buried them

Together

In the church below the cemetery, stained glass futures remain shattered from the blasts of history’s storms, refracting the light of lost lives on a purple carpet stained with blood. There is a darkness here and yet, still it glows in the burning embers, evidence of past conflagrations forgotten, truths couched in lore.

The Preacher has found opportunity here, and he intends to take advantage, for what is life if not conquest, if not endless expansion?

The Preacher has long been preparing for this moment. Here in the vaulted ceilings of this forgotten parish, a warmongering hymn on the tip of the tongue is pronounced, the melody low but growing with the chanting choir and its devoted brethren.