Vanilla, Knuckles and Wood

The ocean looked different. The waves rolled the same, the sky was as dense, and the foam swirled like scum. Yet, the air tasted fade - as if its salt had evaporated.

Colin threw a stick of wood to Henry and dove his sharp eyes into the tide. March winds in California had always soaked his bones and, on that morning, they also smelt of defeat.

Colin’s thick hands brushed the pan in the cabin’s sink while the pines outside swayed in the rain. He sat down with his fried eggs and pushed Patrick's letter away. He still hadn’t read it. And didn’t want to. 

Henry rubbed Colin’s knee, as if he had sensed something. “You know me too well, buddy,” Colin said, tapping the Labrador’s flank before stepping over to his desk to check on his system.

That wooden sculpture had earned him Patrick’s commission and some fame amongst private collectors. Of the seven pieces he had envisioned for it, the central one was still missing and nothing he shaped could match the design in his mind. But did reality ever meet expectations? No. The problem was elsewhere.

Colin respected Patrick’s knowledge and poise. They had convinced him to accept his commission and to give a talk on his craft in private circles. Yet, of their last encounter only the words “intellect”, “substance” and “proud elitism” remained. After Colin’s talk to Patrick’s friends, he invited him for what Colin expected to be a conversation. Instead, he ended up listening to Patrick’s monologue on people’s lack of insight and taste, congratulating Colin as if he had passed some obscure test and received his blessings.

Colin wasn’t one to get intimidated. But contempt and lack of introspection gutted him in the most literal sense. He grabbed the wood chunk he had worked on until late the night before and cut it mechanically thinking about that entitled face, that empty inside, and those watching monkeys who clapped around after he gave his talk. 

He paused and looked at the wood. He had designed that system to synthesize his thoughts on “meaninglessness”. His dearest topic. But what could it mean to them? They were mired in it.

Colin ditched the chunk of wood and dove his head into his hands. The cabin’s chime rang, and Henry started to bark. 

“Lost in thoughts again?” Lola’s voice said in his back. She strode over to his desk and glued her cheek to his beard, her wet braids dripping in his neck. 

“I’ve got something for you.” She walked back to the kitchen table to unpack her basket. “All fresh from the center. Peaches, and carrots, and peas, and look! A tiny little cherry.”

“Amazing.”

“Don’t tell me you’re bringing that mood to the class.”

“Is it today?” he glanced at his calendar.

“It is. My students can’t wait to meet the wood carver. I told them everything. About you, Henry, your work, the cabin– “

“About Patrick too?”

“Of course not.” She dropped a box on the floor. “I know it’s private, I’d never tell anyone.”

Colin gave her a suspicious look. 

"Is it what you’re working on? The piece for Patrick?" She looked over his shoulder and he pulled away. 

"The rule is –" 

"I know. I just wondered if you had finished my piece."

"Your piece?"

"The aniseed you said you'd make for me."

"Come on, I don't have time for that."

“Today is Nervesday - I see.” She picked up the box from the floor and shook it up in the air. "Lucky you, here’s some vanilla tea."

Colin ignored her and grabbed another chunk of wood.

"Did Henry eat anything?"

"He's fine." The file came and went across the wood. "I’m fine, he’s fine, we're fine."

Lola didn’t reply. He heard her step over to the window, certainly to watch the pines outside. 

When he moved into Patrick’s cabin for his art residency, Colin wasn't expecting to meet anyone. He had Henry, his project, and a few books but Lola showed up on her bike one day and decided otherwise. 

In the rainy light coming through the window, her amber eyes looked lucid. In all senses. He liked that about her. But what would she say if he dropped it all?

“You said your meditation class was in one hour. Shall we?”

She nodded at her reflection in the window but didn’t move.

“We can’t disappoint your students.” 

"I know.” She looked back at him. “That’s why I brought a tandem.”

“A tandem? In the rain?”

“We’ll enjoy the challenge.”

*

What did he get himself into? The fog was thick, the rain poured, and the tandem shook all over. 

"We're too fast, Colin."

“It’s the bike. I -”

“Watch out!”

They slipped in a puddle and the tires zigzagged in the air, Colin lost control and they got propelled to the other side of the road. Colin fell on his arm. 

“You weren’t watching,” Lola said rolling to the side.

“That was a stupid idea from the beginning.”

“No, you weren’t watching. You were thinking.” She crawled up. “All because of that snobby letter.”

Colin darted at her. 

“Is your elbow bleeding?” she asked.

“What did you say?”

“Your elbow, you can’t sculpt if – “

“You read my letter?”

She looked down and, before she could add anything, Colin grabbed his bag and walked off.

“Colin, wait! I didn’t… it’s not…” Her voice echoed in the empty turn and ravens flew out.

Colin kept walking. Midway, he stopped and punched a tree. 

*

He cringed as he ripped skin off his knuckles and cleaned both wounds, the one on his hand and the other on his elbow. Henry moved his tail and Colin caressed his ears with his sound hand - the one that couldn't sculpt.

He threw wood into the cast pan and closed it. Through the tiny holes, flames swirled. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and grabbed the seventh piece he had been working on. He opened the cast pan again, threw it in and watched it die.

Thunderstorms cracked outside and the ocean roared as the night fell over the coast. The chime rang and Henry started to bark. “It’s the wind,” Colin said. As no-one came in, Henry started to scratch the door.

“It’s not Lola,” Colin said and Henry barked stronger. “Alright, buddy.” 

Colin opened the door and Henry crawled out between his legs. He tripped over on the porch and ran out in the night. Colin turned on the lights outside and checked out on him from afar. As he headed back into the cabin, Colin noticed what Henry had tripped over – a kit.

A tablet, a connected pen, wires, files, and drills. Colin sat confused for a moment, there were no notes, no guides, nothing. “We’ll enjoy the challenge” he heard somewhere in a corner of his mind. 

He inspected the drills and the files one by one. He lit up the tablet and a dialog popped up asking him to enter a project name. For what? He frowned and looked ahead. On the kitchen table still lay the letter. He stood up and threw it into the cast pan. He sat back down and entered “Project Trial.” He doodled on the screen with the pen and laid a piece of wood under the file. 

The file progressed, fast and precise. Replicating his doodle across the wood, with a perfect finish. Colin stopped the machine and replaced the file with a sander. The wheel spun across the chunk, scrubbing it smooth and flat. Colin watched in silence.

He brought his chair closer to the table, as if to give himself courage, and grabbed the connected pen again. “Project Vain” he entered that time and wrote it like it was. To that empty guy, his money, and his watching monkeys. 

Before he could be tempted to erase his text, he pressed enter and watched the drill vibrate across the last piece of wood he’d be using. The drill carved his letter in the chunk and exposed his world, bare and naked, putting an end to it all. Certainly, beyond that residency. 

Colin wrapped the existing six pieces of the system together and incorporated the new seventh part. He removed the "System" label from the installation and called it “Vain” instead. He laid the sculpture into a large box and wrote Patrick's address at the top.

He then grabbed his cutter and the piece of wood from that morning. His knuckles screamed but he ignored them and started to carve the aniseed for Lola. The first rays of light were rising and somehow her amber eyes looked at him as if she still stood by the window. He wanted to add a note, to say something, but he laid down his pen thinking of that lucid gleam who knew it all certainly already.

Colin rolled his Nick Drake poster and stuffed it into his bag with his clothes, books, and tools. He adjusted his cap over his head and stepped out into the freshness of another morning on the Californian coast.

Henry barked and Colin scratched his ears as they got going. To the ocean to watch the tide, to the ocean to smell the wind.