-An exercise in considering narrative. I'm learning more every day.
"What does your 'basic man' look like, Iona?"
She pondered this. Her eyes crinkled at the corner, squelching together the gingery freckles on her cheekbones. Nostril flaring, she exhaled loudly, irritated that I would ask her to consider anything deeper than a bland stick man.
"I guess he's average height..."
"Which is?"
Another irritated huff, this time paired with distracted picking of her fingernail edges. She had chipped purple and yellow paint in an attempt to keep herself from picking more, but it wasn't working. Cogs turning, her grey-blue eyes searched the invisible horizon for characteristics.
"Ok, he's like Leif's height. Thick brown hair, dark brown eyes. A nicely straight nose. Nice hands, long fingers, but not pale and effeminate. Strong but masculine graceful, ya know?
I nod.
"He's got that old-timey look, like he wears tweed suits and a wide-brimmed fedora. Real leather shoes. Casual grace. Not nervous. Well-kept beard and mustache."
"Facial hair! I like it."
She flips open her books again.
"But Dr. Murray isn't described in the book at all. All I can see is the image that the movie gave me. What do I really know?"
She's frustrated. This exercise of building a mental image is hard for her. Her mind no longer knows what is her and what is built by someone else. We are deep down the rabbit hole of Baudrillard's simulacra, and there's no way back out. How do I help them?
I center myself.
"Iona, Go back to the white room I described earlier. Close your eyes."
She sighs but lightly closes her eyes.
"Reach for the door knob. Open the door, and see the white room. A white chair sits in the middle. A window stretches across the room in front of you. It's the canopy of a rainforest. It's misty and raining. You sit and watch the rain."
Her shoulders drop, and the tightness in her breathing releases.
"Dr. Murry is going to walk into the room and lean against the wall to your left. Keep you eyes closed, and imagine what he sounds like."
She crinkles her nose at this suggestion.
"He's not wearing shoes. I think he would wear thick wool socks while he worked in his lab because the stone floor is cold."
She pauses. I can feel her drawing from the surrounding context, adding details.
"He's absent-minded and forgets to eat. He has a good haircut, but no trim in a while. He runs his hand through it, brushing it out of his eyes...and he has wire-rimmed glasses. Oh, and he doesn't have a beard, but three days of stubble and a bit of mustard on a lab coat that he put through the washer with the twin's jeans, and it's very faintly blue."
Her excitement is growing.
"His front teeth overlap just a little. He can't sit still, and likes to pace when he's thinking. A vein stands out in his forehead when he's thinking about the tesseract."
She opens her eyes and looks right at me.
"He doesn't like green beans. He wears old, soft flannel shirts that feel like home. He smells like pipe tobacco, even though he doesn't smoke one. He carries a yellow-handled pocket knife his brother gave him when he was 12, and puts it on his walnut bedside table at night."
Her eyes suddenly snap back to reality. I can feel her mild shock. Where did she go?
"Jasper Fforde once wrote 'After all, reading is arguably a far more creative and imaginative process than writing; when the reader creates emotion in their head, or the colors of the sky during the setting sun, or the smell of a warm summer's breeze on their face, they should reserve as much praise for themselves as they do for the writer - perhaps more.'"
She considers that, a bit dizzily.
"I did that. He feels so real now. Like, really real. And he's not just a movie character! Real."
A small, inward smile spreads over her face.
"I'm really glad, Iona. You've come so far already! I have a feeling the next chapter will have more color for you. Shall we continue next week, maybe with Charles Wallace? You have a lot more context to glean from, and it may feel easier, but if it gets overwhelming, backtrack to where you are now. Less is more. You're the artist with the paintbrush. They're your creations."
She scoops her copy off the table and beams back at me, nodding happily.
"I can't wait to read the next chapter!", she says as she bounds out the door.
There. That was real.
"Nice job, Dr. Murry. You did it again."
I imagine he chuckles under his breath and looks bashful, but proud. He always does.