All's an End that Ends.

According to Walt Disney, Snow White - a largely fictional character living in a fairy tale written by the Brothers Grimm sometime, a long time ago - has hair which is coal black. Slow black, fishing-boat bobbing sea black*. On the other hand, So-White is a cat - just seen running into the forest by the stream. Her fur is snow-white, cotton-white, snow-ball rolling white. 

 

Freshly falling snow.

 

But there is no snow, falling or fallen. And the stream is not always here. 

It’s here now… the end of December, a handful of days from the start of a New Year. The last rains of the last year- academically this year – have swollen the meadows and the stream is happy to wander where she chooses. 

Snow White, So-White and the stream are all female. 

The path that the stream crosses - that from which So-White leapt, and on which Snow White is remembered – is male. He too though, runs where he chooses. 

Towards the village. 

The village is male – dominated by a phallic church spire. 

Small. 

The population – like the pre-January days that remain – a handful. 

Eighty. 

My friend the eighty-first. The most recent to arrive. A long time ago. He came here by chance. 

 

He stayed by choice.

 

My friend is a writer. 

Even now – as I stand watching the cat run between the trees of the forest, watching the brook babble and thinking about Snow White’s hair – he is writing. 

Scribbling words onto paper. Scratching phrases into paragraphs that have sprung from thin air. Struggling to place them somewhere before they are lost. 

I walk on. 

I think about his house. The walls – inside – are festooned with scraps of paper - all clumsily stuck where the thought that they gave witness to first occurred. He never has time to stop and confide them to paper. Thus they remain confined to post-its. 

 

I’m there now. Just inside the door. 

 

The hallway. 

 

I look at one. 

 

Fear knocked on the door. Hope opened it. There was no one there. It’s my favourite.

 

“It’s not original.” My friend says when I ask. “I didn’t write it.”

I look surprised.

“Well,” he continues. “I wrote it – obviously – but I didn’t…..”

His words wander elsewhere – as did the stream. 

 

Earlier.

 

My friend writes like this. 

 

Stops. 

Starts. 

 

He hasn’t always. Younger, he tried everything. 

Colons. Semi-colons. Subordinated clauses. Split infinitives. He no longer cares. He wants to write. Not punctuate.

“Leave it to fools.” He says. He speaks this way too. “Easier. No need to edit.”

“Really?” I copy him. Easier. 

He likes question marks.

“I like question marks,” he explains. “Commas are ok. Sometimes. Full stops better. A dash-always use a dash – it saves a lot of hassle.”

“What are you doing?” I ask. Unnecessarily.

“Writing.”

“What?”

“This.” He hands me a piece of paper. 

 

There is nothing on it.

 

“It’s empty,” I point out. 

“It’s a picture.”

“?” I say this by raising both eyebrows. 

I wish I could raise one on its own. Like Leonard Nimoy **.

I’ve tried. Practiced in front of a mirror. 

Sellotaped the one. 

Pushed the other.

Nothing.

“Snow White. In the snow.” My friend starts laughing.

“She has black hair.” I know this for a fact.

“You know Disney was American, don’t you?” My friend ignores me. I can’t ignore this.

“No he wasn’t. He was born in Chicago.”

“France.”

“U.S.A.” 

This could go on for a while.

“His ancestors were from Normandy.” 

My friend makes sure that it doesn’t. “Isigny-sur-mer.”

I don’t know what to say. I say nothing. But I hand him the piece of paper back.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I know what to say now. My mother taught me that politeness is next to godliness. Next to impossible too. Sometimes.

“Happy New Year,” I add.

“You too,” he completes.

* Dylan Thomas's words

** The actor who incarnated Doctor Spock in Star Trek.