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Izzy’s World – Notes From the Basement

“He turned on the ignition, and I heard the great horns of sinking ships in the vast ocean, framed by ceaseless firmaments. The leitmotif of shipwrecked souls bawled in adagio, with us drifting among the jettison, desperately clinging to driftwood for dear life. No beacons, only the squawking of seagulls.”

 

 

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Beschreibung

In her thirties and divorced, Izzy harbors a secret—a persona slashed into two. A chance reunion with a former coworker triggers a spontaneous flight to Boston, launching her on a journey to redeem her fractured self.

In her notes, she descends into her parents’ cellar, confronting the haunting presence of her abusive father and psychotic mother, all while tornadoes ravage the country above.

These are the sketches of her murky soul—short, dense, and abrupt, a peek into a mirror with a distorted reflection. Deeply hidden in the pages of her body, she discovers the question of all questions: who am I?

 

 

 

...With charming kindness, he wielded the distance between us. He was the wizard waving the wand, calling forth forbidden fields. Either he was in control or no one was. Like liquid wax, he stretched space into sectors of ever-growing tension. He was the captain on this boat of ours, commanding the winds...
...He sat on a yellow chair toggling my cerebral keyboard, while the powder got explosive. His skin shone white in the dark as if he had never been in the sun. My mouth was dry. No one had ever seen me like this before, melding into his eyes. Countless sensations pirouetted beneath my chest, whirring in my ears. The potter molded the malleable into artful crescents, beholding them from many angles. Willowy with an aching lower back, inundated with the power of expression, I enrobed my body like never before...
...I pulled out my scrapbook from under my seat. Writing halted the hollering in my head. I wasn’t into novels. Though I had always wanted to write a book about a woman, 53, the age mother died, coming home, sitting on a wood chair, like the one in Van Gogh’s painting, yellow and uncomfortable. She would sit there, still and immovable, while life’s grand themes were unleashed onto her: death, evil, agony, forgiveness, betrayal, loss, redemption, grace, glory and many more. A cacophonous roaring harmoniously gushing down unto her, the oceanic conflux of leitmotifs. Nothing would happen. No event. No development. But a sequence of majestic movie scores. Eventually, she would get up, unchanged. And the reader would be in awe...
















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