THE FLOWER PICTURE IN MY ROOM by Frank Cook I am standing by the edge of the window so that I can look out on the panoramic blackness of the outside scene, and, at the same time, I can perview the interior of my room. The morning marches forward and the rising sun illuminates the sky in one smooth motion. The indistinct shadowy look of everything inside of my room is sharpened in detail the titles of the books on the shelves now readable, the grain of the textured walls now discernable, the flowers in the picture on the wall opposite now blue and yellow instead of black and gray. Outside, the sky changes to gentle gray and a tingling red orange line widens consistently along the length of the horizon. The crimson edges of the clouds flash to white and the whole sky transforms to blueness the deepest hue being a sort of an illusion of darker blue in the center of the sky. All of the items in the picture on the wall are now clear; the pot in which the greenery and flowers are displayed, the table on which the pot sits, the off-white wall painted in the background, and even the thin stalky stems of the flowers themselves silhoetted against that wall. 1 can see the little splinters of faded gray wood on the rough weatherbeaten surface of the picture's barnwood frame. The bright sunlight sparkles the leaves on the aspen outside into shimmering quivers of green and yellow and white flashes. The sudued sunlight and hazy lamplight combine in this room and I notice that the chair which is across the room sitting below the picture, facing me, casts no shadow nor does it reflect any pinpoint of light to highlight its polished wood surface. Morning fills my room. The movement inside of me picks up momentarily, deceitfully, and then becomes languid again. I walk over and sit down in the chair, facing the window. I think this thought: "The passage from one to another holds the largest number of clues and the smallest number of answers. That is neither too abstract nor too general a statement if the examples BIRTH and DEATH are used in support of it. By 'passage from one to another' I mean transition; that is, the movement from one state of being, whether it be of an emotional, physical, material, or even spiritual nature, toward a different or other state of being. The transitions involved in the change from happy/sad, young/old, rich/poor, and convert/apostate would all fit my definition. The word 'holds' means, in this case, contains. In other words, my predication is that the transition itself is in deliberate possession of some types of information which are valuable in the understanding of the human condition. The word 'clues' refers to that information. The frequency of these clues increases as the rate of change increases. Furthermore, the rate of change is highest during a transition, therfore, the most clues are contained within the transition. The 'answers' are those perceptions about the nature of the self which are constant in an individual's consciousness, once again, the term is defined in reference to change. For, as the rate of change increases the appearance of any constant or stable entity in a mind becomes more obscure, less objectively factual. During a transition, then, the conscious- ness loses its potential to keep a grasp on abstractions such as truth. So, the whole concept is actually the description of a paradox. Perhaps it is the universal paradox of humanity during the monumental transitions of human existence, like birth and death, the most information is available at the same time that the ability to synthesize that information into something approaching reality is at its weakest point." I would go outside if there were cause for it. But I am comfortable sitting here in the wooden rocking chair in front of the flower picture on the wall in my room. I am working. My tools never waste away although they are constantly sharpened on the whirring spinning whet stone. I change it into a positive even as the stone cuts each tool. Matter itself, I am led to believe, is neither created nor destroyed. Why not the same, then, for thought. That is why I am more at home here in this chair instead of outside where everything would be different and my senses would detect the change. I turn my chair around and sit back down in order to study the picture of the flower. It is a symmetrical part of the wall on which it hangs. The barnwood frame makes a perimeter around the flower picture in much the same way as the window-frame of the window where 1 stood earlier and watched the sun come up circumscribed the outside scene and separated it from the wall in which the window sits. The scene outside was real, some might say, and the flowers are not. Yet the outside scene that was enacted for me exists only in the past; but, on the other hand, the flower exists now, already more enduring than the sun-up of this new day. I can see it anytime I want to. I see it now. The yellow in the picture balances the blue, like the sun and the sky. Even when 1 am outside I can still see the picture exactly as it is, hanging upright in the center of the wall in my room. Beneath the blue and yellow flowers are the bright greens and dark greens of the leaves and ferns that spill over the sides of the soft-rust colored crock. The eartherware pot is sitting on deep-brown grained table. The grains are swirls and ripples that look like distorted outlines of old peoples' drooping wrinkled faces. The blue and yellow flowers are radiating colorful, in sharp contrast to each other. I sit quietly in the chair waiting for the next transition dusk. When it draws near, the cool whisper that hushes the clamor of everything outside of my room also brings the chilly air inside and I feel it shivering inside of my chest and crawling across my back. Dusk is not the opposite of dawn even though one seems to result in illumination and the other in darkness. Darkness means that another day is done, and not that evil times have come. Night happens too quickly and I am left in the hazy light of the lamp beside me. It casts a shadow across the floor of me sitting in the chair, looking upward at the wall. I am glad, now, that it is night because I usually stay in my room until morning. The silence in the room is crisp and clear. The flower picture is grayer, less concise, in this artificial light Yet it is still there, only its beauty is more enigmatic. In any event, the most important things are: I can see the picture of the flower; I am sitting in my room; and, the blues will still balance the yellows when tomorrow comes. 28 The Review is printed by Lorraine Press, at 1952 West 1500 South, Salt Lake City, Utah, 84104. The Review is printed on 80 lb. Centura Gloss and Dull Offset White Paper, in Korrina Roman and Korrina Kursive. Typefaces are courtesy of Column Type Co., Inc. 1979 1980 The Aardvark Review welcomes submissions in the categories of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, graphics and photography. Literary submissions should be typed on white paper and double spaced, accompanied by a duplicate. Send all submissions to Weber State College, c/o Signpost, 3750 Harrison Blvd. Ogden, Utah 84408.