Caedmon

1: Caedmon

Sometimes he would glare down at the pavement in frustration. His kindergarten teacher was bothered when she saw the young boy in this pensive state, so utterly absorbed in a longing that she could not satiate with picture books or sing-songs. Something about this student irked her; and this teacher, like so many, was a mind of barriers and mirrored mazes. Emotions were blocked out as often as possible, and if one managed to permeate her consciousness it was quickly disregarded or renamed.
"It just isn't healthy for a small child to think so much," she concluded with other talking heads in the teachers' lounge.
The next morning, as she was laying out construction paper and brightly colored safety scissors, she noticed 5 year old Caedmon sitting in a corner: reading. (Other children were still in the hallway, dawdling until they were corralled into classrooms with much effort on part of the teachers.) She watched Caedmon turn the page with his tiny hands.
"What do you think you are doing," she snapped curtly, striding over and snatching the small book from his hands. "You don't know how to read yet, you're still a little boy." She shoved a picture book called, "Helping A Friend In Need" into his lap and briskly walked to her desk where she began to examine this threatening intruder of her classroom: a chapter book.

Caedmon did not say anything when she took his book away. He looked at her towering figure hovering over her desk and decided that he had done something wrong, he knew that teachers were there to help him. His glare of frustration was fixed on "Helping A Friend In Need".
He had liked the chapter book he had been reading. It was about a young girl growing up in the 1800's in a land consumed by warring Indian tribes. Something was right about it, he thought.
Tenderly opening the battered pages of the teacher's picture book, his confusion became more intense. He was experiencing a feeling he had not yet learned words for. He looked up to find his teacher's eyes peering down at him from her great height, and he wondered what this desire was to ask, "Why?".


2: Stranger

Caedmon watched swishing pant legs, billowing skirts, and knocking knees rush past him in the store as he made sure to tighten the grip he fought to keep on his father's hand.
He wondered how long it would be until he was tall like everyone else. He did not really consider the height of other children to be relative. Since their behaviors and thoughts were so grossly different from his, shouldn't their appearance be different, too? He was suddenly reminded of watching a boy his age struggle with a puzzle piece, trying to force a rectangle to fit in place of a square.
He strained to stand on the tips of his toes and observe the interaction between Father and the stranger behind the cash register. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," he thought, and began tugging his father away from what he was sure to be a potential threat.


3: Pears

"What are you thinking about?"
Caedmon did not respond immediately. It would be embarrassing to tell his father about the stories that he wrote in his head. He could not show Father the pictures in his mind and how much fun it was to watch a story he had created run through his head changing details of appearance or turns in the plot line. The events all fit so perfectly inside of him, words of an external language simply could not describe it. "I don't know... I think about lots of things."
In silence, they ignored one another. It was comfortable simply to sit. But Caedmon searched for a more descriptive answer, not wanting to feel disrespectful.
"Like the lights on the highway, the poles between lanes with metal heads... that's what I think an alien would look like. Don't you?"
"I hadn't noticed the poles with metal heads, only that there was light." The five year old carefully digested his father's answer for a few minutes, frightened of missing important wisdom.
"Father, is that like stealing from someone? When you get something without worrying about who provided it?" Caedmon reached forward with his left hand in attempt to call his father's attention back.
Noticing his son, the man said, "That's different than stealing." He handed his son a piece of green pear that he had been slicing. "You're talking about not being grateful. It's different."
"Oh. " Caedmon glared at the floor in frustration and wiped away sugary juices dripping from his small chin. "Is it?"


4: "...and washed the spider out."

Caedmon stepped down the stairs, careful not to wake the sleeping walls. He got up early, not for any particular reason, but because he simply found himself awake before the sun every morning. He was not aware of any other way of starting his day.
Eye level with the door handle, Caedmon went out onto the back porch and quietly shut the door behind him. The world was a slate gray color, at the time when dew is forming. Passing over the pebbles and stones to his blue swing he felt moisture in every breath of air.
The sun rose while he was swinging. A thin gray tree with sparse foliage was just a few yards in front of the swing. Spun between two top branches was a spider web, visible only by its dew drops. Caedmon stared at the spider web for a long time. Failing to adequately describe things had become a normal feeling for him. One day he would realize that it was not the visage he wanted to portray, but the effect that it had on him.
Caedmon continued swinging until the sun was full. All the while, he admired the spider web. It's design was beautiful and ingenious, but too fragile. As the dew drops disappeared, so did the spider web. Caedmon tried to find the exact place in the arc of his swinging that could still show him the web against the sunlight. But once the daytime had begun, that perfect creation was out of reach of the naked eye.
The boy dragged his feet in the pebbles beneath his swing. Slowing, slowing, stopped.
He could not see it anymore, but Caedmon knew the spider web was still there. And he would remember the way daytime took the web away.
Eye level with the door handle, Caedmon walked inside the house and quietly shut the door behind him.


5: 6 Years Old

Caedmon didn't believe in God anymore. Bags of the same candy that he had been given on Easter were in his father's closet. Once he knew that the Easter Bunny wasn't real; he knew that the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, and God were made up, too.
The little boy cried. He would never know why this made him cry. Perhaps for the loss of these benevolent characters; perhaps for having been so completely deceived.
But why did grown-ups put so much time and effort into creating these illusions for their children? If they were willing to build churches, write hymns, raise money, form organizations and committees, memorize bible stories, listen to sermons, and prepare time for holiday feasts for the sake of deceit; what else did they lie about? If such elaborate measures are taken for this aspect of life, how could he ever know when they were lying?
Caedmon did not mention anything to his father. These things might upset Father. It was best to keep quiet and keep listening.


6. Closed Doors

Caedmon learned a lot from listening.
He learned that adults thought that he didn't know what they were saying if they spelled out a word.
He learned that Aunt -------- had been through four marriages. She was verbally abused by her Father, they said. "It's not her fault. She had such a hard childhood."
He learned that you should be happy and social if you want people to like you.
You should always walk with an air of confidence; poise is everything.
He learned new vocabulary words like: "prominent", "diversify", and "the DOW".
Caedmon learned that the best way to understand the world around him, was to look as if he was not paying attention. He learned that the more ignorant he seemed to be about any subject, the more he would learn. If a relative asked him if he'd heard about something, he always answered no.
He learned that knowledge is power. But only if the people around you aren't aware of the knowledge you possess.


7. The 7th Grade

Caedmon struggled with art. In junior school, he dropped out of his first art class. The instructor begged him to stay. His father offered to hire a private tutor. But Caedmon said no.
Caedmon believed that there are limitations on the body and mind. He knew how beautiful his artwork was, and he was proud of it. But Caedmon knew that he was not able to produce art anymore.
Much of his frustration was that he did not choose the subjects. Feeling inspired, he would sit and paint or draw until he felt satisfied; and there would be a masterpiece. Once or twice, he tried to plan out his art before beginning. The first time he tried this he was unable to draw at all. The second time he produced a work that was nothing of what he had intended. Both incidents left him spiritually bankrupt.
His other work left him satisfied, proud, but exhausted. The paintings, the drawings, the sketches, all raised emotion off of the page. This art was not controlled; it was emotions, philosophies, and fears that his mind had barricaded in for emotional survival. Suppressed until they were accidentally released onto paper, these intangibles haunted him. One day, looking down at a finished painting, he experienced a feeling which he had not yet learned words for, but was vaguely aware of having known before. He felt a cavity of loneliness begin to widen at the bottom of his left ribcage.
Not fully conscious, Caedmon questioned whether he was dead or insane. After unfolding a paperclip and holding it in the candle flame until it had turned black, he pressed it against his ankle and watched the skin sizzle and pop.
Calmed and satisfied by the pain; Caedmon left the paperclip and the painting on his desk, blew out the candle, and crawled in to bed.