Trinity College School - Record Yearbook (Port Hope, Ontario Canada)

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All That I Am Jose Lopez stood on the porch of his wooden shack and peered through sleepy eyes at a small field of ripening corn, which was his own. Usually on such a morning as this, when the sun splashed colour on the drops of dew, the little man would have been filled with pride and happiness, but today he shifted his gaze and stood beaming empty-mindedly into the purple haze of tall, soft mountains, back and beyond. “Oh!”, he spoke softly to him- self, “my seed has grown well . . . The corn has never been better, but that orange sun will shine, and I will have to bend my back and feel my clothes stick as I sweat for it.” “No! I can ' t stand it! Not today - not one more day, ever!” And the trembling figure burst over the porch, slipped through the corn patch and across the drift fence of old knotted gray beams, as he fixed a course towards a longvalley shrouded in a lurid purple vapour. “Aw, hee!” He cried, gasped, and laughed like a madman. Inside, he wanted to proffer to the whole amorous landscape a feeling that could not be contained. It seemed some God was driving him wild. Around hummocks and across leas, Jose” went on a frolic that even a deranged leprechaun could not manage. “Oh! possessed by a demon and Oh! so numb of mind and free of spirit . . . Hello mountains!” he cried, and as they answered him, he came to rest in the chill of a stream. “Ah! Thank you kindly.” he said, and stood looking at the water. “How are you today, my love? I am fine thank you . . . How are your fishies? Well, I shall see you farther up the valley ... I shall find where you and I belong . . . Don’t go away . . . Hootchie-coo little stream; see you later!”

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He existed in darkness and was alone Not a voice, not a caress. Silky blackness and solitude were his alone. He walked and there was no sound. He looked and saw nothing. His only escape was imagination; He began to dream. In those dreams he lived He saw man made in his image Walking, talking, touching. And in those dreams he saw light. As time passed his dreams became reality; He no longer existed - He no longer lived in darkness - He lived in a world of light. This world was his creation and He became its lord, The Lord of Light. The Dream | I I I

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Then with great precision the little half- breed sprayed through the water as disturb- ingly as possible (like many people, he likes to see how high and far water can be made to go), and he went bounding down a vagrant path. Nature demands its toll on excessive frolicking, however, and Jose, anxious as he was to go on, had to oblige his flesh and come to a breathless walk. “Ah. Jose, you ' re tiring yourself. Sit yee down a while. This mountain won ' t mind . . . Oh, my little heart, so little but so strong. I can feel you pushing blood about me. Oh! such a powerful rhythm. How is it you carry such command? . . . And you, little flowers, so perfect and free- you sit here only to smile at the sun and bow for the wind and rain . . . Well, one last whiff of your perfume and I’ll be on my way through sapphire meadows and the gleaming trees of higher slopes.’’ He was on his feet again and trotting down the trail, driven only by the force at the back of his head. Yet as the day wore on, Jose was wearing out, and with the coming of the midday sun his blind excitement was being enveloped by an oppressing force. Eventually, he staggered his way to a tree whose branches kept watch over the valley stream. Jose clasped one of the tree handles and hung from his hands while he -surveyed the area for his own pleasure. “I have not had breakfast, nor shall I have lunch, but before this day is over, I will know the secret of you.” He ignored the mockery of the chortling waters and carried on with his thinking. “Well, I’ll rest now. I guess a fellow must rest ... I have all the time in the world now, but I must be on my way . . . I’ll just be a minute.” He lay back in the cool green grass. “Good . . . Good,” he thought. But as the sun gathered strength on his face he decided it was not so good and moved into the full shade of the tree he had leaned on moments before. “Hee hee yah! I’m on my way. Yessir, I’m on my way, but I’ll just take it easy for awhile. I have plenty of time, plenty.” Then, after the subsequent two and two-thirds minutes of rest, Jose got up and was off again. He plowed through the brook (disturbing the water at least as much as the time before), and slushed across the gravel of the flood area, onto a hard brown trail in the adjacent forest. Suddenly, the world around him hushed and there, in the silence held by the trees, he heard only the sounds of Jose Lopez. He could hear only the pounding of blood, the growl of his complaining belly, and the trudging of sore feet - all sounds of his own, all sounds of his vitality. “Damn it! Why the silence, you bastard- ly trees? I have come to see your hills and beautiful mountains, but you turn once pleasant ground to cold hard surface ’neath my feet. As I walk with you, I feel myself an intruder, but damn it, I ' m not, and I’m not going to turn back. I will walk on and find myself exactly the place I’m looking for, so stare at me all you like!” Imagine, defeated by trees?! Fiddle- sticks! I’ll carry on,” and Jose carried on uncomfortably under the watch of the silent, solemn plants. Though moved by a strong will, the man wished deep inside that he had not spoken to the trees in such a manner since he felt sure that they were more than amply heeding his invitation to stare at him all they liked. However, he would