Field Notes for an Umbrella
Field Notes for an Umbrella1
Cecilia Kennedy
July 25, 2010: 10:45 p.m.
Just a gleam of silver, caught in my headlights, makes me slow down. I pull over and leave the car running, with the lights on, until I find the handle of an umbrella shining in the dark. It is a rare Sterling umbrella with a leaf etched into the knob on the cane, and as a collector of roadside oddities, I’m compelled to keep it under my observation—to find its category, its place in the archives.
July 25, 2010: 11:50 p.m.
On my first night with the umbrella, I leave it closed, propped against the wall in the corner. The moon shines brightly. A heavy shadow falls across my bedspread as I drift off to sleep.
July 26, 2010: 8:45 a.m.
When I awake, the umbrella is open. Under it, I crawl, looking up at the ribs, the metal structure stretching the fabric—and the light in the room shifts. Above me, the umbrella expands. Tree branches arc overhead. Vines, like tendrils, droop from the dome of my ceiling. I feel as if I can walk through an immense forest, covered not just by the umbrella but also the branches pushing against the ceiling.
July 27, 2010: 1:52 p.m.
As best as I can, I try to replicate what I see in drawings, but I erase them all, finding them inadequate. No—I decide I need to study this object further, document my observations inside of my notebook, and share the object itself with the world. Perhaps it would fit inside a museum—open wide. Maybe it would sprout paths that the public could choose and wander. But that could be dangerous, I suppose—how far would this umbrella allow people to wander?
July 28,2010: 3:55 p.m.
My excitement dwindles as something like a profound exhaustion overcomes me—like I have spent too much of my energy, my life, studying everything—tracking everything—documenting the curious and the odd—trying to find its place, its section in a massive body of little things. I give into the exhaustion and just stand there, under the canopy, watching for new paths to sprout. They don’t.
#
I’m not sure how many days have passed, but in my exhaustion, I’ve reduced my notes to definitions and colors: object to protect from sun or rain (black), a thing that includes other elements (green), the gelatinous disk of a jellyfish (translucent). Come to think of it, the vine tendrils look very much like tentacles, waving, drifting. They’re close enough to touch, but my chest is tight, I feel the weight of water pressing down…
#
My skin burns, but my breath is back—like I’ve been washed up along the shore. I find grains of sand in my hair.
#
Purplish tracks, in the impression of tentacles, pattern my flesh. Exhaustion persists, and I hear waves crashing in the distance. For some reason, I’m only able to look up, and I fear I’ll float away—face up, looking at the trees, the bulbous forms of jellyfish.
#
The waves persist. I hear them coming closer. It’s a struggle to write my observations anymore. Since I can only look up, I have to hold my notebook up over my head, as I lie on my back, and try to write, which depletes my energy faster. The umbrella I found seems to contain everything it encounters.
#
If you find me here, in my apartment, unresponsive—if you find the umbrella near the wall—don’t touch it, nor me. We are categorically subsumed.
1Field Notes for an Umbrella was found in an upstairs apartment in the eastern wing of the Burnham Building, which was demolished in 2010. It was delivered to the American Institute of Roadside Oddities and Popular Culture, where Dr. K.A. Partnum cataloged and studied the individual entries, remarking that they were in “deplorable condition, the pages smudged with purple ink, but still somewhat decipherable.” The entries reproduced here are transcriptions.
Cecilia Kennedy (she/her) is a writer who taught English and Spanish in Ohio for 20 years before moving to Washington state with her family. Since 2017, she has published stories in international literary magazines and anthologies. Her work has appeared in MAUDLIN HOUSE, TINY MOLECULES, REJECTION LETTERS, KANDISHA PRESS, GHOST ORCHID PRESS, and others. You can follow her on Twitter (@ckennedyhola).
