marox_pass_kevinkatilyn fyn gula of all the journals copello looked through, even that of nabiscus, the one that proved to be his favourite was the selection made by a ten year-old, named helina. the first thing to be noticed is her flaxen hair, a tangle of dreadlock and spitcurl. it is both beautiful and frightening at the same time. however, there was such intense streaking that we are whooshed back to the beaches of ventura and santa barbara. eyes were the blue of shiny robin's eggs, sitting like jewels in the clean nest of the apple tree, shading the bewildered chickens who recently endured an attack by stray dogs. she wore a&f shorts past the knee, yet one was not disabled to see the fine blonde hairs growing on an exposed tan respectfully muscular, naturally toned calf. her mother found them on a goodwill rack. gap socks led to worn docs. mossimo stripes, silver and turquoise bracelets, rings, neclaces. hemp anklet with sea beads. dimpled smile with perfect teeth, not crafted by braces. her voice had the recognition of trapped air underwater that rises unnoticed until it breaks the surface with a song whose lyrics are its melody to be sung in a round at the beginning of each school day like the saying of the pledge. "all of the time i have used to think if i was having the time of my life, i now realize i was." she rarely turned away when talking to you as if her eyes were yet another door we needed to swing hinged, as opposed to unhinged. the doors leading to the inner worlds cannot function unless they possess the ability to swing back and forth. she was sitting at the table that kevin had constructed while greta looked on and held the boards straight and tight against the push and pull of the pounded nails. one leg tucked under, hair in the mouth. concentration. determination. attention to detail. no proclivities, yet. the age of innocence. she was using caran d'ache watercolor crayons from switzerland. many children think they are caranuba wax crayons and are puzzled at your mention of their origin. "art store," they think to themselves. and they secretly wish they could record everything as the true artist does. she absolutely filled her pages with the interior cartography of the world as she knew it. as copello paused in his observation of her surface beauty, looking instead to the journal he noticed with a sudden inhalation of clary sage scented air. "these fucking pictures are not of fyn gula and mondovidia. these are the illustrations of rynomari." copello said out loud. helin looked up at him relishing his surprise and amazement. "kevinkatilyn," they said together, as if it had been scripted. "i've been chosen." helin said, with bright smiling happiness, and there was a slight new zealand accent for she stayed summers with her grandmother near wellington. she was thrilled beyond belief to be the one known in history as the revealer of the location of copello's marox pass. 010817 ... log burning fire rynomari 25 060322 what's it to you? who go blather from