Jasper came closer to a clearing along the path to Phoenix Park and decided that it was time for a bit of a short rest. He hadn’t gone really far enough for a rest, per se, but the truth of the matter was that this spot had some sort of sacred magic about it. Now, let Jasper be very clear. He did not under any circumstances believe in any of that rubbish about fairies. But, readers that is not to say that he did under any circumstances disbelieve in them either. And if ever there were fairies in the middle of Dublin, well he would like to believe that might just be where they would gather. Of course, this was not built on any background knowledge of any sort of mystical Celtic past, but Jasper’s own presumptions about where and when fairies might exist if in fact they did exist. Anyway, as Jasper dropped his bicycle in the grass he let the (still sunny yet cold) wind whistle around him. Jasper wandered out farther into the field–not really sure if he was supposed to or not–and was reminded for a brief moment of two things: Donegal and James Joyce. He had read The Portrait not too long ago. Or maybe it was long ago? He guesses now it was, because he was a boy in Donegal and as that was only ever going to amount to 15% of his entire life, it will forever be long ago. In the book, however, Stephen Dedalus described beauty as wholeness, harmony, and radiance. And after reading this book, Jasper would always check to see if things were beautiful using these three criteria. For Jasper, it was a way of evaluating the subjective from an entirely objective view. Now, what defines something whole, harmonious, and radiant was obviously entirely up to Jasper and he knew in this way his evaluations were subjective. But, if he couldn’t find these three things in something–then he couldn’t (or wouldn’t) denote something as beautiful. But, here, he always felt whole. And so did the field with the Dublin mountains and green grass slipping underfoot, the last of leafy trees overhead, and the whirring of Dublin city somewhere far to the right. And, of course, there was Jasper–a left behind yet dignified round man. There was harmony, too. For the memories of Donegal and Dublin and past and present could mingle together without becoming angry. Suddenly, Jasper let his body fall back into the field, leaving his bicycle leaning somewhere behind him, laying with legs sprawled in front, arms stretched out to the side, tucked away in the tall wild green grass–safe enough, lucky enough, radiant enough–to cry.