This is Blunt-Edged Magic.
I continue writing stuff no one will ever read. Words stretching into sentences stretching into paragraphs and on. Building page after page till I’ve created – what?
You see: my fingers hit the keys, my pen or pencil (.7 lead – or is it graphite? It remains sharp until it’s gone, so what’s it matter?)
My pen or pencil hits the paper and words come out; kinda like magic but not really. Blunt-edged magic perhaps. A lot of build up and show and then – poof! A single, tiny puff of thin, easily waved away smoke (smelling of lemon and cloves). Followed by, nothing.
Nothing to show for all that thinking, time, building, broken nails, calluses, sore back, and aching knees.
Isn’t that just always the way?
The words come out.
At some point I re-read them, change this, cut that, add something else, and leave.
To make another cup of tea, settle into that smushy chair (which, in all likelihood, will never meet its long intended white canvas mixed with toile slipcover.) To read someone else’s words. Whether on a page or a screen, or spoken by an actor on the huge tv filling the wall opposite. It really doesn’t matter.
I sit: reading, tea sipping, nibbling on whatever I’ve dug out to nibble upon.
This morning it was a handful of almonds and semi-sweet chocolate chips.
No – it’s ok, go ahead and judge me.
I don’t care.
There’s nothing you can say I haven’t already.
(Making the entire subject moot.)
I sit, ignoring my dinging phone. Facebook posts which do not matter to my life, emails I’ve no wish to see, messages, texts, the glossy, rolling magazines without words which are instagram and pinterest. Even (holy shit) the increasingly rare actual call with a human speaking from the other end.
A notebook lies next to me, (red, spiral bound with “List” scrawled across its cover by me in black sharpie. The “L” has that annoying loop I make, joining the vertical and horizontal bits.) In it I write notes every now and again. Making a half-hearted attempt to write legibly so I can actually read it later.
Yes there’s always a later; there always has been. Though I suppose, inevitably, one day there won’t be.
Isn’t that strange? One day I’ll write a note – Remember this, Do that! In red sharpie, in aqua pen upon a yellow post it, sticking it to my current notebook, my laptop, upon the desk lamp. Reminding myself to do that tomorrow.
But my tomorrow won’t arrive.
There’ll be no need to remind myself to do yoga, or buy cinnamon; that there are leftovers for dinner in the basement fridge!
Sometimes I wonder whether I’ll Remember or Do It! anyway. Afterward, Out There – in the Wherever I End Up. Wherever I find myself upon that odd day when there is no tomorrow. When, perhaps, I’ll find myself in an eternal Today.
Can it be mornings sometimes? Dusk others. Can the night sky be all around me? Beneath my feet as well as above?
Will there be an ocean? Evergreens and willows; ragged cliff edges, and a cutting, damp wind?
I hope it’s misty; a fog rolling in. Blanketing me with the scent of rain and freshly mown grass.