Friday, March 3, 2006

latest swing

Long drive. Chose a crackling AM station over the hiss and pop of an aging cassette tape. Stuck to a road I know better than the inside of my own eyes. Made it home in time to catch up on the nothingness of world events. The television casting flickering blue and grey light about a darkened living room brings a particular numbness. Talking heads tell me more and more: chaos and cruelty in the Middle East, corruption in America, conspiracy in a former Soviet state. Remote in hand, the power button calls: Turn me off. S udovol'stviem!

Match point. Made a nest of blankets in the bed, and piled my books around me - stayed up late with Žižek. Tripped over identity, and watched a car crash of words - rubbernecking. Fought off sleep for a time by drinking strong Turkish coffee until my eyes got that peculiar wiggle and words became unreadable. While my eyes closed, I thought about that word, wiggle, and I did just that while burying myself amongst the great heap of blankets. Finally, I jumped the fence between Freud and Jung. Bought a vowel. Went to sleep.

Set apart. You can't come near this - not even close. In the great expanse, I'm busy running through a series of lines. A screenplay from another universe. Dialogue filters in from elsewhere. Two talk. To talk. They say nothing, but they listen closely to the sound of their own voices. "I guess the first thing you have to do is ask yourself why you want to become a writer," one suggests. "That's easy," the other replies. "Becoming a writer will make me interesting." Taking honesty into account, I hold up a score card with the appropriate number. All tallied; the other judges were not so kind.

Long drive. That strange, drawn-out commute from sleep to wakefulness. I dig in to a large bowl of Cocoa Puffs with soy milk, and spread out the morning paper on the table in front of me. The cat brushes against my leg reminding me that I have someone else to feed, and a ray of sunlight peeks in through the window, landing on an article about the dullness of Canadian politics. I quickly scan the words, and discover, to my amusement, that the article itself is dull. Clever writers these days, I think, and close the paper before tossing it into the trash. Clever writers indeed.

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