The Place beckons to me, as I pass the window. Its deep-blue face stretching from horizon to horizon; the black branches of the tree filling the window frame, like an inky tattoo impressed upon it. I know the cows are steaming together in the pale green fields, huffing long breaths of moist and icy air. The hawk is surveying the brown hills of work debris left by mining moles the night before.
Worms, the living amethysts, rise to the surface to avoid drowning. Some will be on the road, having lost their way, writhing blind. The road will wind in greyness down, then up, loop around, then down again. The houses at the loop stand gazing through half-lidded eyes. The former-mayor’s wife will pass behind the window, unseen, descending to brew a cup of morning coffee, flick on the screen.
That last part is imagined. It may be real or may not be. But the rest is real beyond the shadow of a… glass.
Cliché. She passes by the window, takes up her coffee mug and press, as well the screen, and moves back upstairs toward her nest. She likes to play these games with language, follow its rhythm as the words appeared on the page, finish with a rhyme at times, watch a spiral in the timeline grow and loop then descend again. She hears her old demons chanting now; she could not do it, she would never succeed, but she quiets them with her fingers, tapping keys that lay like fresh-baked bricks; the more she taps them, the more they seemed to move from the physical realm into the lighthouse realm of the screen, and finally into the multiverse realm of another person’s mind. No longer bricks, but small black lines on white; string theory.
All that power! And suddenly Davies and Ellis have joined her for coffee. She thanks them for dropping by, but closes the Wikipedian window just as suddenly as her fingers had made it open in front of her, and returns to the task at hand. One can discuss the nature of existence and the universe till the cows come home, but the Place awaits, and the hour glass grows bottom-heavy.
When one is lucky enough to have tapped into power, almost as an accident, but in truth through the drive of Power itself, coursing through everything, what does one do with it? One hopes, one wishes, that one might change the world for the better. But it it is too great a task. So she will attempt fiction instead. Now Atwood beams her close-lipped cheshire smile from the pathways of her mind. Atwood made a better bed-fellow, when joyfully rebuilding the nest of ethics. Or Patterson for that matter. What a fine fellow indeed. Beaming bright blue eyes and cheerful vigour for horror and mystery. One might say that he had found nirvana, such was his excitement and vim for life, as he’d built it on his own truth-(ef)faced terms.
Enough name-dropping. That’s surely what one could be accused of. But in fact they were just characters in her head, ones that had themselves placed their black-lined sea-shores at the edge of her lighthouse pile of bricks, and she could no less bar them out from helping her build, than she might tell the ocean to stop forming the land.
556 words. It had been hard enough work, though satisfying and enlivening to imprint. But it was only a small number. The hour grew long, the time remaining grew short, she had not truly begun. But a beginning is never truly a beginning, as any experienced reader or writer knows. Beginnings loop through time, swallowed by endings, a snake ingesting its own tail, or perhaps a Mandelbrot dragon, one that splits an infinite number of times, with an infinite number of carbon tongues.
Her writing-friend G. would say her imagery was too heavy, too overloaded; in the past she would feel crushed by this; now she could only laugh in her mind and realize how he’d always been right about her work. But there was little could be done about it, her mind was as a sea of images, with wild winds that pushed heavy cumulus in racing torrents above it; perhaps the Place had generated this mindscape in her, with its dry waves of endless-seeming land. She could no better control her own rivers than she could control the road that now demanded she set her feet upon it, and begin, one step at a time, the descent down the brightening valley.
These were my morning pages from two days ago. I was going to write the next great novel, but you know how it goes. ;)) Hey writing-friends. How’s the writing going? I’ve lately been watching my MasterClasses again. Yes, watching, not doing. It’s the only way I can get them done — if I do nothing that has anything to do with writing (such as taking notes etc.) while I “do” them, haha. I knit in the evenings while I listen/watch. It’s very satisfying. Margaret Atwood but also and mostly James Patterson at the moment. I have the all-access pass. It’s a smokin’ deal. Highly recommended. (I’m not affiliated — though I probably should be. Would be great to make money at this writing gig one day — though perhaps the fun is sometimes payment enough. ;)) Have also lately been reading a favourite book to the younger kids in the evening: “How Things Came to Be: Inuit Stories of Creation,” which lends its influence. And the Davies and Ellis reference is re: Arguments against multiverse theories (Wikipedia), but I know little about all that. Does it make sense that I put this update here, instead of in a separate post? I don’t know. Party on. And Write, Now. ;)) xoxo Nadine
Nadine inhales & exhales words & images from current vantage point in Auvergne, France. Thank you for reading. ❤︎