12 Jun

After nearly 6 weeks, I click a Word document open. The whiteness blinds me and I shield my eyes from its accusatory glare. The knot in the pit of my stomach is baby-sized now and ‘WTF’ flashes in large neon letters to the beat of a funeral march. Loo-ser, loo-ser, left, right, left.

In a bid to escape, I jump paragraphs. As if leaving a line behind will usher a stampede of ideas, a veritable troupe of trapeze artists who will fling themselves onto the safety net of this page, then loll a while before swinging wildly onward to another.

I stand in the ring. And I stand alone. It’s awful quiet when you’re all gone, I say to nobody in particular. There is no echo. And the knot is now making its way up to my throat.

A peculiar freeze takes over this warm summer day. First a bird’s clatter, then an insect’s hum. But this page, it isn’t moving. I quake, to give the Valley company. Only the Valley’s tremors subside. Writing needs to be more like mowing a lawn. A precise patch of L-shaped tasks, and then you’re done. Trimmed, neat, rinse, repeat. The knot decides it prefers the ampleness of my stomach. It slides back gutward, suspiciously fuller.  I continue to flail, in a cycle of panic and ambiguity. I would be happiest in an assembly line. Concrete, solid, done when done.

Noticing two straight sentences beginning with ‘I’ brings up concerns of ego injection. A lifelong aversion to navel-gazers jumps into the pool party that all my baggage decided to throw when I wasn’t looking. The knot’s moving heartward and the constriction hurts. I should wring the curtains and howl. Let me switch on the iron in preparation. And Purell my palms so the drapes stay white.

I can’t fathom potters or painters. Wash those hands, people. And eat with a fork. Ickiness makes me squirm.  So I sit myself down, after nearly 6 weeks, and click open a Word document. Its whiteness blinds me and I shield my eyes from the accusatory glare. But then I think of the options and soothe myself that at least writing is clean. The knot yawns demurely, cups its chin, and waits for me to begin.

8 Responses to “Dervish”

  1. damnhobsons June 12, 2012 at 3:08 pm #

    Haunting, yet lovely. You should do this for a living…

  2. Orange Jammies June 12, 2012 at 3:38 pm #

    damnhobsons: Thanks, love.

  3. Roxana June 13, 2012 at 6:21 am #

    Beautiful. I wish you’d write more. Like always, I will come back to read this, many times over. What lovely imagery, OJ!
    Oh, and Ruskin Bond was in town and I saw (met?) him. I remember reading of your love for Ruskin Bond. That grand old man is as delightful as his books are! 🙂

  4. RS June 13, 2012 at 9:06 am #

    Your words weave magic even when you have writer’s block. You are brilliant, woman.

  5. Aunty G. June 14, 2012 at 2:47 am #

    She got tied up in knots
    Word document sans spots
    But at the end of it all
    She has us in thrall
    And what we have here — enjoyment — lots!

  6. Orange Jammies June 18, 2012 at 3:50 pm #

    Roxana: Wow! Did he look well? The happiest 40 minutes of my life were the ones spent in his parlor. 🙂 I had to sit on my hands and try not to explode.

    RS: Oi, Ms. New License! How’s the driving going? 😉

    Aunty G: I’m always sticking up my question hands and asking myself how.

  7. RS June 21, 2012 at 12:27 am #

    OJ: All the errands are now solely on my head and I begin to wonder why I wanted that license in the first place! Also, encountered a villain called “parallel parking”. He and I are not friends.

  8. Orange Jammies June 21, 2012 at 9:40 am #

    RS: 😆 You know what they say about great power and responsibility. Let me draw you a diagram the next time we see each other. I was taught parallel parking on paper by a rally driver and it’s been a cinch.

Here's a bar of chocolate. Now talk to me. :)

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