Nothing in particular
It keeps staring at me, yielding nothing. Guarded. Rigid. Belying neither mocking nor kindness. Nothing.
Imperceptible ticking floats in the air. I’m not focusing on the sound, just aware of it from time to time, the tick tock tick tock becoming words write, write, write, write. A command. A union contract negotiator couldn’t have moved us past our positions. My empty computer screen continues its unblinking stare as my fingers sleep on their beds labeled a s d f j k l ;. I’m going to have to break this impasse myself.
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. I type it, glad to at last hear the staccato taps, the evidence of even faux creativity meeting keyboard. Type where your mind leads, I remind myself. Today’s keyboard song is coming in fits and starts, unlike previous pieces, when not-quite syncopated clicks and clacks joined the deliberate thuds of deletions to create a staccato serenade. When I type I pretend I’m playing the piano and try to keep the rhythms going as long and as fast as I can. Slow typing indicates I’m tired or have nothing to say or both.
I give up on inspiration and try perspiration but even after my heart reaches it’s target range and my pores release well-earned sweat, I return to the keyboard where my fingers sit arched and ready for a good race. They remain at the starting gate, waiting for the firecracker pop of the gun. It doesn’t sound and there they wait, poised and still. Ticking taunts continue to float into my consciousness along with the sound of my own heartbeat, still recovering from a stair master drill. If inspiration doesn’t arrive soon I’ll do some stretching.
I have four loads of laundry to finish and really want to get them done today because I need to paint the children’s furniture. I just had to save a few hundred dollars and buy something used. Now I have to find time to finish the painting - and mend the broken toys in the bin upstairs - and hem those new hot pink pants my daughter received for her birthday in June - and wash the coffee stains off the baseboard trim that I just noticed on my way my computer. It’s bath night, too. Maybe I can trick the girls into thinking it’s bedtime a half hour early. I’ve been so tired lately. Perhaps I have taken on too much.
On Friday, the end of the work week arrived promptly at 4:45 and I sped away from the office with only one thought on my mind: Thank God There’s Friday. Free time lay before me and I could see the potential of all I could accomplish, my tasks laid out one by one before me. I can do all that. I was certain I could. Like taking a long walk on the beach û I knew I could reach the pier way down there if I just kept moving.
Now, it’s Sunday afternoon and I know I won’t reach the pier. I may not even reach the shower. Maybe I’ll be able to fold the clothes, get another coat of paint on the furniture and corral my kids into the bath but I’ll have to forget about the rest, including the inspiration that never arrived.
It keeps staring at me, yielding nothing. Guarded. Rigid. Belying neither mocking nor kindness. Nothing.
Imperceptible ticking floats in the air. I’m not focusing on the sound, just aware of it from time to time, the tick tock tick tock becoming words write, write, write, write. A command. A union contract negotiator couldn’t have moved us past our positions. My empty computer screen continues its unblinking stare as my fingers sleep on their beds labeled a s d f j k l ;. I’m going to have to break this impasse myself.
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. I type it, glad to at last hear the staccato taps, the evidence of even faux creativity meeting keyboard. Type where your mind leads, I remind myself. Today’s keyboard song is coming in fits and starts, unlike previous pieces, when not-quite syncopated clicks and clacks joined the deliberate thuds of deletions to create a staccato serenade. When I type I pretend I’m playing the piano and try to keep the rhythms going as long and as fast as I can. Slow typing indicates I’m tired or have nothing to say or both.
I give up on inspiration and try perspiration but even after my heart reaches it’s target range and my pores release well-earned sweat, I return to the keyboard where my fingers sit arched and ready for a good race. They remain at the starting gate, waiting for the firecracker pop of the gun. It doesn’t sound and there they wait, poised and still. Ticking taunts continue to float into my consciousness along with the sound of my own heartbeat, still recovering from a stair master drill. If inspiration doesn’t arrive soon I’ll do some stretching.
I have four loads of laundry to finish and really want to get them done today because I need to paint the children’s furniture. I just had to save a few hundred dollars and buy something used. Now I have to find time to finish the painting - and mend the broken toys in the bin upstairs - and hem those new hot pink pants my daughter received for her birthday in June - and wash the coffee stains off the baseboard trim that I just noticed on my way my computer. It’s bath night, too. Maybe I can trick the girls into thinking it’s bedtime a half hour early. I’ve been so tired lately. Perhaps I have taken on too much.
On Friday, the end of the work week arrived promptly at 4:45 and I sped away from the office with only one thought on my mind: Thank God There’s Friday. Free time lay before me and I could see the potential of all I could accomplish, my tasks laid out one by one before me. I can do all that. I was certain I could. Like taking a long walk on the beach û I knew I could reach the pier way down there if I just kept moving.
Now, it’s Sunday afternoon and I know I won’t reach the pier. I may not even reach the shower. Maybe I’ll be able to fold the clothes, get another coat of paint on the furniture and corral my kids into the bath but I’ll have to forget about the rest, including the inspiration that never arrived.
posted by Pamela Hamilton at 9:48 PM
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