An inquiry into nothing

Another World

I can imagine another world, similar to this one, in which I am not constantly waking up from a nap, or feeling as though I am in imminent need of a nap. I think the basic functions of this new world, levels of hydrogen, carbon, layers of igneous rocks, would be roughly the same: mankind would have walked out of a garden after eating from a pear tree, or developed extraordinarily large brains after years of being preyed upon in the Great Rift Valley. In 1492, Columbus would have still sailed the ocean blue, "discovering" America and beginning the great conquest of this nation. In this other world, John Wilkes Booth would have still shot and killed Abraham Lincoln, and the gunman on the grassy knoll, JFK. In this other world, bombs would still drop at the end of World War 2, on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, President Clinton would still have a fling with Monica Lewinsky in the oval office. The only thing that would be different in this other world is that I'd be going to sleep earlier, around ten or so, waking up feeling well-rested to read about wars in foreign countries and terrorist cells developing in Africa. But imagine how I might great that news, fresh and restored after eight hours of sleep, imagine how good that world might be.


City Living

I miss you most on Tuesdays. We used to sort through the mail together, laughing at all the people who read Star magazine. On those mornings, we'd drink coffee together and talk of what we'd done over the weekend. Like most people, usually we'd not done a damn thing worth mentioning, but on Tuesdays, we'd talk about it as though something special had happened, as though going for a ride on the crosstown bus was worth being reported. In a strange way, isn't that all everyone has ever wanted? To have all the moments in our life treated with the same significance that we imbued them with. Tell me a story, you'd say, and I'd talk and talk of the unimportant things that comprise any one single person's life, even immensely important people spend part of their day sitting on toilets. For instance, last week when I was riding that same bus across town, an old man started asking me questions. It took me a while to realize that he was blind. His cane was not immediately visible, tucked beneath the bench seat. I couldn't understand him at first either, perhaps because he was old, or drunk, both, I suppose. Though it became clear after a few moments that he was not drunk. He just had the gravelly voice of someone who had spent many years in this world. He was trying to get to Bethesda, and he wanted to know where the bus ride ended, and I was giving him little bits of information, guessing and gauging what bus might put him in the right direction. Occasionally, I'd stop talking and stare straight ahead, hoping that I might disappear through the simple act of silence. He'd be back at it again, in a moment though, gesturing and asking for mileage counts. I needn't tell you that I couldn't wait to get off the bus, how uncomfortable it made me to be talking to a half-crazed stranger on the bus. When I got to my stop, I jumped off quickly, then turned and told him that he should probably get off as well. It was then that I saw that he was blind, as he reached down for his cane. And as he reached the bus doors started to close, and I could have banged on the door and asked the driver to stop, but I stood there, peering through the glass at this man, who, deep down, I could see now, I'd wanted only to leave behind. I walked on down to my own bus stop, walking hurriedly to make sure that I'd catch my connection, certain that I'd never think of him again.

The truth of the matter

Somebody once asked me a strange question about something I'd written: she asked me if it had really happened. We were smoking cigarettes (I don't smoke) and stubbing them out with the heels of ours shoes. (And, therefore, I have never stubbed out cigarettes with my shoes) I told her the truth, (the truth, writ large, is a nebulous concept, or at least an acknowledged flawed concept, the closest we'd get is a supernatural being who was watching over the universe since its inception, though you figure even It, would probably have developed some biases over the years and maybe a drinking problem) which is that nothing has ever happened to me. (The veracity of this statement is questionable at best). I assured her that when I sit down to write, crossing my arms now to shield off the cold, (It is currently warm here in Washington, DC, and on my couch where I'm writing) I compose everything as if it arrived from a dream. Nothing worth writing about has ever happened to me. (That's either a bald-faced lie, or we need to have a really serious discussion about values when it comes to writing). Rather, everything that I end up writing, fiction, non-fiction, whatever, is an amalgamation. "It's like dreaming," I told her. (I don't remember my dreams). Dreams mix up all the stuff of our every day life into a blender and then spit it out on the canvas of our tired, tired minds. This is basically the same process that my writing follows. If I write in a story, or a non-fiction piece, I loved her, or, I love her that is not drawn from any truth or reality, rather, it is drawn from my idea of the reality that has happened to me. I imagine, nay, suspect that I have, in fact, loved people during my lifetime. However, there is no quantifiable way to verify that this has actually been the case. Language is tricky in that way. Where as, if I say, four times four is sixteen, I'm telling you the truth. (I'm still not attaching a capital T to that statement as I suspect a better world exists in which I take naps and four times four is 17). She was done listening by then, already imagining the other places she'd like to be. "The strangest part," I told her, "is that some mornings I'll wake up and try and remember what I've written the night before, and it will come to me like a dream, through veils of fog, and I'll try and pick it apart the next day, make some sort of connection with the entity that was up the night before, staring at a blinking cursor on a white screen, trying to bring himself into being." Anyhow, we parted ways shortly thereafter, and I was left only with the bright stars (Washington, DC has severe light pollution) and crisp wind. (It is still hot here). The strangest part is that I find myself, as if it were a dream, only tangentially connected to the person who was writing that night before. I find, by morning, that most of my needs have changed, that all it took was a simple rest to turn the world from dark to light again. I suppose I should be no less amazed by this than I am by the perpetual rising and setting of the sun, which is probably worth being greeted with much more wonder. Nothing happens to me. I create it all, and in a flash, some day, it will be gone.