Maybe a day like today

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Maybe a day like today On certain days, maybe like a day like today--grey and cloudy--one, perhaps someone like me, feels the tug of the unknown. From the dim light peering in from the window, it looks cold outside, but in reality it is hot and so muggy that you could chug the air like a beer. Sitting at my desk, I dream that it is cold and windy. Forgetting the computer in front of me, I imagine that I am sitting in the middle of a large, cavernous room bordered with walls hung with voluminous tapestries illustrating the art of the hunt. In front of me is a large unlined book. The paper has its own disposition--not smooth and created by the confluence of a multitude of rags beat, literally, to a pulp and mixed with water. This slurry is reformed on a mould with a wire-mesh bottom and laid lovingly to dry. The end result is the paper lying anxiously before me. The paper, this paper, has a life of its own. Within this fallow sheet, resides all. This sheet--unseeded, unplowed, unplanted--is the benefactor of everything: hope, adventure, possibility, reinvention, omnipotence. It only awaits the seductive hand--the hand that can give it meaning; to draw upon it the word; to draw upon it the world.