Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Sometimes there’s nothing left to do but to do but to do, to stare down that keyboard & start banging on it. Clay did another 35 pushups, the last 3 especially burning as he put his nose down to touch the carpeting, sprang up and walked back over the humming glowing box that had taunted him continuously as he sipped single malt scotch and fiddled with a crossword puzzle by firelight. It was all very classy he supposed, from the outside, but from his perspective, the only one, or not, well, no, but yes, anyway, he knew it was all a hopeless sham, just an excuse, a charade, something to keep up a pretense just in case that person walked in the door and caught him procrastinating and not doing that which he knew needed to be done. “of course I’m not writing, I mean, look at this, the fire, the scotch, the dog looking at me needing a milkbone.” Yes, of course, this other person would agree, and you never mentioned the precious puzzle that you’re not even reading the clues for anymore, just filling in the blanks with words that seem to fit and don’t seem prefabricated.

The phone rang, and he knew it was a telemarketer, but he answered anyway, then rudely hung up upon verification of the worker’s identity. Only someone who was being paid to bother him would bother with him at that moment? Not necessarily true, but in that instant, obvious, but it meant nothing, as not much seemed to, no need to not try and find something out of it though, why not? Yes, why not indeed?