There they are, words in print. A small achievement, perhaps, but nonetheless, your mother would beam proudly if only she knew. Always the treasure at the end of the rainbow, the light towards which you run tirelessly, because a word in print promises to fill that dark, empty hole within you, promises to make you whole. A word in print promises to negate the Lack, and you will certainly want for nothing once you hold its sweet victory in your clenched fist.
And yet there you stand, staring at your exhibition, gleaming in its untarnished newness, and you don't feel the least bit accomplished. There is not a single curve of its letters you could not pick apart with disappointment. You look away, shake your head, and the let the piece endure your parental shame. The hole is gouged a little deeper, a little darker, in the reminder that not even the one Truth to which you hold, actually is true in the broad light of day. The piece loses its shiny sparkle, and you have only yourself to blame.
Minutes later, a new sheet of paper lies pristine, bright on your drawing board. You see the rainbow stretch beyond where your eyes can see. You begin to run.
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My dear, my dearest, my doll:
ReplyDeleteI cannot say enough how thrilled I am for your moment. And however critical you might be of your own words, "picking apart with disappointment," I find them beautiful - a reflection of the beautiful person I know.
I suppose publishing is not in and of itself the end goal, or we should all write analytical textbooks filled with numbers and numbness. The pearl is, in my feeble mind, to reach out into the void and create something that resonates. And that you do. That you absolutely do. z2
Darling Peter.
ReplyDeleteAnd where would I be without you?
Truly, nowhere near the City, nor the word. I miss you something awful. z2.