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Diary of a Long Weekend
CW
Lovatt – 16/06/09
Saturday - 6:00 A.M.
Open
eyes – check. Take long luxurious stretch and leap out of bed – check. Go to
the kitchen and make coffee – check. Feed cat – check. Go to the bathroom and
relieve bladder (mental note: improve aim) – check. Wash hands – check. Brush
teeth – check. Return to the kitchen and pour coffee – check. Go into the
living room and drink coffee – check. Light cigarette and daydream about the
decadent luxury of having absolutely nothing better to do all this gorgeous
long weekend but work on your writing (Far out! Hallelujah! Totally right on!) – double check!
Oh yeah baby,
this is gonna be so cool! It’s been a long time coming, but at last the
waiting’s over. It feels like Christmas morning, and there’s this gorgeously
wrapped gift with my name on it, looking just the perfect size to hold a
Macintosh laptop with, like, a gazillion bytes of RAM. – that’s how
mind-blowingly excited I am!
Hold on! Hold on! Don’t burst out of the
starting gate just yet. Pace yourself, my friend. Take it easy…take it cool.
I try to force
myself not to gulp my coffee, but sip it instead. Too much time’s been spent
planning; I don’t want to squander this rare opportunity in one crazy burst of
enthusiasm.
Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let anything
get to you. This is your time, don’t screw it up!
But of course
the java ends up being guzzled all the same. At last, when the mug’s empty I
rinse it out and, with a book this time, re-enter the bathroom so that my body
might…do whatever it feels it must.
Don’t let yourself get too involved in
reading; just a couple of pages to keep your mind off things. Whatever you do,
don’t think about what you’re going to write – that’s major taboo. It’ll be good.
Hell, it’ll be great. Forget that, it’ll knock the world on its
literary-fucking-ass!
Finish up.
Flush. Re-wash hands (thoroughly).
At last, go to
the study and fire up the computer!
I click on ‘Word’
and a virgin screen appears, virtually bursting with potential.
Tap, tap, tap,
tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap,
tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
This is not the
sound of typing, but the sound of a contemplative fingernail rapping against my
teeth. The virgin screen has yet to be deflowered.
Okay, don’t panic. This is going to be good.
In fact, it’s going to be outrageously fantastic…whatever it turns out to be.
Tap, tap, tap,
tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
I click on my ‘Ideas’
file.
It’s empty.
But that’s
impossible! I’ve been overflowing
with ideas for months now!
Didn’t you write any of them down?
Well…no.
Merde!
Tap, tap, tap,
tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
I spring out of
my chair and grab my yo-yo off the desk. The distraction helps me think.
Flip – catch.
Flip – catch. Flip –
Bonehead, my
orange tabby, sees the yo-yo. He wants to play and knocks it for a loop. I drag
it along the floor for him to bat around, but he’s already lost interest.
I return to the
computer only to spring up yet again. I’m too excited. No, that’s not it. In my
eagerness, I either drank my coffee far too quickly, or made it way too strong.
Now my heart’s thundering away at something like eight hundred beats a minute.
Any fool can see it’s impossible to write under these conditions. I need
something to slow it down.
I check the time
– 6:30 A.M. I’m not ordinarily a morning imbiber, but this is an emergency. I
go to the liquor cabinet and let my eyes play over the bottles. No use messing
around, I need something with some punch.
The fire from a
short, medicinal shot of mescal dissipates before it’s halfway to my stomach. A
minute passes in consideration. My pulse is still going great guns so I pour
myself another. Two or three later, it finally strikes home. Almost at once the
thunder begins to subside.
Congratulating
myself on having averted disaster, I try to get back to work, but now my mind
feels confused - ditto my vision. The room starts to heave around like a ship
on the high seas.
Damn! Overdid
it. Best take a break…maybe a nap.
I return to my
bed and lie down, staring at the ceiling while it spins around my head. Half an
hour later it stops, but I’m still staring. It’s no use, can’t sleep; might as
well watch some television. I go downstairs and turn on the set, but there’s
nothing worth watching this early in the morning.
So I flip to
‘Pay Per Vu’.
There’s a movie
I’ve been wanting to see for quite some time. It’s just the distraction that’s
needed, and well worth the price of seven dollars.
Within minutes
of it starting I’m deep in slumber.
When I wake up
it’s two in the afternoon. Groggy now, I turn off the blank screen, go the
bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and get back to my desk.
Tap, tap, tap,
tap, tap.
It’s no good;
my mind’s still blank, probably worn out from work. I’d been driving myself
pretty hard to be free this weekend, but of course there’s a price to be paid.
Stupid to think I could just start in like this.
Never mind. Try not to be disappointed - it
takes time for the juices to flow. Tomorrow’s sure to be better.
I switch off and
call it a day.
Sunday – 10:45
A.M.
Tap, tap, tap,
tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap...
So, what’s it
going to be? Short story? Novella?
Don’t worry about that – no use forcing it.
How many times do I have to tell you? Better to let it write itself.
But should it be
drama? Romance? Tragedy? Comedy? I’ve
never written a comedy, yet I feel there’s one in me that’s just itching to get
out, just not at this moment.
Whatever it is, make sure it has legs - you
don’t want to get bored - and there has to be a catalyst, some sort of great
thought binding it all together.
Okay sure, a
great thought, no problem…coming right up.
I sit…
I wait…
My stomach
growls.
Of course! I’m
hungry! How can anyone concentrate on an empty stomach?
But it’s midway
between breakfast and lunch. I’ll just have to wait.
What am I thinking? I’m a bachelor; I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want – in my underwear if it suits me. I look down and
realize I am, in fact, still in my underwear – yesterday’s underwear, come to that.
When was the last time you had a bath?
Must have been
Friday after work.
By the time I’m
out of the shower and have a three-egg omelet tucked inside me it’s well past
noon.
When I try to
put my dirty dish in the sink, I’m forced to notice that it’s already full of
dirty dishes. So is the top of the stove and most of the counter.
I hate washing
dishes, but unless eating off the floor’s an option, I’ll just have to break
down and do them.
Ha! Ha! Very funny! Eat off the floor,
that’s a good one!
Hopefully, I
look down at the floor.
Grease, dirt,
old sauce stains, a forest of dust balls, and something I don’t quite recognize
stare back at me.
When was the last time you washed the floor?
Dunno…sometime
last fall?
I hate washing
floors.
Well, in for a
penny...
I run hot water
in the sink and add a generous amount of detergent. While the water’s running,
I step out on the deck for some fresh air; then to achieve balance, smoke a
cigarette.
During the
interlude I give thought to my imminent blockbuster. Should I write it in the
first or third person, or should I come up with something completely different
– something no one’s ever tried before?
Forget that, that’s just crazy!
Should it be
about world peace? The rights of man? Both?
What do you actually know about any of that
stuff?
Hmmm…
When I come back inside, the sink is well and
truly overflowing. A mountain of suds is cascading down the face of the
cupboard and spreading itself generously over the floor. I get out the mop,
then shut off the water and begin to swab the linoleum. Soon it’s sparkling,
good as new. So are the basement stairs, and a sizeable portion of the basement
itself.
Leaving the
dishes to soak, I go back to my study.
Tap, tap, tap, tap,
tap...
Significantly,
my teeth do double-time to the ticking of the clock on the wall.
In desperation,
I flip to my old stories file. Perhaps inspiration lurks there.
They’re pretty
good, I have to admit it. In fact, as I affectionately linger over one
cherished piece after another, I idle away the rest of the afternoon adoring my
past work.
Finally hunger
drives me out. I go into the kitchen to fix something to eat, and notice the
forgotten dishes in the sink - the water long since cold.
Two days gone and
nothing to show.
Monday – 11:00
A.M.
I’m downstairs
playing Risk on my Play Station. I don’t like games that demand quick reflexes.
I like Risk, all you need is savvy. But I’ve played this game so many times
it’s no longer a challenge.
I hate challenges
– I like to win, and have no problem if it’s preordained.
I’m feeling
bloody-minded. I haven’t gone near the computer, nor do I have plans on doing
so for the rest of my life.
I’m through,
done, washed-up. This was the first thought to greet me when I opened my eyes
this morning, and it stuck. I don’t know why I ever thought I could write in
the first place, let alone create an epic.
Maybe I had
something once but it’s gone now, that’s for sure. It stole away in the night,
leaving me a worn out husk [-of depression]. I try not to feel self-pity, but it sucks to be a
has-been-that-never-was. My friends have all gone to the lake this weekend.
They’re drinking beer and hitting on girls in bikinis. But in my conceit I
chose to stay home, convinced that it would be for the benefit of a grateful
world.
God, I’m a fool!
I’m nothing - just a pathetic joke!
But I’ve learned
my lesson. If there’s one thing that’s certain, it’s that I will never, ever, ever write again. Finally I understand
how incredibly vain it was to think that I ever could.
With my mind not
really anywhere, I play my turn then press the ‘X’ button repeatedly while the
machine finishes the round. The futility of any meaning does not escape me
(compared to hitting on girls in bikinis, this must come a poor second).
Neither am I blind to the metaphor between the game and myself. When all is
said and done, we’re both nothing but fraudulent packages without anything of
substance or value inside.
Yet, in a way,
I’m relieved; now shorn of that deluded ambition, I’ve been set free. In one
decisive act that millstone has been effectively cast from my neck. In fact,
I’m a new man, tolerably hopeful that all sorts of exciting new possibilities
lie waiting, hidden somewhere in the impenetrable fog of the far distant
future.
Then suddenly,
for no discernable reason, my thumb freezes on the control, my head tilting to
one side as though listening to a far away sound.
On the ceiling,
a moth dances at the light, casting flittering shadows across the room.
Then I’m
thundering up the stairs. There’s a close call when Bonehead saunters across my
path, but I manage to leap over him without any harm.
I’m at the
computer.
There’s a
tentative tap, then another, and - more quickly - another. Soon there’s a
flurry.
Then, as though
all this time there’s been a part of me waiting by the side of this forgotten
road, something comes along…and takes
me.
At last, when
the present reclaims me, it’s dark outside, and the monitor’s screen is full.
For a long time
I sit in silence, listening to the rhythm of my heart, uncertain as to whether
this is the world of the day-to-day or still that of dreams; even more
uncertain as to which is real. Finally my head clears sufficiently for me to
click on ‘Save’ and switch off, not noticing how my movements are wooden, like
a marionette in the hands of a novice puppeteer.
It’s late, but
there’s no use trying to sleep. Instead, still wrapped in afterglow, I feel the
need for quiet celebration, so take a glass of merlot out to the deck.
There’s a chill
in the air but I don’t feel it. What I do feel is the pulsating ache in my
lower back and the thrill of memory. But these sensations are old and ghostly
familiar, and so, welcome.
There’s a full
moon on the rise, flooding the world with a silver hue. The residue of what
took me is causing muscles to leap and twitch throughout my body.
I raise my
glass.
To the moon I
simply nod a greeting, and whisper a single word: a deeply satisfied, “Yes!”
But I’m
trembling too much. Wine spills from the glass, soaking my fingers before
spattering down onto the weathered planks of the deck.
Black in the
moonlight, I stare at the droplets, yet make no move to wipe them away. In the
fading dregs of trance, I see them for what they are…a libation, an offering of
gratitude to the ethereal.
Then, just like
a little child, I burst into tears.
The End
CW
Lovatt – 16/06/09
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