‘Are you savouring it?’ ‘I am indeed. Very much so. And dreading the time when I must leave it and jump into my present cold water. Will I find anything different? Or the same old path. Probably the same old path.’ ‘You could wear more casual clothes. That might help. Formality can sometimes create the sensation of living inside a straightjacket. Perhaps you need to feel more relaxed.’ ‘There’s a high noon in the sunrise and no-one seems to care.’ ‘With more casual clothes you could resume your path and spend less time on washing and ironing.’
DESOLATION MAN
‘It’s the machines. They click clack all day long and they lose things. Clickity clack and it’s gone. All the work you did. All the strive and sweat. All the brain drip. Gone for ever.’ ‘You could do it again. Do it over.’ ‘No. Boring. Who wants to be bored. I want my handicraft back. That I do know. Upon that point I stick. The handicraft will be resumed. Bugger you lot. I want my handwriting back. I want the magic of leaving a trail of ink on cartridge paper from the golden nib of my carefully tooled fountain pen. Without it there is no joy. Only the drudge of creation. Write a book literally. That’s me from now on. Page by silken, bright white page. When the book is written it is written. No dependence on opinion. Or intrusions of advice. Pure ego unadorned. The only pencil of inspiration. There is no other. And it needs its total freedom. It needs to be not fettered. Without it there is no hubris, no book, no story, no explosion of imagination, no spell.’ ‘You don’t say.’ ‘It will be several. Who knows. Until the next. But of beatific drudge, melancholia, self-pity, worship, whatever it takes. I’m out of it. A book is written. There will be no copies, only the original. Signed by the author. It’s provenance inscribed on the fly. Passed up and down, back and forth, sideways and edgeways, hand to hand. Until it falls to pieces. There will be another. And yet another. One at a time. Read until it physically cannot oblige. No copies. It is only in the original wherein lies the truth of the story. Written in the silence emphasised by the scratch of the nib on the virgin space of the paper. When the scratching stops the silence is washed, is pure. A silence that inspires. The scratch once more. The inspiration is written. That is my only way. Thank you for listening to me.’ ‘Can I help?’ ‘I don’t know. Can you?’