The Long, Grim Day

The sun is shining and the skies are cerulean, and all that means is that the burden or task of writing is made more difficult unless one has an interior view as charming.  Good luck with that.

Last night it was the estimable Ron Carter down the street and tonight it’s more of the same.  Now there is a man with an interior view who expresses what he observes with great finesse.  Inspiring.

I wish I could say the same about other stimuli in the environment.

Still, the car starts, the dogs bark, the feet move, and it’s possible to stand up straight, so why be greedy?

The small things matter, but to what extent?

Sometimes it’s best to leave well enough alone: To use as few words as possible or at least to acknowledge the spaces between.  That’s a sort of interior view, in a way, and all the noise–the opinions, chiefly, the self aggrandizement that is implied by speaking up when no one frankly has asked to hear the tinny sound of that voice which can sound like a screech–becomes as flat as slate.

Inside, there’s a nothingness and that’s where things begin.  It’s what the Japanese refer to as, “kanzume,” or placing the writer, “in a can.”  The writer goes to a ryokan, an inn, and he or she must remain there until the book is done.

 

 

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