From a Deck at the Coast
I’m sitting out here in/under the abundant sun and the idea comes to me that I don’t have anything to say. Seriously. I have thoughts, I have opinions, I suppose like everyone. But in terms of trying to say something which has value and is worthy of asking for peoples’ time? Nah, not so much.
But I have the powerful need to create, something from the nothing that was there before, create with words, create with paint, and what feels like obligation to show it. To send it off out into the Universe as central to my required duty as a 70 year-old planet member. And with the caveat – now – that I am not trying to say anything. Because, really, I do not have anything to say, and combine that with I barely give a shit and there it is.
The writing, though, is imperative. It’s who and what I am – all these years along. The showing off, sharing the writing, and yeah the painting, strikes me pretty much as a commandment. Maybe one found between the lines of the original Ten.
So nothing to say and the obligation to write – report on the now – and show it. That. I was reading a quasi-interview with Samuel Beckett in a book of ‘Paris Review’ interview posts in which he said over and over again – “I can’t. I must.” Also, “I must. I can’t.” Sounded right to me. He was quoted also regarding to speaking of nothing other than “the now“. Like, if it isn’t present tense – it isn’t. That struck me.
My plan, assuming I make it through any day I am given – having to write and not having anything to say – is, in summary, to go to the keyboard and/or lined notebook page when I am moved to do so and write how I am feeling then. Just right then. And then put it out there. Hit publish. Post it.
W.B. Cushman – reporting as duty.