As with so much else
half-years disappear––
or perhaps never existed,
as material now
as dreams or delusions,
inspiration or ether,
memories slipping beyond
the grasp of recollection;
strings of words and thoughts,
the private mind’s reaction to life
banished by inattention
to oblivion
(or similar re-nescient distance).
A dull, aching loss
in place of binded leaves,
as mere minutes
and minute conversation
in a pastel-colored hotel room
conspire like atmosphere
and Coriolis effect
to a wind of rushed exhaustion
and disrupted routine,
breaking the binding,
dissolving the glue,
a bluster and scatter
separating the author
and his mind,
a cruel dissection of creativity
from tangibility.
More than a cheap
faux-leatherbound notebook,
more than clever phrases
or amusing quotes,
or day’s reflections,
more than hours
with rubber-gripped pen in hand,
mind fluctuating
between contemplation
and directionless perambulation,
more than (hopefully) acid-free
beige pages bearing
resolute lines of indistinct color,
black some days,
grey or violet or blue others,
a mass gently curled
to the contour
of an outer thigh,
edges ruffled
by constant referral––
more than what it contains
it is a testament in itself
to hours, to days,
to thousands of miles
traveled across continents,
to reunions and homecomings,
arrivals and embarcations,
to marriages and friendships,
romances, trists and tragedies,
to hope and desolation,
rapture and disillusionment…
all lost in a haze of exhaustion;
leaving behind a longing
like a lost pet,
or a constant companion
parting wordlessly in the night.
As always when bereft,
one chooses to feel
what’s missing
instead of appreciating
the previously unknown
volume, which by vacancy
now declares its existence,
a weary, splendid space
to be filled again and again
in the fleeting, quiet moments,
and tortuous, unending days,
with attempts at distraction,
or escapes into abstraction,
confiding without concern
to a silent friend
who remembers only
what I wish.
See Andrew Whiting. Read Andrew writing. 