With a blank canvas nothing comes but the ramblings inside my head.
I can’t think about what the day will bring.
To live without expectations can be both exciting and unnerving.
I play a waiting game as I go about the day, or as I choose to do nothing with it but this: make it up as I go. Sometimes the blank canvas is not the white screen before me but my mind. Nothing becomes of nothing. The ramblings turn to dust. The screen is just a jumble of thoughts. Not clear. Not cohesive. Not even of interest. But to place one or many words of these blank thoughts I hold may possibly lead to something so unexpected that it becomes harder to contain. Harder to dismiss. Harder to destroy. So I hold them, these empty words, study them, but not too long. They take different shapes and sizes like pieces of a puzzle. I am confused by them. I can’t seem to find the right fit. They don’t seem to match. But I take a breath. Then another. And another. Still chaos, constructions and renderings of things I cannot comprehend. Nor should I try. Futile imaginations interrupt interludes. Starts and stops. Stuck here in this white silence with memories now flooding the frontal lobe. I sense that something will materialize. But what? Should I begin once upon a time, move to the middle, or stay in the now? Will it matter that I long to create beauty with syllables, syntaxes, or surrender? Should I keep going and not expect this to end quietly? Will the rambling noise cease? I suspect the time I’ve wasted may bring me no satisfaction, but something inside tells me it is time to write. Something inside is dying to unfold. Something inside is screaming for help. For structure. For a face and a name, but I can’t quite call it. It will have to identify itself. It may be easier for me to step aside and allow it to manifest. It is an embryo. It grows inside me. I feed it my experiences. My yesterdays, my todays, and my tomorrows. And it’s always hungry. Yearning to know, to understand, to develop, to speak. I must step out of its way and let it say what it will. We coexist. Sometimes an unsettling existence. We can’t live without the other even when we prefer to stand alone. The peace and the torture defies my need to have order. I am not always in control. At times I relinquish my power to whatever it is that wants it. To release is liberating and frightening. What will it do once it’s out there? Who/what will it influence, interrogate, interrupt? Why should I care? Yes, I must let it live without restraints. I cannot expect it to behave. It is often uncontrollable, fierce, unyielding, unfettered, incomprehensible. Tethered to nothing. Dangling. But it is also gentle, kind, creative. It longs to be understood. It yields to me. It allows me to speak and be heard. It contradicts. It confounds. It fills the oblique canvas with poetry, prose, fiction and non-fiction. The words belong to us. Like clay we mold it, spin them into shape, place them in the kiln, and glaze them so they sparkle even if the form is abstract. What we create from nothing becomes who we are, and it changes as often as Bay Area weather. We are full of micro-climates, words both hot and cold. Windy and wet. And before you know it, the canvas has these strange black markings called words that have appeared as if from nowhere. Nowhere but from the ramblings inside my head.