Monday, January 17, 2005 6
That is the way the story began and had each time he had attempted to write it. But it had no ending. Nothing punctuated and definite happened and when he returned stateside at the end of the week he was back to work.
Immediately hemmed up with deadlines and meetings, due diligence and reports, he wasn’t able to think about anything else. He was good at what he did. He might have been great if he had really wanted to be doing what he did. His boss often told him how great he was but he was sure that was only an attempt to urge him to grow into greatness. He may very well do it as his other dreams began to fade and wither.
That week turned into three before he got back into his groove or rut, depending upon the day. When he finally sat down to write his knock kneed words clumped out on the page and resisted like petulant sea birds that would not come to his outstretched hand. She faded for him. More accurately he might have admitted if he had been asked it that he faced from her. Who he was on the beach or on the side of that mountain was a sliver of his former self. With her he had been who he was as a boy; when he was a better man, he thought with a smile.
He kept switching from his word processor to his daily organizer as he was trying to write. The only thoughts that came to his mind were ones of schedules and expectations. Finally, he stopped writing and sat trying to remember her skin and the way her bare feet had looked on the forest floor so delicately beautiful and wholly incongruous in its mélange of corruption; wet and black on pale flesh.
At the bottom of his desktop the icon of an envelope flashed twice to indicate he had received more email. He abandoned his memory of the moment and his past at large for his future. He knew it at that moment. He was no longer committed to telling his stories. His future needed him and it stretched out far beyond any fanciful tryst on the side of some volcanic mountain. It had been his last hurrah as a child, though at the thought the child within him corrected his misnomer by whispering ‘last hurrah as a human.”
Immediately hemmed up with deadlines and meetings, due diligence and reports, he wasn’t able to think about anything else. He was good at what he did. He might have been great if he had really wanted to be doing what he did. His boss often told him how great he was but he was sure that was only an attempt to urge him to grow into greatness. He may very well do it as his other dreams began to fade and wither.
That week turned into three before he got back into his groove or rut, depending upon the day. When he finally sat down to write his knock kneed words clumped out on the page and resisted like petulant sea birds that would not come to his outstretched hand. She faded for him. More accurately he might have admitted if he had been asked it that he faced from her. Who he was on the beach or on the side of that mountain was a sliver of his former self. With her he had been who he was as a boy; when he was a better man, he thought with a smile.
He kept switching from his word processor to his daily organizer as he was trying to write. The only thoughts that came to his mind were ones of schedules and expectations. Finally, he stopped writing and sat trying to remember her skin and the way her bare feet had looked on the forest floor so delicately beautiful and wholly incongruous in its mélange of corruption; wet and black on pale flesh.
At the bottom of his desktop the icon of an envelope flashed twice to indicate he had received more email. He abandoned his memory of the moment and his past at large for his future. He knew it at that moment. He was no longer committed to telling his stories. His future needed him and it stretched out far beyond any fanciful tryst on the side of some volcanic mountain. It had been his last hurrah as a child, though at the thought the child within him corrected his misnomer by whispering ‘last hurrah as a human.”
posted by hawthorne at 6:29 AM
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