“He hadn’t the slightest idea what to write, or if he should be writing in the first place.
In sixth grade the asphalt was new. The yellow painted lines were brilliant and they let us play our game. Four-square, it was. We had a pact. It was bullshit, we were little shits, but we had a truce. The four of us would stay in there forever, it seemed, bouncing the ball back and forth to one another until The Great Betrayal (which was actually a number of betrayals). I was never The Betrayer, I was always The Betrayed. I don’t think that makes me any better than them, I was a willing participant in our practice of social stratification on the blacktop. So, Jane would slide the ball with all the strength of a sixth-grader into the corner of my square, and out it would fly, and with it my hopes and dreams of eternal neutrality, undying friendship, unwavering trust. And to the back of the line I’d go, until my next turn.
These flashes came to him sometimes, flashbulbs burning for a moment. The difficulty came in the act of stringing them into something more, something whole and tangible, without reliving them. That was the problem, see. He couldn’t compel himself to think about anything else, anything but his own past, and yet that’s the exact, lifeless specter he sought to escape. By writing it down, he trapped himself further and further inside. How could he possibly live in the moment, if the moment was always just an exploration of another, long-passed.
He had other ideas. Or, at least, he used to. He used to write of alien families who lived next door. Of fantastical lands and magic and beasts. And of oddities, like time-travelling electricians and mystical mirrors and googly green things. He was inspired. He could have been something more than he was, but his muse always loomed above him, just out of reach.
Until one day when it descended and he grasped it. That is why we are here today, to celebrate his realization, his accomplishment. Please welcome, the illustrious, the talented, the muse-grasper — Elijah Katz.”
They erupted, stood. From the crowd, one proceeded forward: Katz. He was smiling as he patted Al’s shoulder, told him to step aside.
In sixth grade the asphalt was new. The yellow painted lines were brilliant and they let us play our game. Four-square, it was. We had a pact. It was bullshit, we were little shits, but we had a truce. The four of us would stay in there forever, it seemed, bouncing the ball back and forth to one another until The Great Betrayal (which was actually a number of betrayals). I was never The Betrayer, I was always The Betrayed. I don’t think that makes me any better than them, I was a willing participant in our practice of social stratification on the blacktop. So, Jane would slide the ball with all the strength of a sixth-grader into the corner of my square, and out it would fly, and with it my hopes and dreams of eternal neutrality, undying friendship, unwavering trust. And to the back of the line I’d go, until my next turn.
These flashes came to him sometimes, flashbulbs burning for a moment. The difficulty came in the act of stringing them into something more, something whole and tangible, without reliving them. That was the problem, see. He couldn’t compel himself to think about anything else, anything but his own past, and yet that’s the exact, lifeless specter he sought to escape. By writing it down, he trapped himself further and further inside. How could he possibly live in the moment, if the moment was always just an exploration of another, long-passed.
He had other ideas. Or, at least, he used to. He used to write of alien families who lived next door. Of fantastical lands and magic and beasts. And of oddities, like time-travelling electricians and mystical mirrors and googly green things. He was inspired. He could have been something more than he was, but his muse always loomed above him, just out of reach.
Until one day when it descended and he grasped it. That is why we are here today, to celebrate his realization, his accomplishment. Please welcome, the illustrious, the talented, the muse-grasper — Elijah Katz.”
They erupted, stood. From the crowd, one proceeded forward: Katz. He was smiling as he patted Al’s shoulder, told him to step aside.
Comments
Post a Comment