Untitled by Thordora

I can’t think of anything to write. I keep thinking about this one author I read about in the Ottawa Citizen awhile back, a long lifetime ago, who ranted on and on pretentiously about how his next piece of work would come from him sitting in a total white room, in total isolation from everything. He worked best that way he said. Kept his mind a blank slate.

I’d go fucking insane I would. Off the deep end. Off my rocker, into the abyss, wrapped in a cocoon like that, and expected to emerge with a masterpiece. I don’t remember ever seeing his book, so I assume it came out like the proverbial work of monkeys in a room.

I used to wonder what he did about the food. I’d imagine bringing in a papaya, or a pomegranate, or manicotti. The splash of color against the white, it would run riot. Would that disturb this fragile masterpiece? I always wanted to run in with paintguns.

So I wonder if my mind would be easier to capture if I wasn’t distracted by the mess on my side of the bed-why can’t I keep it neater? Why can’t I pile up the books and the random journals and notebooks? Why do I never ever toss out my old kleenex’s? I wonder if it would be easier to write something moving and meaningful if I didn’t fixate on the pile of ill-fitting lingerie on the floor, left there some 5 months ago since I couldn’t bear throw them away, and yet was nauseated by the thought of giving it to charity, and someone else wearing my panties, even though I never did wear them. I just kept them in a drawer for 6 years.

Would it be easier to capture a mind, and a perfect thought if I didn’t constantly wonder what color would work best in my workspace, other than the old cigarette dirt I still haven’t washed off, and if I didn’t constantly crave a cigarette, although I’ve almost reached my insurance cheapening one year free.

Oh my fuck I would just about kill for a cigarette right now. A smooth, tasty Benson & Hedges Special Ultra Light would wash down my throat in the most wonderful way right now…….I know better but…

That’s the problem with that white room. These thoughts would leap frog in on me regardless, wait for me to be weakened by them and pounce. The white would remind me how poor I am, how I wish to provide more for my children and yet, want to be poor to prove that you don’t need money to be happy. Seems to be working so far.

Then I think back to that pretentious bastard with the white linen shirt, the thick black hair falling in contrast against his smug face, the expensive white pants. Why are white clothes never cheap? Does it mean more that you have to be cautious so you don’t destroy them? Are things only more meaningful if you need to be so careful that you never really live?

So I sit here, full of nothing to write because that white room possessed me 15 years ago, incensed me, and kept me from finding my words. A white room, full of nothing but me.