A good friend (and very accomplished writer) once told me about writing, that to start, it is as simple as just ‘showing up’. Showing up to work like any other job. Don’t wait for a thunderbolt of lightning inspiration to beam in from some other dimension – it’s not likely to happen. Just arrive, sit, and begin.
I’ve been struggling with this. And have a terrible habit of putting everything else before my ‘showing up’ time. Especially these days, with the world in its topsy turvy state, carving out time sit and write (or do anything just for me) seems almost like an indulgence I don’t deserve. My wiser self tells me that’s a load of bollocks, nevertheless, it’s a truth too eh?
So, in the spirit of carving out some ‘showing up’ time, here is a short piece I’ve written. I have a sense it’s part of something bigger, but I’ll figure that out as I determine to do more’ showing up’.
THE ROOM
Lots of chairs, about 20, all numbered off. Number 13 is missing though… Did someone decide it was unlucky?
The chairs are close together.
It’s not a big room, but it’s always full. Big soft comfy chairs, they recline with a remote control. A curtain circling each one, on a rail above – for privacy. The privacy of tears, an emergency, perhaps… I’ve only ever seen the curtains pulled open.
I look around and can’t help wondering who’s the sickest. Wonder what they’ve got. Or them.
People are complex. Complexities show up on their subtle faces in this room.
Or is that just me? Looking for stories?
It’s also all pretty normal here. Chats, a laugh, pop to the loo, eat a tuna sandwich as the drip drip drip drug drips in, up the line, in the vein.
She calls it The Piranhas. Their mission: to search for and eat all the Fish Food. As much Fish Food as they can. Eat it, annihilate it, destroy every last damaging piece of it.
Laid back, eyes closed, blanket on, heat packs on her skin underblanket unseen – The Piranhas makes her body icy cold.
Laid back, headphones on, listening to Neil Diamond. She loves Neil, always has, his vinyl records are stacked by the turntable at home.
Laid back, she’s smiling, she looks relaxed.
I watch the drip drip drip drug dripping up the line…
I’m not sad, not entirely, neither of us are in this moment. This is simply where we are right now. Moving through. Not around, up, over, or under – through. Right through the guts of it all.
Because that’s all there is to do.