Offstage, Onstage

For a great many years, I thought I’d never fall out of the habit of daily writing. But here I am, days, weeks, and sometimes months between pieces, with just as few handwritten notes in between. Other than what I’ve already published, one would think I’m not a writer at all, at least by any outward sign, other than the use of playful, colorful language to address the odd experience known as living. And it’s true: I’m not a writer. I’m an infinite spirit temporarily dressed as a human being, a celestial flash-in-the-pan my parents proudly, humorously, and helplessly called William. By courtesy of this thing called Life, I’m a localized experience, a whirlwind of wit and wonder, who has finally, nigh seventy years into the game, outgrown his need to be either right or wrong. And so why this piece? The truth is, if I had a reason, it’s forgotten by now. I’ve nothing to accomplish, nothing, even, particular to do. We tiled our shower. We removed the old carpet in our house and replaced it with clean new vinyl flooring that looks like wood. I went to the dentist. We changed our insurance. I run every morning. All of the things one ordinarily does, we have done, just as if they mattered, and the roles we were playing had any significance beyond the day’s performance. Offstage, onstage, we are much the same. In other words, our street personas differ so little from our private ones that no one is likely to notice. And this extends to these words. For the life of me, I can’t think of anything to write that would sound of the vaguest importance, and nothing that would make me seem different than you, better, worse, or more or less interesting. And yet I find I’m enjoying myself, the same as I enjoyed myself when I was a boy growing up on the farm. All I can do, apparently, is say yes. I haven’t a no in me. Maybe I will later on, if later ever comes, but for now, which never ends, yes is the word. Yes, and love. Good morning. Good day. Good night.

[ 2030 ]