Old Beginnings

He sat there, casual as a minute hand, the pace of everything around him having long ago set itself.

There it is. I wrote that opening sentence on February 12, 2003. And then I stared at it for over an hour and tried to figure out what to do with it. I could visualize the “casual He.” Knew him well enough to call him by name—but what name? I knew he was sitting at a dimly lit bar, in front of the well-placed big bar mirror, a row of whiskey bottles hiding the bottom half of his reflection. But that’s it. I took that sentence and its possibilities and shoved it in a drawer with hundreds just like it where it has been casually sitting ever since—the pace of its author having long ago reset himself. I’ve got beginnings, Baby. And I’ve got locale. And I’ve got desire. What I don’t have is a voice. What I don’t have is a middle. Segues to segues. I think the well is full, but the pump is fucked. And I can’t lower a bucket because my rope is frayed. And any number of forced metaphors. Anyone interested in publishing a book of beginnings? The potential is immeasurable. They most always take place in bars or lonely apartments or cars being driven at night. The language they invoke will likely be coarse. The scenes to which they lend themselves will likely be dark, uncomfortable, but somehow familiar. A little like Bukowski but with less heart. An aspiration to be like Carver, but only Carver will ever be Carver (and just what do we talk about when we talk about love?). And I’m off on a misdirected tangent. Because, I do have a voice, it’s just buried for now. And I do have a middle—I’m living it right now and it’s not bad. And I’m a walking segue, always have been. And pump and rope be damned, the well will yield when it is ready. It is full and patient. Casual as a minute hand. In the meantime, I’ll start something new. Nothing got anywhere without beginning somewhere—and other painfully clear observations.