no more chips
Between me and the writing is always something, whether friend or foe. It happened this afternoon to be both. Between me and my scrawling in this tiny pad was my hoping self, drawn up to a desk, with a handful of freshly opened gourmet potato crisps, which I had loosed into a pristine white porcelain bowl, against which every salted fold and expertly burnt crisp edge was scandalously undressed. My salivating intensified tenfold. And beyond that porcelain bowl of crisps lay a copy of Henry Miller on Writing and the intention for it to catapult me into a writing frenzy. A wary man without choice, I devoured the whole bowl of crisps as if I were going at Sex itself. Collect yourself. I pushed back the chair, pressing my greasy fingertips against the desk for stability, and picked up the bowl ringed with salt and crumbs, and strode to the kitchen. Emptying the remainder of the crisps packet into the bowl was swift work. There was markedly less in the bowl than that first helping, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t look almost pristine again. Returning to the table, I methodically placed the bowl back in its position. I took in what was before me. Which is to say that I checked to reassure myself that writing in this pad was exactly as far away as when I had set upon the first bowl of crisps. Then I wolfed down that second helping with the same measure of vigour. No more chips. Having thought myself better off for vanquishing this foe, I stretched my arms wide and smiled supremely. The late summer sunshine had been pouring through the window by the desk. So while I had been feasting on my two bowls of crisps, I too was bathed in sunlight. And so I rose and came across my flat to this second shadowy desk. With my newfound solar strength I read straight through the first eight pages of the Miller. And, seized in its thralls, I immediately penned this down as I had always intended.