I had a dream between the time I got up to go to the bathroom the first time, and just now when I got up for good; a dream of wandering through the warehouse of a large university just before the homecoming feast for the benefactors; there were cases of wines ‘Palmer’, ‘Rothschild’, ‘Talbot’, ‘Krystal’ those names in the stories of great meals and seductions venal and commercial; dry goods for the pantry, tins of truffles, marinated peppercorns, bottles of mineral waters from every continent, bottled oils in straw filled wooden boxes. I walked down aisle and aisle and aisle of cased goods laid out in orderly and spacious pattern. Clerks and porters were bringing in and taking out stores, checking them against lists on clipboards; everything was orderly, clearly labeled, stored under impeccable conditions. And not an odor in the whole place. I remember that nothing smelt.
The most distinguished and sophisticated flavors and smells, chosen without regard for cost, brought in multiple cases are all within heavy glasses and tinned cans. Diners would be given the names of the wines, the waters, the white truffles, the black, the spices bought by the kilo from farthest sources. Guests would memorize and then repeat these lists so that others could have a vicarious thrill.
All of this from the simple question “Does it taste good?” What happened to that question in all of this accumulation, accumulation being more important here than flavor, outweighing “does it taste good?”
I have taken a few days off work because of a fall I had during the storm, I have exhausted interesting things to do at home, it’ll be back to work today even though this is not a good work day, I am told there is a football game that will keep most people at home. But I need to get out of here, uncover the car, challenge the battery, do something outside of this place.
There was zilch on television last night, I know all the re-runs by heart, I looked at the schedule to see which of them I might want to see again—none. PBS was running a documentary on Australian birds, again; beautiful photography, impressive telephoto lenses, dreadfully anthropomorphic scripts-not again thank you so very much.
I did, began, something that I have been putting off, putting off for most of my life: I edited Pages from this weblog, those items that no one reads, that were meant to have value beyond this daily splurge, that were started with good intentions and high moral values; then left buried in millions of transistors, not disturbed by an interested reader or this author. Never in my life have I gone back to read and polish anything I have written, I just wanted it out, to be rid of it.
I began with the mainstay article, fiddled with it, then ripped it apart, threw out the stupid stuff, wrapped it back up and felt pretty good. I had looked at something I thought good, asked whether the good parts really were worthy, changed them, changed them again. Now they are better than they were. There will come a time when I look at them again, perhaps there will be a time when I leave them as is, that the words will say just what I want them to say.
I have scribbled dozens of journals, wore the nib of a Mont Blanc fountain pen down t where it wrote like the wet end of a post. I saw the idea of a blog as stupid as any I had heard; who would do it? who would read it? what’s the sense of it? what’s the fuss all about? I was certainly well above driveling in public, have too much sense of decorum.
I have done this weblog for a couple of months now; endured those first turgid and motionless lumps that came out of me; then got to where I would review the piece once before pressing the button; now I have done the penultimate, opened up the pillars of my bloviating, examined them for rot and sturdiness; and I am damned if I don’t think that I might do it with some of the others.
Why? No reason, there is never a reason to write, to publish; there is just a need for the act; like it or not,those are my words out here.
It is liberating to break one of the barriers I had set for myself, roadblock of my own invention challenged and smashed. Too often I blame why I didn’t accomplish this or that on someone else, bullshit! I am the one who sets up the timbers in the roadway, no one else. I accepted that the pile of timbers couldn’t be thrown down, or driven around, no one else is responsible, never.
I don’t know why, but finally reading Proust gave me the same experience.
Roger Johnson Weblog 