Rendered Fat Content


I take in most of my information through my ears. My eyes routinely lie to me and The Muse insists I’ve never been very well connected to my rumored sense of touch. I can tell when supper’s done cooking by the smell, but I live most of my life in dialogue; most often with myself. I can be found with my headset plugged in, listening to some podcast, where I cannot hear you calling my name. In short, I’m verbal and unsurprisingly auditory.

The past month, most of my dialogues have been with myself, a delightful companion. I’ve forgotten to plug in while weeding, for instance, and found the company so delightful within my portable echo chamber, that I’ve been playing my own soundtracks and following my own, personal inquiries. I become a machine then, able to work through otherwise long hours, finishing refreshed and surprised at the aches I find lingering. My step son can’t quite comprehend how I manage to complete so much, but my secret might lie in the fact that I’m not really working when working, but chatting with myself.

I don’t have to try to fail to capture these endlessly fascinating conversations, for they exist only in the moment in which they occur, not intended for public consumption. I will not remove those gloves, fumble for my pen, notebook, or glasses, or very often even mention what’s been rolling around in my head. My brain seems centrifugal, enriching raw material into critical masses. Later, perhaps much later, once I’ve showered and changed into something not camo-ed with paint splatters and epoxy stains, I might write, but I’m word-ing pretty much all the time.

My other most common dialogue companion has been The Grand Other, a four year old who seems just as immersed in the word world as I, though her extroversion encourages her to babble with her mouth as I babble in my brain. We play with words the way others play with dolls or toy trucks, running them around my little construction sites until they’re muddy and spent. We giggle at each other more than might seem decent.

I had intended to journal here daily as this adventure unfolded, but I surprised myself when I lost my usual compulsion to create something for public consumption. I might have been fermenting inside, and I expect a spurt of written words to swirl out the ends of my fingers once I’m back into what passes for now as my regular digs. For now, I have a bit more dirt to dig and a few more surfaces screaming for paint, and a trash man enqueued for tomorrow morning. By sundown tomorrow, my work here, however meagre, will be completed, if only because I cannot be physically in two places at once. Until then, I will inhabit the two places I always inhabit, here and in-here, and I will be word-ing every inch of the way.

©2014 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

blog comments powered by Disqus

Made in RapidWeaver