"Whether any of this amounts to anything at all, couldn't possibly be the point."

I try to imagine myself accomplishing things of GreatSignificance, though I usually struggle with my attempts. GreatSignificances only emerge from great distances, it seems, and almost never from up closes and personals. Later, perhaps much, much later, the parsing might resolve to highlight just how terribly important that by then long-distance event was. It might be important to acknowledge that in the actual moment of occurrence, its GreatSignificance had yet to emerge, however much any participant might have sensed its presence then. Within the larger scale of history, most current events resolve to fuss, perhaps fuss with feathers flying, but little more than fuss. I suspect that any odd second might spawn the greatest event in the history of our universe, but it probably won't.

I'm picky, anyway, sincerely believing that I might pick and thereby choose the activities destined to age into a legacy of personal greatness. I steadfastly refuse some engagements, imagining them somehow degrading, and strive after others, believing that they might one day mature into blessing me. I might confess, though, that the vast bulk of my activities hold no realistic possibility of sealing my fate, whether in greatness or infamy. I'm tottering around leaving footprints which seasonal winds will certainly just blow away. Still, I try to hold that latest draft as if it really does bubble with potential. I take my copyediting seriously to convince myself that my scribblings might somehow prove worthy of me. I poke sticks into great darkness while whispering reassuring words I try very hard to believe.

Jealousies further cloud the scene incumbent with seeing another perhaps competitor gain wide approval. That freshly significant other most likely never suspected that he might one day come on the scene in such a broadly satisfying way. He's achieved the top of his game, though when he completed his work, nobody had ever heard of his name. Such, I suspect, stands fame, reputed after the fact with a supportive crowd awaiting the second act, an act complicated by the author's expanded audience suddenly believing that he must certainly know where 'it' is at. Better, perhaps, to labor in near complete anonymity, believing in possibilities not yet achieved. I move back to my copyediting, still somehow determined to believe that I'm finishing up a work of GreatSignificance.

I've experienced greater satisfaction weeding gardens, though editing's clearly easier on my knees. I wonder, after the third or fourth read, if I could be capable of pleasing even myself, and come to believe that if I cannot even please myself, could my work please anybody else? I persist. What else could I possibly do but persist? Resistance seems beyond futile. I cast my die without really understanding why other than it seemed like a good idea at the time; a time now long past, a time of perhaps GreatSignificance, but only ever perhaps. I try not to even think of eventual publication. I can't seem to find any knob on that door. I labor for the simple necessity of having a chore I can believe in. Whether any of this amounts to anything at all, couldn't possibly be the point.

©2019 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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