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From the novel Westlake Village by Harry Buschman
© by Harry Buschman
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Persistence of Memory
Writer's block can be as debilitating as a sluggish bowel -- or so I've been told. It is heartening to know that neither of them, taken separately are life threatening. Eventually something will happen. I often think of Henry Roth who died in 1995 at the respectable age of 89, his personal blockage began in 1934 and lasted until 1979. An ordeal for him and his family, I am sure -- but an eventual blessing to all of us.
On a more personal level, I find I haven't written a stitch of anything worth putting my name to in two weeks -- and already I'm in a blue funk. Many of my friends will look at it another way, "Be realistic old sport, you haven't written anything worth putting your name to in the first place." But everything's relative, and I am the best barometer of my personal highs and lows.
When I stop to consider that I've lived through almost all of the twentieth century I can't believe I've got nothing to say. I find it difficult to believe the world does not gather at my feet like acolytes and listen to every word I say. Most old men, (and old women too) will reminisce until the cows come home. You can't shut them up -- they'll bore the hell out of you with their tales of yesteryear. Well, I'm more enthusiastic about today than I am about yesteryear, and even more enthusiastic about tomorrow. Yet, for the moment at least, the words will not come. I'm dry as a bone.
The rectangular glass eye of my computer screen and its throbbing cursor bid me, "Write, old man -- my chips are at your disposal." That's one of my problems. Writing is too easy. I'm too comfortable sitting here in my high backed chair in the soft ambient light, listening to the untroubled music of a teen age Mozart. My mind drifts when I'm too comfortable. I should be squatting on a subway platform, writing on a brown paper bag with the stub of a number two pencil. Shakespeare must have been supremely uncomfortable to write "King Lear". A burr inside his breeches perhaps.
So it's good to get up and walk around this old hollow house of mine. How long will my children let me live here? When will I hear them say, "The old man's getting senile .... I wonder if he's eating regularly." --"Did you see that dust in the corners of the kitchen floor?" Yes, I know children, I meant to vacuum before you came. It looks bad, but remember my mind is on other things. There is music yet to be played and songs I haven't sung.
How nice it would be to light a fire in that old fireplace and listen to the voices of my children and watch the firelight play on my wife's face again. I remember the joy in my old dog's eyes as he watched me start a fire -- he'd edge closer and closer until he was almost in it. Baking his old bones and looking up at me as if I were God Almighty.
God Almighty! How wonderful it was! A simple thing like a fire. But to light a fire now and watch it alone .... watch it burn down to nothing in a hollow house of echoes. I am not so brave a man.
I haven't been upstairs in years. Maybe it would be fun to root around in the attic. The old L.C. Smith typewriter is up there -- it would be fun to write for a while with that, wouldn't it? The clatter of the keys would rouse anyone from writer's block. The ribbon is probably brittle as old newspaper. I could run over to "Staples" and get a new one -- "Excuse me sir, would you have a black ribbon for an L.C. Smith typewriter vintage 1924?" For the lack of such a ribbon who knows how many stories will die a-borning?
On the other hand, there's things up there I'd rather not see again. The old double bed for one; where we nested like teaspoons in the silver drawer and waited for the sun to show its face through the tall south windows. From those same windows today I know I would see the graveyard of Holy Rood.
I feel like an intruder in my own house, someone who might have broken in while the family was away. I fear the police may come and ask me what I'm doing here.
"Strange
as it may seem, Officer -- I live here .... alone. I'm home alone."
"There must be somebody here with you old timer. Nobody lives alone."
"That's for sure, officer -- not if they can do anything about it."
There's another
reason for Writer's Block. The noise. I hear the persistent echo of so many
voices, house voices. They can't be turned off. They find their way into my
train of thought, and once there, they won't go away.
Sick of this hollow house, I get my hat and coat and activate the answering
machine. Out on the town I love so well. I know each sidewalk crack and where
I must scrunch down a bit to avoid the low hanging branches. Walking is good
for the heart, good for the mind -- and good for the bowels my doctor tells
me.
I call this town "Westlake Village" to protect it from tourists. We
take our tranquility seriously here in the Village and I would get a dressing
down if people came to gawk at us because of my random writing. My children
grew up here and to them the Village was a boundless province of enchantment.
High school proms, football rivalries and new best friends every day. My wife,
a flaming civic minded woman, knew everyone and by default, therefore, so did
I. Husbands like me, stood by, looked at each other, and marveled at the sleepless
energy and naked citizenship of their wives. It's a better place because of
them -- and now she lies so still, so quiet in Holy Rood.
Walk a little faster, the light is fading . . .
There's the school, yes! -- five buildings. There are fewer children now than there were then, but the school is bigger. Three principals! The old janitor has been replaced by three 'Facilities Superintendents' and there is the dull amber glow of computer screens everywhere. There is a media room with video camera equipment and a closed circuit television studio. Somebody told me just the other day that the coach has provided our star quarterback with a private masseuse from the chiropractor on Westwood Avenue. How splendid! My tax dollars at work! Will he remember us when he signs his first multi-million dollar contract with the National Football League?
The lights are coming on one by one. Isn't that a strange turn of phrase? It must spring from the gaslight era when the lamp lighter lit the lamps along Baker Street and Portobello Road. They come on automatically now -- when the sun goes down the lights come on, ready or not.
I know it's not good for me, but here I am again at Holy Rood.
"How are
you getting on? Are you dressed warmly enough for this time of year? Are you
getting enough to eat? How are the kids? Are you writing anything worthwhile?
How are things in Westlake Village?"
I'm doing my best, dear. I wish it was better but under the circumstances it's
the best I can do.
©Harry Buschman 1999
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