In those days you will rise before dawn with creaking knees and stumble on towels left strewn by distracted and slovenly bathers. In those days the toilet flap will stick and you will have to jiggle the handle lest the water run and run. In those days the shower will spray cold for several minutes before warmth slowly flows. The toothpaste tube will be empty. The socks won’t match. The hairbrush will be wrapped in a weaving of lost hair. In those days you will nick your chin with the razor in that same place where you’ve nicked your chin before, where your fathers nicked their chin and their fathers before them. And when you don the T-shirt with the overstretched neck and the underwear with the exhausted elastic band, you will know that the hour draws nigh. Then drag yourself to the coffee shop, boot up the laptop, and tell the world to make ready. The horsemen approach.
I have a playlist on my iTunes called “Writing.” It’s what I shuffle through when I write. Mostly it’s instrumental music, lots of movie soundtracks and some classical. Béla Fleck and the Flecktones, John Williams, Ennio Morricone, Art of Noise, Gregorian chant, Howard Shore, Mouret, Bruce Rowland, Franz Shubert. You know, that kind of stuff. The primary prerequisite is that it cannot have lyrics. I find lyrics distracting when I’m writing. Lyrics always make me want to sing along. This is what I do. I listen. I write. I sing along. All day, every day, for as long as I can remember, this is what I do.
When the end of days comes I’m not leaving. I’m going to hide until the end is over and then come out and see what’s left. I’m going to look for others like me, people who have stayed behind. We’ll build a timeless society free of fate and doom. The end is over. It’s smooth sailing from here to forever after.
Hello, friends. I hope to see you there.
Later. Love.
