Something from Nothing

 Something From Nothing

Writers write, right? Well, I haven’t done so in weeks. A writer on “pause.” I’m beginning to wonder if the fall I had a couple months ago - well actually the knock-out punch at the bottom - knocked all the metaphors out of my head. What’s to write about anyway? What’s in front of me? What’s in front of me are pencils and blank papers. Maybe I should write about something shocking, like this blankety-blank-blank life I’m leading. But that’s it exactly: my pages are blank. Maybe I need to adopt the George Castanza approach. You know George, the wacky character on the “Seinfeld” comedy. In one episode, Castanza proposes hilariously that they do a “show about nothing” for TV. There’s something to write about: nothing. A chapbook full of blank pages. The somethingness of nothing. But, nah, nothing’s been used. Maybe I should emulate William Carlos Williams, who famously wrote about a red wheelbarrow, and another about plums he pilfered. Nah, that’s been used, too. Besides, my wheelbarrow is rusty and I don’t have any plums to steal. I’m 75 now. Maybe I’m closer to nirvana where distractions, such as writing poems, mean nothing. There I go again, back to nothing. It seems to come up a lot these days. Maybe I need to explore nothing more. No-thing sounds like a Zen koan, what ascetics employ in meditation to experience their essence. The sound of one hand clapping. Maybe I need to live in a cave and meditate constantly with nothing - like writing - to distract. Nah, I can live my life mindfully, appreciate what’s in front of me. Like my little home in Fox Crossing. My little cave. Appreciate Bernie and Dot who had it built in 1956. Joy who updated it in 2008. And my son Keith who totally and artistically remodeled the bathroom, dug the pond, and built the deck. And my son Aaron who built the waterfall. And my wife Patti, seamstress extraordinaire, who sewed the curtains and cushions throughout. And even me, who built four closets of shelves for all our stuff, and decorated the walls with our collection of artwork. I live in an esthetically pleasing cave. Not to mention, the many woodland creatures - deer, fox, turkey, to name a few - that cross our woodland-bordered yard, out our wall of windows. And surrounded further by friendly neighbors, many of whom have lived here for decades, and share their interesting stories. And our sons and their families just minutes away. Life is good, surrounded by creative people. Mmm, creation…making something from nothing. That’s really what writing is, isn’t it? Look out, nothing, here I come!