Notebook

The other evening I was outside doing something by the window when I happened to look in at the place where I work. For a long, strange moment, I felt I was looking at a museum display. The only thing missing was a wax dummy of myself, and a little sign that said �The writer at work,� or some such nonsense. It was a pitiful scene, one that summed up and revealed my utter insignificance. Upon an oval table, there were piles of books, papers, folders, binders, a pair of glasses, little scraps of paper with writing on them, a computer screen and keyboard, scissors, pens, family keepsakes, and dust. Beside it was an empty chair, a dictionary, and an old typewriter with a black wool hat on it, and a gray wool sweater on that, a sheet of paper on top of that, a small folded newspaper on that, and a CD on that � or, to put it in cooking terms, an old typewriter with everything on it.

And now here I am, once again a part of the mess, writing about being a part of the mess, after having remembered looking in at the mess through the window and realizing it was a mess. And it is still a mess, because I myself am a mess, though I bathe regularly and have clean fingernails. Is this significant? I think so. But not for long, because there are other things going on that are more significant, though there are so many of them that they tend to drown each other out. And my ears are ringing. This is also significant.

A voice is crying in the wilderness. It says, Stop killing each other, for Pete�s sake. Forget the politicians and listen to your heart for a change. Everybody take a few centuries off and let things settle down. It says, Be mindful of your own insignificance, be content with it, be amazed by it, and stop comparing it to everyone else�s. Turn off the television, get rid of your car, and take a long walk off a short pier into the Sea of Sanity. After all, how much artificial coloring, flavoring, seasoning, living can anyone take? Something has got to give.

Today I am part of the scene, vital as an acorn, dumb as a rock, and I am looking out the window at the weeds and grass and pavement and houses and trees and bushes and cats and cars and road signs and clouds and blue sky. And I stand before this giant blackboard and childishly erase it all just as the school bell sounds, and I watch with glee as the teacher gets onto her broom and flies away.