this past monday

by Jacob van Ruisdael

A day off. The sacrifice of a fifth of my income just to experience it. It better be worth it. There’s a chilly breeze in the air and the day is yellow from the sun. The train is moving at the speed of the cotton wool clouds above. Way too slowly.

People are mad. People are scratching the hair behind their ears nervously. Swearing God. People are calling the railroad customer service to complain. People thank them politely when they provide “construction work” as the reason for the delay like it’s a legitimate reason. People get up and look through the window, mention God and mother, at the station master that doesn’t whistle on time. People return to their seat at the sound of the whistle and then continue to scratch behind their ears and tap with their legs because the train is too slow.

The cherry trees in the city have lost their pink. They look ordinary now. Green. People are running around them, catching trams. People are having a picnic. People are taking photos of themselves around these trees. People are walking dogs who run from them excitedly.

I decide to meander. I decide to look for some good coffee. There’s a monotone beeping sound and the people who look like cooks are outside the building smoking cigarettes. I wonder if that’s another evacuation caused by another bomb threat email. I grab the coffee to go and continue to wander.

I think about the past, about my youth and all the foregone days, about all the dates and hangouts with the boys. About friends, estranged or those no longer there. I think about the approaching middle age. Hoping I won’t bump into anyone familiar.

I think about writing and how I’m avoiding it, how I’m carrying a laptop the whole day specifically to write something good, but how I just don’t want to. Like the sentences we write, which always sound much better in our heads than when they meet reality, the idea of writing in some cafe bar sounded much better in my head. The cafe bar was populated by various people and they were too distinct, their dialogues too vivid, too loud for a murmur that was supposed to help with writing. People who talk about interior design and comparing veneers to hard wood and how many times it’s more expensive and how they are actually happy with the veneer option and how the veneers are in actually. People who apparently have business meetings in cafes. People who talk about broken friendships. People who speak French on the phone.

The problem with my writing practice is that I’ve started to require too much ceremony just to attempt it. The stars need to be aligned for me just to touch the keyboard. Which is a great way to never do it. I’ve realized recently that this is similar to training, especially at home. If it requires a detailed setup and the state of both the outer and the inner world to be perfect, I will never do it. It’s hard to find a good chunk of time that’s going to become its compartment. But if I leave the kettlebell around and do a couple of exercises here and there, when I have a minute or two, there’s a good chance I’ll do a lot of exercises. Not taking it so seriously, not making a big deal out of it, paradoxically makes me do it more. The ceremony, I’ve found, is a great burden.

Unfortunately, writing is different than training in one fundamental aspect. I can’t do a very good job at it by doing it in such small chunks of time. Good writing requires larger blocks of time. Otherwise the flow gets lost, the momentum withers away. It needs to be preserved at least until the first draft is out. Then I can attempt to improve it in smaller chunks of time. (I remember reading somewhere some time ago that one should get so absorbed in writing and finishing what was started that even if the bomb goes off, one should continue writing and come to terms that one will perish while writing. Unfortunately, the older I get, the more often the bombs go off.)

Ideally this large chunk of time needs to be carved out of early mornings or late evenings. Out of periods when one is neither fully awake nor fully asleep. I find that the best writing is produced when I am somewhere in-between. Not fully there. In a reverie. Once I relax, once I stop thinking, stop forcing myself to do it — the beautiful sentence arrives. When I say goodbye to the hope that it will arrive — when I stop expecting it and give it permission to reject my wishes — it appears. How many things are like that. Romantic love, dream jobs, happiness…

I also find that I write the best when I forget I’m writing at all. When I’m not pretending I’m more serious than I really am. When I’m waiting somewhere and I type out a couple of sentences on my phone. I wrote my first senryu this month¹ (on said phone) and then wondered why I waited so long. It’s fun and I allegedly know that the free time should be spent on doing things that are fun, things that are generative.

That’s how it felt to write that first senryu. Like truly embracing that Borges quote how everything that happens to us is material for our art and that includes misfortunes. The air stinks again and it’s pouring outside, but the water is out. What an opportunity to turn it into something meaningful. To turn it into something beautiful, something that I’ll read later and smile. Maybe that’s the point of all this patience. All these first drafts that have boarded the first class train to Trashville. All these mornings and evenings that produce nothing meaningful and leave me only with questions about why I’m doing this.

Maybe the point is to create something that delights knowing I was the one behind it, knowing all these failed attempts inevitably meant something and led me to it. Not forgetting about the delight of yanking that beautiful sentence, paragraph, or poem, that was hiding behind the mountain of mediocrity.

People share that list articles are more popular and easier to make than normal articles, that they are dopamine increasing, like scrolling, which compels me to try to avoid it this month. People joke how writing about parenthood conflicts with the actual parenthood. People share their sorrow about the time they’ll never have for all the books they want to read. People write about unbroken first drafts while in reality their first drafts of course get broken, so people complete them in these small chunks of time, and then they are elated when done, hoping the withered momentum won’t get noticed.

I pass the cooks again. The monotone beeping sound has persisted, my God, how do they tolerate it and continue to smoke like it’s nothing. Are these the same cooks or were they replaced when the past group lost their tolerance? I’ll never know, I only see uniforms.

I try to catch the train back. There are no bikes to rent. I arrive at the station. The woman dressed in uniform approaches passengers on the platform. This train is not stopping at your town. That’s it. She continues walking. People are confused. People ask other people about their stations. People get to the train that stops at their towns. People notice that the train is late. The train starts its journey at the speed of the setting sun. Still, it was worth it.

rain is pouring outside
dad is awake since 3AM
no water in pipes

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