I’m trying to parse out this “writing” thing I do that brings me such purpose. It’s astonishing to me that I can sit down and have a million thoughts racing through my head, and yet have nothing to say at times. At certain points, and in this moment for example, I'll try to compel myself to write something— even what I’m looking at, just to get words on paper. Water fountain. Blanket. Skyscraper. But these words do not inspire me.
Now, here’s something. About three yards from me, a squirrel is vigorously chewing on a spork. I think that’s what it is from here. Oh, pardon me, it’s a plastic knife. Needless to say, all this masticating is to no avail. This is like watching someone who has been given non-alcoholic beer pretend to get drunk. He's putting on a real show with those little cheeks munching at light speed, and it's fooling absolutely no one, my friend. I know that not one single morsel of plastic is being bitten off simply from the force of those tiny chompers. That plastic knife is fully intact. Well, in the time it took me to finish typing that sentence, he ran away. I guess my judgment wafted over to him and was particularly pungent. I should say a little bit about where I am. I’m in Central Park in a clearing off 79th Street, if you enter from the east side. I walked up to a hilltop that flattens out for a bit before transitioning into the bike lane that slices and weaves its way through the whole landscape, and the view here is delightful. A French man who looks to be my age just approached me and asked where the Met is. Folks, it’s one block north once you’re streetside again. No bother; he’s not from here, and I usually like chatting with strangers. But in the time between him asking me how to get there and me opening my mouth to reply, he said “can I sit down?” and self-responded by plopping onto my blanket beside me. I normally would have given more to the conversation on account of general politeness and human interest, but I was sort of ankle-deep in this little stream of consciousness. And Frenchmen do not fool me for one second. It’s beginning to look a bit like Fall here. Today particularly so, and the first day I’ve noticed it; perhaps it’s the idleness of this clearing and the tranquility brought on by the large blanket of shade, but the leaves are definitely becoming yellow, and many are already dying and cluttering the grass, aching to be raked into a huge pile for jumping. The sunlight is glittering like pinholes through the huge tree that’s acting as my personal shelter, and that’s one of my favorite natural phenomena. That, and the sunlight that glitters off the sea when the whitecaps begin to roll. There is a table not too far from me, and it’s made entirely out of thin tree trunks, chopped into pieces and clumsily glued together. Its simplicity is beautiful. That said, the benches that match are not calling my name to be sat on. It’s happening: I’m running out of thoughts that my mind deems worthy of writing. But this is the hump I’m trying to overcome with this particular piece, so onward. Um, good god. How long has it been since I climbed a tree? I used to love climbing them when I was a kid. We lived directly across from a giant field with a jungle gym at the far end, and there was a bike path that was lined with trees along the perimeter. They were those big giant pines that must be a hundred feet tall, and have branches that start low enough for any old sixth grader to hoist herself onto. We wouldn’t go too far up; at a certain point, the branches became thinner and thinner (as they do), and our common sense at least served us there. We would also climb the backstop of the baseball field when it wasn’t in use. My brother and I would go when we were kids, and some of my friends and I when I was in high school. It was a great place to dangle your feet and feel like you were on top of the world. I came to the park to work today; due to the supreme technology of personal hotspots, I am able to write and submit my assignments from here. I often have multiple projects due within the day or week, but today has been particularly slow, and thus, I’m streaming my dang consciousness. It’s dawning on me that I haven’t done something like this in a long time; this willy nilly kind of piece, I mean. Writing is such a big part of my life. It’s my job, and also my hobby, and the source of my biggest dreams in life. Most of my personal writing projects are long form, and remain works in progress for weeks or months in pursuit of a larger goal. Apart from my job, it's been a while since I started and finished something in the same sitting like this. It does not always come naturally. Sometimes I’ll sit down to start spilling ideas onto the page, and when my fingers produce nothing, it’s kind of a jump scare. The walkie talkie crackles, and I try to resume contact. “Inspiration, we’ve lost you on the feed. Where did you go? Are you in range? Approximately when— and I don’t mean to pry while you’re on vacation, but a rough estimate will do— will you be returning?” And sometimes, like today, I have to do this thing that I don’t have a word for because it’s inherently contrarian: the thing where I’m forcing it, and I’m letting go simultaneously. It doesn’t really make sense, but since when does that matter?
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