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The Persistence of Memory
by
Harry Buschman
From The Westlake Village Collection.
Writer's block can be as debilitating as a sluggish bowel, and just as
persistent. It is heartening to know that neither of them, taken separately are
life
threatening. Eventually something will happen. I often think of Henry Roth
who died in 1995 at the respectable age of 89, his personal blockage began in
1934 and lasted until 1979. It must have been an ordeal for him, and his family
too, I'm sure -- but an eventual blessing to all of us who love to read.
On a more personal level, I find I haven't written a stitch of anything worth
putting my name to in weeks -- and already I'm in a blue funk. The people I
complain to look at it another way. They say, "Be realistic old sport, you
haven't written anything worth putting your name to in the first place." But
everything is relative, and I am the best barometer of my personal highs and
lows.
When I stop to consider I've lived through almost all of the twentieth
century, I can't believe I've got nothing to say. I find it difficult to
understand
why the world does not gather at my feet and listen to every word I say. Most
old men, (and old women too, I imagine) will reminisce until the cows come
home. You can't shut them up, and they'll bore the hell out of you with their
tales of what it was like when they were young. Well, I'm more enthusiastic
about
today than I am about yesterday, and I'm even more enthusiastic about
tomorrow. Yet, for the moment at least, the words are stuck in my throat. I'm
dry as
a bone.
The square glass eye of my computer screen and its throbbing cursor bid me,
"Write, old man -- my chips are at your disposal." That's one of the problems.
Writing is too easy these days. I'm too comfortable sitting here in my high
backed chair in soft ambient light, listening to the placid music of a teen age
Mozart. (How can it be that Wolfgang never had a dry spell?) My mind drifts
when I'm too comfortable. I should be squatting on a subway platform, writing on
a brown paper bag with the stub of a broken pencil. Shakespeare must have
been supremely uncomfortable to write "King Lear." A burr within his breeches
perhaps.
It's a relief to get up and walk around the hollow old house. How long will
my children let me stay here? When will I overhear them say, "The old man's
getting senile .... I wonder if he's eating properly." "Did you see the dust in
the corners of the kitchen floor?" Yes, I know children, I would have vacuumed
before you came if you had only warned me. It looks bad I'll admit, but
remember my mind is on other things. There is music to be played and songs I
haven't
sung, books I haven't read and every dawn that breaks is another miracle in
my eyes.
How nice it would be to light a fire in that old fireplace and listen to the
voices of my children and watch the firelight play on my wife's face again. I
remember the joy in the old dog's eyes as he watched me lay a fire -- he'd
edge closer and closer until he was almost in it. Baking his old bones and
looking up at me as if I were God Almighty.
God Almighty!
How wonderful it was! A simple thing like a fire. But to light a fire now and
watch it alone .... watch it burn down to nothing in the grate .... listen
for the sounds of silence. I don't really have that kind of courage.
I haven't been upstairs in years. Maybe it would be fun to root around in the
attic again. The old L.C. Smith typewriter is up there -- it would be nice to
write for a while with that, wouldn't it? The clatter of the keys would rouse
anyone from writer's block. The ribbon is probably brittle as old newspaper.
I could run over to Staples and get a new one -- "Excuse me sir, would you
have a black ribbon for an L.C. Smith typewriter vintage 1924?" For the lack of
such a ribbon who knows how many stories will die unborn?
On the other hand, there are things up there I'd rather not see again. The
old double bed for one; where we nested like teaspoons in the silver drawer.
We'd plan the day and wait for the sun to show its face through the tall south
windows. From those windows today I know I can see the graveyard of Holy Rood
through the falling leaves of autumn.
I often feel like an intruder in my own house, someone who might have broken
in while the family was away. I fear the police may come and ask me what I'm
doing here.
"Strange as it may seem, Officer -- I live here .... alone. I'm home alone."
"There must be somebody here with you old timer. Nobody lives alone."
"Nobody wants to, that's for sure, officer -- but there's always one left
behind. The survivor -- someone's got to clean up."
There's another reason for Writer's Block. The noise. There is a persistent
echo of many voices, house voices. They can't be turned off. They won't go away.
Sick of this hollow house, I get my hat and coat and activate the answering
machine. Out I go on the town I love so well. I know each sidewalk crack and
where I must scrunch down a bit to avoid the low hanging branches. Walking is
good for the heart, good for the mind -- and good for what ails me my doctor
tells me.
I call this town "Westlake Village." to protect its anonymity. To keep the
tourists away. We take our tranquility seriously here in the Village and I would
get a good dressing down if people came to gawk at us because of my random
writing. My children grew up here and to them the Village was a boundless
province of enchantment. High school proms, football rivalries and new best
friends
every day. My wife, a flaming civic minded woman, knew everyone by name, and
by default, so did I. Husbands like me stood by, looked at each other, and
marveled at the sleepless energy and relentless citizenship of their wives. It's
a
far better place because of them -- and now she lies so still, so quiet in
Holy Rood.
Walk a little faster, the light is fading ...
There's the school, yes! -- five buildings now. There are fewer children than
there were then, but the school is bigger. Three principals! The old janitor
has been replaced by three 'Facilities Superintendents', and there is the dull
amber glow of computer screens everywhere. There is a media room with video
camera equipment and a closed circuit television studio. Somebody told me just
the other day the coach has provided our star quarterback with a private
masseuse from the chiropractor on Westwood Avenue. How splendid! My tax dollars
at
work! Will our quarterback remember us when he signs his first multi-million
dollar contract with the National Football League?
The lights are coming on one by one. (Isn't that a strange turn of phrase?)
It must spring from the gaslight era when the lamp lighter lit the lamps along
Baker Street and Portobello Road. They come on automatically now -- whenever
the sun goes down the lights come on, ready or not.
I know it's not good for me, but I find myself again at Holy Rood.
"How are you getting on? Are you dressed warmly enough for this time of year?
Are you getting enough to eat? How are the kids? Are you writing anything
worthwhile? How are things in Westlake Village?"
I shouldn't have come here -- I knew there would be questions I couldn't
answer.
©Harry Buschman 1999
(1320)11
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