I suppose that I could have blocked the anthology from proceeding, but that would have meant denying other writers the fruits of their own endeavours. So now that book sits on a shelf in Ottawa with a looseleaf apologia explaining the inaccuracies to "A Word".
Every writer is aware of the effort that they put into a story, and the impossible odds that are overcome to its being accepted. To see that all erased at the eleventh hour by pure incompetence, is something that I hope no one else has to experience.
A Word
I am.
It is the
beginning, and I exist - a dab of dark ink on white filaments of paper.
I am the letter ‘A’ - high cased - the beginning of a
sentence, a first utterance of thought.
I am alone.
There is space on either side of me so I know that I am also a word.
I am the word
‘A’.
To my left come
the sounds of what might be the scratchings of a pen’s nib on paper. In its
wake, there are soft murmurings, astonished utterances of the self-discovery of
Becoming. I cast inquiries and receive hesitant replies.
“I am ‘d’”, says
one with awe.
“I am ‘a’”, says
another in tones of hallowed recognition.
“’y’” comes a
third, and with only a moment’s reflection, absorbs the accumulative voicing of
their Selves, then cries, “We are ‘day’!”
There is a
luminescence of awareness. Ignorance is pushed back, and I can see that myself
and they are “A day.” This excites us
and we begin to murmur amongst ourselves.
“Shhhh!” cries
‘y’, “I can hear something.”
In the distance,
emerging from where the scratching of the pen recedes, I can hear something as
well, but it is too far away to tell what it is. They are voices, but this is
all I know until ‘d’ whispers to me that there is ‘s’ and ‘o’ to their left.
Then, at that
very moment, the distant strains of the pen stop.
The silence is deafening.
I am puzzled.
Perhaps I am troubled as well. Is this all? But that can’t be….can it?
We had been something, but now we are incomplete.
Before, we had been ‘A day’. Now we are ‘A day so’. It makes no sense. We lack meaning. Without meaning, there can
be no direction. Will this be our eternity - life without meaning? Our
excitement gives way to anxiety, and as the terrible silence stubbornly
persists, time passes with no solace for our fears.
Then suddenly,
as though waking from a timeless slumber, the sounds of the pen are renewed.
Terse, breathless whispers, agitated with tension, come down the line that
there is to be more.
“More what?” I ask. My own anxiety reflects
the strain. My relief at hearing the writing recommence is quelled by the
unknown. What is the substance of those distant, unseen others to which I am
bound? What will be my meaning? Will there be any meaning at all?
Again and again
I beg a response, but receive none.
I fret.
In agitated
time, rumours come. ‘It is a big word’, a ‘great word.’ There follows an
elongated pause before it comes to me that it is ‘a vast word’!
Anxiously, I
wait.
Then, slowly at
first, but as the meaning of this vast new word begins to acquire substance, more
quickly the identity of the letters come to me until, anxiety forgotten, it
becomes a veritable river of information - “b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l”!
Indeed it is a great word! Even in our infant
knowledge we know there are few greater than this. Our joy and relief shines
pure upon the page for, not only have we regained meaning, a still greater
significance has been given us by my freshly minted kin, and – oh! – what
meaning it is!
Then even in our
rapture the information trickles in that ‘a-s t-o-d-a-y’ is also appended to our
world. It seems our excitement can know no bounds.
‘A day so
beautiful as today’…
What greater
existence could there be for a humble letter than to be part of such a
wonderful philosophy! ‘A day so beautiful
as today’ shines clearly in our collective consciousness and we thrill the
page with our pride.
Still, from
below, the nib continues to scratch.
The tumult of
our happiness begins to subside, but gone are our feelings of uncertainty and
fear. We take assurance in the knowledge of what we are – a collective of
hamlets and villages, and yes, even towns and great cities; each comprised of
individuals that have joined and formed a society of thought - that today is beautiful! What can possibly be more
noble?
Tingling with
excitement, we wait while our cousins below are enlightened with their own
self-discovery. In due course, we introduce ourselves and trade information,
until we are all aware of our destiny.
‘W-a-s s-u-r-e-l-y m-e-a-n-t
f-o-r t-h-e-e’
A vast,
incredulous sigh rises from us all, as mist might arise when greeting the
morning sun.
With reverent
gratitude we realize that we are to be something profoundly magnificent –
something so fantastically wonderful that none of us has dared hope it might
ever come to pass.
We are to become a poem of the holy
trinity of Beauty and Love and Truth! We are all to be part of the greatest, most pure thoughts
that ever were!
Oh, what a priceless gift. There can never be another more precious than this.
While the sounds
of scribbling come from further below – pausing here and there as each word is
chosen with delicate care – we settle happily into the paper like so many
dreamers in repose.
Because for the
eternity of our existence this is what we will be; any who might look upon us
will be moved – yes, even if it be for a thousand years. Individuals will take
us away with them in their hearts and make their lives more beautiful. Perhaps
they will tell others and theirs will become more beautiful, as well. Maybe
they will even come like pilgrims to a holy place to pay us homage. Possibly,
one day we will grow to shine throughout the world, perhaps even to other
worlds beyond - even to the very
outermost reaches of the most distant star!
Every sheet of paper and every pot of
ink have the potential to do all of this; to set in line an odyssey that will
last forever.
I am the
beginning…that first bold step.
I am ‘A’.
The End
CW
Lovatt – 29/02/08
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