Nov 28 2013

Jane didn’t know how she was going to start the story. She had never known how to start because all the other journalists made it so hard. There was a way to start a story and it always sounded the same, but Jane never wanted it to start like that. But this was how it was going to start this time. Because she had expected some sort of normal interview or something to go on. But J Smith was doing nothing to help her. His fashion value, his critical popularity had gone to his head. Why could Jane not be the author instead of him she did not know. They could get away with anything. He was forcing her to write some hack shit about his eccentricity?

Because her recorder was pushed so far to the corner of the table that it was constantly imperiled. and as J Smith shifted his many notes about on the surface the books that those notes were contained in nudged at the recorder repeatedly, pushing it ever further into this state of endangerment. So that before long she was sure it was going to fall off the edge and smash on the ground, and she would not be able to retrieve the interview. Not that it was much of an interview.

“Go on,” he was saying with gentle impatience, “Please continue, don’t allow yourself to be distracted by what I’m doing, I’m giving you full attention.” She had paused for too long and she had become distracted but he was being very rude. He was (Mr J Smith, what a joke) running his pen around unceasingly on his papers scribbling endless words or passages, phrases – notes; and the upward end of the pen was drawing endless nonsensical circles in the air that were rudely ushering away all of her resolve and focus. This was her big interview. “Why are you doing that,” she asked, gesturing angrily at the sheaves of supposed nascent genius dominating the space between them, “Right now, while I am trying to interview you? Don’t you know that it is very rude?”

J Smith made no pause in his writing. “I’m sorry but don’t have any choice about putting these things down, and in any case manners don’t matter to a person without a personality,” he said. “I gave all that away long ago, I’m barely more than a tube filled with ink.”

“That’s not enough to hold a person together,” said Jane. Not enough to hold a person together, I thought and no I suppose no it is not enough. and then after that i noticed my hand that was holding the pen dissolving a little in the air. but at first it didnt seem like it because the pen continued moving by itself, so it still seemed as though my hand was directing it. but in actuality my hand was just moving along with it where it went by habit and as it dissolved it forgot to continue moving in that way. it was turning into a mist. “What is happening to you,” was saying Jane but i shrugged at that point as i felt i was turning into mists all over and my body was going into the air. but i was losing sight of Jane and the swiveling pen and i was sensing the cloud and the oxygen and the leaves, the surf and the sun and now i was not sensing or seeing but i was being, i was only being.

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