Clicks and Clatters

But the clatters became the clicks and the keyboard began to groan with the slowly building pressure of writer’s block. The inspiration of past writing loses the touch of magic and the crystal veins of the story grow stale. It is chained by something, fear or normality or something unidentifiable, and is often released only by the unboundless power of deep night, enthralled alone on the couch in the light of the computer that ripples and bends you into its will and brings your will right along until the clicks become the clatters and the Berlin Wall of writer’s block is crumbled and then torn down with the force that it takes to beat self-centered morons who cannot be won over by reason or emotion or education but must be conquered by brute force of will, the kind of will that is not forced or supplied by a reluctant uncertainty but rather a kind of determination that comes naturally when the time is right and the smell of baked wine fills the air and the sweetened Georgia peaches of summer are dragged from their dusty caves to brighten the air with sprayed citrus that glimmers in the sunlight for that split second when it flies in the air before disappearing in the watery ocean. Eating the peaches on the rocky shore with your feet in the water is wonderful but what about something even fresher, eating the round fruit underwater where the hair sways and where every breath is liquid, the breathing more natural than panting with the lungs or slurping with the gills; it is something much more smooth and pure, something that seems to bring us way back before we were born, takes us back through our evolution to when we were fishes and the peaches were little fishes and there was no brain activity or worry or school or deadlines or friends or dates or lies or laws or walls or clocks or sweat or bombs or thieves or guns or AIDS or coal or smog or smoke or failure, just the blessed veins or water and lifeblood and the swimming through the currents. That is where the dead of night can take you, because being alone inspires something greater to come from yourself than just the general routine of day. It is something that you feel when you write, and it is the same thing that you really and truly experience when you are asleep and the world inside your head only makes sense because it is yours. Jesus drank from the Holy Grail and that holy wine was transferred to all of us, and only surely and truly comes out when the mind is absorbed into the fingers and the keyboard, and the clicks become the clatters and the clatters become a rapid fire of brightness that builds and grows and sways and swells and keeps going even as the night sky goes from black to deep blue and the roosters begin crowing, keeps going as long as there is that flaming blackness of night still in the air and still fresh in the palms of the writer.