STORYTIME TAPESTRY

Special Treat   - From Me  

March 18, 2005

A Blank Slate

Carol Roach

 I took a very wonderful writing course in January and early February. The course was based on stream of consciousness writing where we were to commence writing on a prompt and end when the animator gave the signal that the time was up. One of the lessons centered on the theme of a blank slate. The animator postulated how all creation very much starts with a blank slate, for example, an artist starts with a blank canvass and creates his masterpiece.

The talk about the blank slate and the white empty surroundings appealed to my soul. It brought back memories of my earliest love for new notebooks with pages and pages of lined paper, virgin pages, white, crisp and new. I loved to collect these notebooks in elementary school. I hated to write in them; to contaminate them. They were pristine, elegant, and wonderful when they were new. They somehow lost their appeal once I had actually used them. On the other hand, because they were new, I had the control to write, or draw, or leave the booklet blank. I also had the power to create a new experience. Like the gestalt within us, I had the power to take the virgin paper, add my words, my thoughts, my etchings, and create a melody of my own. The book would became more than the paper, more than my feeble attempts at writing, more than my less than perfect artistry. Yet altogether, it became perfect artistry, the artistry of my soul.

My thoughts are brought back to the present, albeit a scene played out last summer. The fish swim quickly in the pond. I try to count them, one, two, three, and four. Yes, I think there are four of them, but they swim by so swiftly it is difficult to catch them and know that I am not counting the same fish over and over again.

Oh look how lovely the orange speckled fish is. He is by far my favourite. He is rounder, and fatter than the others. He stands out; he is different. The fish swim by for just a brief moment and then they are gone. They will return when they reach my location again. I will count them again. Aah as they swim by this time, I see that there are actually five of them. Why did I not see the big black fish before? He seems to have the largest fins, silver grey almost transparent coloured fins. It is odd that I did not see him.

Do these fish have purpose? Do they know why they continuously swim around the pond? Are they conscious of their environment? Do they know that I am sitting here observing them? Are they performing just for me?

The water does not make any sound; it is a man made pond, a simulation of a Chinese pond. There is a pagoda in the middle of the pond; a little white wooden arched crosswalk leads to it.

The pagoda is void of people but overflowing with tables and chairs, white tablecloths and place settings. It is sterile and motionless but inviting to a crowd of hungry people. Or maybe the pagoda is as virgin as my notebooks, not touched, not contaminated, eternally pure and beautiful.

I do not smell any food; the crowds will not come soon. Perhaps on a different day the tables will be filled and the aroma of wonderful food will permeate the air.

I return my gaze to my little fishes. They are hypnotic. They swim around, over and over again. They remind me of life which is overflowing, ever constant, and always busy. Yet at the same time, I am filled with calmness; a sense of peace, a sense of completion and perfection.

That is why I return to this pond time and again. I enjoy the lessons I learn from the fish. I enjoy the calmness that settles my nerves and the energy that rejuvenates me. I enjoy the paradox.

If I could I would love to communicate with the fish. Oh what tales they could tell, oh what wonders they have seen.

I am engrossed in my reverie. I have shut out all that surrounds me. I pick up my white virgin notebook to write down my thoughts. The break from the hypnotic scene awakens my senses to all that is around me. I hear the sound of an elevator door opening and closing. I hear voices from people coming into range. Their voices are behind me, far enough in the background that they are not loud enough for me to make out the words, but I hear the tones, and the ranges, some of them are high pitched, some lower.

I hear a child laugh, and another child cry. I feel the swish of people moving all around me; their movement creates a sudden gush of air that embraces my arms. I am reminded that I am not alone, though I would very much want to be. I hear louder voices now, people are talking back and forth with one another directly behind me. Chairs are being moved, I hear the scraping of the metal against the floor.

I hear the quick thump sound of a glass being put down on a counter,and then the click of two or more glasses coming together. Someone behind me is making a toast of sorts. I hear people cheering, someone giggles, and then there is more banter back and forth.

I hear the sound of the gulp that my partner makes as he sips his drink.

I look up at him. I gaze into his big brown eyes and smile. He has been so patient with me. He has been so quiet and has allowed me to live through my thoughts.

I have not yet written anything on my virgin paper. He asks me if I am enjoying myself. I smile and tell him that I am. I am happy, I am at one with the world, and I am at one with my fishes.

"Shall we come back again sometime?" he asks.

"Yes please, I love this hotel, I love this lobby, I love my little fishes and I love you."

Carol Roach

winterose@videotron.ca