Words are urgent, some days, though quietly so. Time piles in and on, and words press against the edges of the writer. The issue, that is the disengorgement, is delivered — of course — because words won’t always so readily reveal their colours, their shapes, their species, their dimensions. All that settles is an insistent ghost, fat and heavy, engorged on the air of sitting still, collecting the dry dust that slowly fills and bloats the cursive dips of letters yet conceived. Yes, waiting is advisable, sometimes, but even a ghost will want to unfold its skin eventually. Out may come the weight of dust, just, or out may come matter more alchemical in regard. Often we’re too close to see the difference, or we’re shapeshifted into approximations of medieval piety: unable to discern if the illuminated script, held aloft before us in the god-awed bless’ed aisle, is merely reflecting light from golden inlays or if it’s radiating the brightness of divinity from deep within.
The ghost unfurls. It is necessary, else it might take up all the air in the room, suffocating and pressing the writer up against the walls. There is a film, seen many years ago, whose title and wider details are lost in the ether for now, where one scene transcends the others and continues to mark, even now: a character is hunched and weighed down throughout, but then, in the reveal, we see that really they carry the extra weight of a ghost. It’s taken as beautiful rather than sullen here, just as the press of words sits on the writer’s shoulders or at their side, slowly sucking up all the molecules and minutiae of days.
Words are all we have.
— Samuel Beckett
So, we let them unfold, as if we could try to stop them when they sigh. The ghost unravels its skin and there, then, seeps either the sanctity of light or the grey gradations of soil. It hardly matters because the day is written, the ghost has shed the thinnesses of all its layers, like a breathing onion wilting and wailing silently. Its flesh of days, and its entrails of coiled dust, thickly, loosely sludge the floor. There may be nuggets in the slush but writing, really, is just a process of breathing out again. We can breathe, as the ghost too — turned inside out — leaking, breathes.
Words . . . are minded things.
— William Gass
Here is the page: it is an imprint of our breath. There is a certain sanctimony in the assured knowledge that those who won’t write, can’t know such things. What can it matter at all? Precious, precocious us: we sit in our rooms of few sounds and careful light and only we and the remains of the ghost, twitching, can comprehend. The day is written and nothing matters of what the words are. The words are. This is all that matters. A salty reek begins to permeate, but it doesn’t always offend.
A writer lives in awe of words for they can be cruel or kind, and they can change their meanings right in front of you. They pick up flavours and odours like butter in a refrigerator.
— John Steinbeck
The ghost expires. Its final wheeze is a long, drawn-out plume that rattles with the gas of deep toxicity, violets and a density of sweetness. It sticks to the skin. The words are done, the bloated thing that was seeps down between the ragged cracks of floorboards. There is a film, a greasy layer on the wood. Little clots of blackened gristle, here and there, may reveal a tiny speck of gold within, pressed hard by the thumb and finger, as if holding a pen or pencil, carefully. We might put these pieces in a jar, for later, on a windowsill. For now, however, what was once the weight of a ghost that pressed us to the walls, waiting, sitting at our side or on our shoulders, is good and gone, released. What matters is not the matter left behind but the matter that it was.
The minuscule mass of a mote of dust, meanwhile, settles on the shoulder, as fresh as a new snowflake, hardly noticed at all, or yet.