The only sure antidote to oblivion is the creation. So I loop my sentences around the trunks of maples, hook them into the parched soil, anchor them to rock, to moon and stars, wrap them tenderly around the ankles of those I love. From down in the pit, I give a tug, to make sure my rope of words is hooked onto the world, and then up I climb.
— Scott Russell Sanders, Staying Put
What do we do when the words run out? How do we honor their absence – and move on? Where do we find the missing story?
I buy my own books from a used bookstore here in Flagstaff to give away. Most of the time there is no clue to who has owned the book. A few years ago, I found a copy of Delicate, a short story collection I’d written in the Nineties. A Vanity Fair subscription card had been used as a bookmark. I flipped the card over and found this:
The Invisible guitar
Fullerton train station
guy playing guitar
with right hand
withered left hand
from very visible was
playing to a
chair covered seat
and a bench
covered blanket
Invisible audiences
listening to a distant
guitar…
6/1/02
I turned to the front of the book and found this dedication:
Rosie
I “met” this
woman thru NPR radio
She writes about real
women on real journeys.
Enjoy – Janet – 2001
I riffled the pages. A 3/5 file card fell out. On it was written todolopuedo.ina.nel Password EBIZ I googled todolopuedo.ina.nel It does not exist.
I have yet to write the story about the unknown poet, the loving friends and the ghost website. It lies with a thousand other stories in my brain. I may find myself working on a different story and not being able to find the words to continue. It won’t matter because Rosie and Janet are with me, waiting for me to write them forward – maybe into the end of their friendship, maybe into a new beginning, maybe into the heart of a ghost website.
Share on Your Social Media
