Peeled paint

   Commencing my morning walk the day when I began this blog entry, I was quite aware of my plans to write for a while when I finished. I felt at a bit of a loss for subject matter, and was aware that I was searching for some ideas in my environment. I note this here because I have at some point developed the view that if I really have to 'look' for a subject to write about, then the writing won't be any good. I imagine that this is a notion that I've come up with and convinced myself that is true (as opposed to being a cultural concept that I've heard somewhere), and is probably one of the techniques I've developed to criticize what I do. It probably has very little veracity outside of my own head.
   So, as I walked and wondered what to write about, I came upon this pole, one which I've passed hundreds of times, but which struck me at this time. Maybe it only seemed important on that occasion because of my wish for inspiration, but the layers of knicked paint revealing things below (and the red mark in the upper part of the picture) set me wondering about the things that had happened around it to make it appear the way it did on that day.
   I wondered what it had looked like when it had been freshly painted, when and who had applied the brush or roller to it to cover what had been visible before, and how long it had taken for something to first interrupt that perfect, warm gray field.
   As I ponder the layers that mark its' labor and use, it occurs to me that it's appearance reminds me of what the process of writing often consits of for me; in it I can imagine the beginnings, reworkings and sometimes wholesale editing of large sections. Often times, I just end up covering previous ideas with new ones, uncomfortable with what I've written; the pole below seems more comfortable showing its' process than I am.

 

The honest writer