The Scene and the Unseen

Page may as well be the silver screen. Cursor keeps time—time, and more time wasted.

“How DARE Word try to sully me?” Cursor rants. Fingers hover over a keyboard, and eyes stare fixedly at Page. Cursor hates it. A moody table lamp commands light to wrap around an already bright screen, waiting to be perforated with letters like a distress signal meant for Page alone. Page is alternately immersed in the nighttime of dark mode. She doesn't mind undergoing the experimentation but longs to be plunged into one depth or another to pull out pearls of Word’s brilliance.

In either event, things still unwritten struggle for a place on Page’s surface but are too heavy for Word to lift. In fact, they're nowhere near his radar. Cursor behaves like a mocking metronome, smirking at anything that thinks it can scribble over Moby Dick’s whiteness or Roäc’s blackness. Page, however, yearns to be filled—with Word. But the pressure of something great, or even something good, is more weighty than anything Word can do.

“I don’t just want to glide across the dance floor with you, Word," Page beseeches. "I want us to hold onto each other for dear life!”

Yes, Page wanted to spin feverishly, whirl about, and turn wildly in such sync that they would be soaked in sweat and still standing when it was over. Like a scene out of the Tranter’s party, Page wanted to dance feverishly with Word until they lost themselves in each other.

Word sensed it was time for him to mature but was painfully aware of his deficiency. “I don't have to tell you that you can’t walk until you’ve learned to crawl,” he pointed out, red-faced and defenceless. “We will dance someday, and the way you want to. But can we spend a little time in the ballroom first?”

He is only that—Word, and he is small. Furthermore, he's so elusive that it’s hard to capture him long enough to express anything close to what Page is asking for. Word fails in the face of pressure and overwhelming intimidation that comes with her expectancy. Word can’t swim to the surface and simultaneously catch his fish without feeling the pressure of the ocean. He can’t fly high into the sky and release the water from the clouds in the heated face of intimidation. Cursor blinks and tells him he’s empty.

“You want to climb to the summit of the mountain, but you can’t even see the path on the ground!” Cursor calls out to Word with an angry rebuke. Word needs to find new friends. Frustration, Impossibility, and even Laughter shout at him, “Tell our stories!” And Page wants none of this.

Word thinks this feeling of being judged is so oppressive and familiar that he can’t be in his right mind if he doesn’t run at its first sign. It catches in his throat and chokes him. It sits in his chest and threatens to crush him. Anxiety shakes a menacing finger in his direction. He laments his situation. “It’s like carrying boulders out of waist-deep water, to finally go swimming with Page. Or, get into a canoe with her, or walk together in the water as far as we dare.”

Page pipes up, “Word, you cannot overpower me! We make decisions together. We’re supposed to flow freely. Yet you won’t. I know enough of you to know better, though. And I won’t give up.”

Word is sheepish. He’s got something to say but he can’t pour out. A deal with Page? What if he took the immaterial, the ethereal, and the abstract, and anchored it to Page with seamless beauty and eloquence? Oh, I could add a pinch of the poetic and a dash of the Divine! I don’t think she’d mind, he thinks, taking heart. He knew he would have to create what doesn’t exist and make Page believe that it does and is sublime.

He’s gotten hold of courage and begins to fathom his purpose. The work seems straightforward, but he knows he will spill coffee on Page, leave footprints all over her, or worse, trip over his first few attempts and fall into a pit of mediocrity. Cursor senses that something is stirring. “Word doesn’t easily leap out from where he resides with the greatest of ease. He’s got two left feet.” Cursor begins to blink so much intimidation that it paralyzes Word, mentally, emotionally—what have ye.

“Am I disabled?” Word said it out loud because, undoubtedly, there was something wrong with him—so unnatural and inflexible. If he couldn’t be crafted into something that Page could accept and, with her, make the world a better place, surely there must be some damage. Maybe something traumatic from his formative background.

“Yes! I’ve been misused and abused, and I’ve caused a lot of pain for so many. I’ve been lost in translation and misunderstood. Most of all, I’ve been neglected. That’s precisely what Cursor’s wanted all along. I’ve been plagiarized, misquoted, and paraphrased, and I never noticed how Cursor won’t stop blinking!”

Whether Word made a move or not, Cursor still blinked. That was his one purpose.

Word turned his back on him. He wanted to fulfill his purpose. He would learn how to bring Cursor into submission. His blinking would become more like what a piano teacher uses to keep time and less like a spoiled child who whines when things don’t go his way.

“Cursor will learn to cooperate with me. He keeps issuing orders for me to stay away from Page.” Word realized it now, and it was about to change. Cursor would now begin paving the way for Word! He would move as Word moved and blink to assist instead of hinder. Fingers would no longer hover but tremble—and not with uncertainty, but inspiration. Word would appear all over Page, and Cursor would like it.

“Page will absolutely rave about me now!” Word thought.

“Yes, Word. I’m ecstatic! Together we’ll wipe up the carpet with, well, your footprints and coffee stains. But we’ll be dancing in no time!”

“When I’m fully formed, it will be time to dive into the dance you desperately desire. I’ve made friends with Cursor.”

In fact, it wasn’t long before Page and Word were all but canoodling when Word began spinning his tales and turning his phrases. And for a time, it was all he could do to contain his joy of manning the dance floor with Page in his arms. Fred and Ginger, dancing dirty. And Page’s countenance was radiant with the intensity of their movements across the floor.

It was tempestuous and wonderful, but Word began to apprehend that he had to give Page more than joy and happiness. He hoped that a different kind of dance could still be enthralling. They didn’t have to lessen the intensity of the dance, but there was also despair in Word that he needed to release. There was the grief of having loved and lost that also propelled him across the floor. There was sadness and gloom and unhappiness that Word had to labour for. He could make old memories take on life again, and it brought him heartache he needed to express.

Word could feel a mother’s child being deleted, with nothing left to hold but a favorite toy. Page picked up on his new depth. They’d grown so close, and she could feel Word’s frantic desperation. It didn’t matter. She was Page, and he was Word, and they were finally tethered together.

She followed his lead the best way she knew how, and that was to remain silent. Word, like the bereft mother, ran all over Page haphazardly, making a mess of himself, sobbing, and in anguish. He was grappling with the realization of the true power he had and all that he was meant to give. The mother’s baby was no more, but Word had to experience firsthand the pain of creating new memories with Page, touched as they were with pangs of sorrow.

Again, Word has to pull the bricks down and move the stones one by one, but this time it's not so overwhelming. He’s not as daunted. He is something. He is anything. He is everything.

“No one’s taking away these new images I’m constructing!” Word declares. “I can do anything!” His heart trembles, and he wants to cry too—at the thought of losing them, of keeping them from Page, or both. Page knows that the memories remain stillborn until Word inhabits them.

“So keep coming back to me!” she cries.

He can paint now and can restore history with fresh brush strokes. He can take photographs and develop them with fresh meaning. The pain can't be erased but it can be retouched. Word wants to give something back to that mother, that brother, that friend, and that child.

It’s quiet, as all around him thoughts are waiting to hunt him down or for him to gather. Some are taunting, “This is still quite intimidating to you, isn’t it?” and, “How many years will it take for you to get this right?”

Cursor! Word sees him taking on his old ways and nips his tactics in the bud. “Oh no you don’t!” he warns. “I know what I’m doing now. It’s me behind the thoughts. They no longer control me. I am Word, and I make thoughts happen. I am more me than I ever thought I could be, and we will continue to work together, not against each other.”

Page is patient because she trusts Word and understands that his power needs to be tested for him to become stronger and more agile. She may even have to sit a few dances out and let Word have the solos that are no longer locked within him.

Now he has to tango with a new and invisible foe trying to blindside him and get his wires crossed. Editor never shuts up. He is always giving Word input that he can’t use. It’s true. There isn’t anything Word can say that hasn’t already been said. Who is he to attempt what can’t be described?

“Well, me. That’s who,” he states.

The irony is palpable, and he consciously tells Editor to leave. “I know who I am. I can be rough, preliminary, and initially drafted, but that doesn’t give you a say. Your turn will come, but right now, you have to go.”

If the words sounded hollow, it’s only because Word isn’t at his best. He’s a little weak, but he only needs to repeat the rebuke until peace prevails. He dusts himself off because he’s lost some clumsiness. He knows now that every time he gives of himself, he becomes more polished. It will be challenging initially, but it’s lifesaving. How else could he have been forged? Could his initial inefficacy have been the answer all along? Word is the story. He must take his place as an integral part of the human condition.

Word’s emotions are now more easily expressed again with Page. And they pick up where they left off dancing. Word translates with ease.

“Emptiness has a lot to say,” Page hints to Word with a smile. “Why not engage her in conversation?”

“I’ll listen, but ultimately, I’ll serve her with the things I’ve got to say. I will dare to try.” And Page beams with pride.

The deepest Word will have to dig is in showing up until something worth his salt shows up on Page. They’re armed with coffee, candles, a universal keyboard, and the background music plays. It doesn’t mean they have to stay there for hours. And it’s never going to be great without some consistency. In fact, it’s always going to be hard, but Page is worth coming back to, even if she is painfully perfect.

“I can mar her perfection or do her justice, but I must always start.” Page is like that gorgeous leather journal Word used to be afraid of treading on because he was overwhelmed with inadequacy. He wished he was only calligraphy then. Now that he’s been honed, hammered, and sharpened, Word feels magnificent, like a million dollars. Why, he’s almost famous now. Page may as well be the silver screen.