Thom Ward

Elevator

He couldn't wait for his successes so he went on without them. It seemed an adequate strategy as time and space are involved in our consciousness, not abstractions outside the mind. He favored the absurdity of addressing each day's tasks to the absurdity of ignoring such work. And who could project what might show up, the action of the mind itself unpredictable. He washed clothes, cut grass, scrubbed the bathroom floor. All the while he felt as if he should advance something else, a particular competence beyond his trajectory of chores. If he played alto sax, rode a unicycle or spoke Chinese, his talent would offer a substantial heft and shape. People might know him by it, and, perhaps, he could stop moving in his mind so furiously. Of course, this particular competence would advance its own rhythm, involve patience and discipline, and, most certainly, sacrifice. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that, though he cringed at the thought of being known by his trajectory of chores, one absurdity instead of another. He couldn't wait for his successes so he went on without them. And while he slept he was a man whose face was on the pillow but whose eyes were on the elevator, each door exposing and concealing that distinctive gift still unknown to him.