Rasma Says

Musings, deliberations, flashes of unaccounted for brilliance…

Sunday, it must be…

You sit long enough in a hotel room, writing poems and rewriting poems, and there comes a moment when you startle because you realize you have no idea what country, what language, what place this is. The only question that doesn’t occur is what are you doing here, because you are doing this: writing and rewriting poems, in Scrivener, which organizes and color codes them, and assures you that indeed all the writing and rewriting is getting somewhere.

A vague beacon is visible outside the cloud that is your head. It is a beckoning deadline, for which all this writing and rewriting is intended. But you stop, look around, and realize it is going on two o’clock and you have yet to check out of your hotel room. You have yet to shower and get dressed. You manage both of those things in fifteen minutes and are just wheeling your suitcase away from the bed when the short, smiling, Thai maid bursts into the room with a vacuum cleaner, sorry sorry did not know someone here.

That’s alright, I’m just leaving you say, and go down three floors to a landing where there is a velour chaise lounge in a small area between the locked door of the dining hall and the locked door of the stairwell, and you sit down there to continue your work, writing and rewriting poems, drafts, deleted drafts, second drafts, revised drafts, making folders called finished, almost finished, finished and published, finished and not published, published and not finished.

It feels like progress. There is a large elegant mirror on the wall opposite the velour chaise lounge, and you stand up for a stretch before it, realize you have not yet done your hair, take a break to dig out the little Boots pill box that has carried hair clay in it for you since that trip to London in 2006, back before Boots stores came to Norway.

Norway, yes this is Norway. You are in a hotel in Norway. Yes, Harstad. That is where you are, Harstad. In fact, just this morning you said goodbye to your colleagues, the secretary has paid for your room with her credit card, you have a bus to catch at five thirty, yes, there is a plane to catch too. You have a ticket. There is a destination. There is a home with clocks, beyond this cubicle, this vacuous, blissful, zombie state of writing and rewriting in which five hours is a blink of an eye.

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