Q: What advice would you give to a young paragraph? A: Start small, set the scene, table, chair, both bare, don’t be afraid of a little music, rhythm, assonance, let what’s normal in the situation fascinate you, behind the table a narrow ledge, a tall glass tumbler near the edge, filled with what looks from a distance like water, though you’re not at a distance, you’re close, close enough to have had a sip a minute ago before you put it back on the ledge, to feel the heat of it in your chest, to feel it suggesting a new idea, let what's vibrant in the situation inspire you, and through the glass, through the liquid that decreasingly fills it, you can see the wall behind it, once flat white, now brilliantly colored, ecstatic hues of orange and pink and yellow, shoutingly floral, and the picture they make, distorted by the liquid in the glass, is a portrait of her, done in Sharpie and Highlighter by your hand the day she moved in, consecrated that night with two, four, six, glasses filled and refilled with non-water, the portrait regarded ever since as a an icon, proof of love, proof of persistence of love, though what it proves now is that your hand was unsteady, foolhardy, false, as she’s not in the house, will never again be in the house, was clear about that when she hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder and went out to the car where her other suitcases were heating up the trunk, and the glass is lifted once more, another pull at the liquid, and it's returned not to the ledge but to the table, no longer bare, filled with emptiness. Q: What other advice would you give to a young paragraph? A: Don’t be afraid or aware of how old you feel.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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