The Conscience Of The Writer - by Robertson Davies
Go to your corners and wait for the bell,
I remember my first real fight. I do not remember the details around how it got in full swing or what it was a propos. I do remember being fists raised and face to face with a dark haired boy, my pale eyes contrasting his dim. He threw the first punch and hit me square in the nose; I fell, releasing tears of pain. I looked over at the teacher slowly walking over. As I stood up, I wiped my eyes and nose with the sleeve of my left hand, and sucker punched him in the face with my right. He fell and I grinned as my pink-poka dotted troupe of girls cheered. It was my first knockout.
I felt the same tears rise up as I ran out of my house; an urgent need to escape had come over me. As I lugged my bags down the stairs and into the waiting car, I felt relieved as it took me farther and farther away from home. At that moment I had a certain inaliable connection with Goldilocks.
I was sure to desert everything at home which would remind me of its breath and heartbeat, especially anything wrapped in gift paper and bows with tags of birthday celebrations clinging on. All gifts were to be abandoned; they would have to survive on their own. I didn’t notice the gift from Laura, an essay still hiding in the starboard of my bag, stowed away, not accepting the fate of my indifference; funny how Laura and her gift shared character traits.
As I got into Toronto I decided to stay with Jenn instead of Uncle James; trading family for friendship, and luxury for likeness. It doesn’t matter how much you paid for that cold, gaspless leather couch, the arms of an elderly broken-in sofa will sing me happier lullabies. I would be my Uncle if I was straight and fucked every woman who could moan. As he took me out for Chinese, he flirted with the waitress as he taught me how to write up a formal withstanding tort.
Who want to get sued?
With Jenn and Andrea around, a memory of our formal alcoholiday was envisioned and we decided to conjure up our past with the present. As I sat in the courtyard with my last bottle of Keiths, out of sheer compulsion I smashed it on the ground. For a split second it reminded me of my birthday night at Oliver’s. I frowned after I realized what I had done, I envisioned the man from the Alexander Keiths commercials appearing and berating me, “Since 1894! The Pride of Nova Scotia! Wasted!”
We went to a dank bar entitled the “Dance Cave,” for an acquaintance’s birthday. I was glad I went as I was introduced to a striking and mysterious man. I saw in him- myself, and I had the need to get to know him. He was at that moment the peanut butter to my jam. Methinks I shall convince him to start a livejournal, as his skills for writing far overshadow mine own.
After a healthy Pizza Pizza after-party, we got home to the apartment, and I decided to find an exit to the day, longing to be rocked to sleep by the sofa. As my hands groped the inside of my satchel for a pair of fresh underwear, I came across my friend the stowaway. I took out the essay and scrutinized it up and down. It was ripped out of the book- not a photocopy. It wasn’t something that was intellectually borrowed, it was given. Laura’s grandchildren upon finding the book would one day feel the torn binding edge and wonder the story behind the lost pages which made up the full compilation of works.
It reminded me of my birthday, but this time the ghost of Christmas past appeared, “Since 1894! The Pride of Nova Scotia! Wasted!”
Déjà vu
So I read it reluctantly, and it became as important and identity setting to me as the Shroud of Turin is to a Christian. People say “seeing is believing,” maybe that should be revised to “reading.”
I wish there were some universal techniques to writing, like there are for painting and poetry. In writing, to copy another is to cheat your own creativity, yet it’s hard when nowhere is the designated starting area.
I haven’t found my feet yet, but right now getting up can mean winning the battle.
Ryan
I remember my first real fight. I do not remember the details around how it got in full swing or what it was a propos. I do remember being fists raised and face to face with a dark haired boy, my pale eyes contrasting his dim. He threw the first punch and hit me square in the nose; I fell, releasing tears of pain. I looked over at the teacher slowly walking over. As I stood up, I wiped my eyes and nose with the sleeve of my left hand, and sucker punched him in the face with my right. He fell and I grinned as my pink-poka dotted troupe of girls cheered. It was my first knockout.
I felt the same tears rise up as I ran out of my house; an urgent need to escape had come over me. As I lugged my bags down the stairs and into the waiting car, I felt relieved as it took me farther and farther away from home. At that moment I had a certain inaliable connection with Goldilocks.
I was sure to desert everything at home which would remind me of its breath and heartbeat, especially anything wrapped in gift paper and bows with tags of birthday celebrations clinging on. All gifts were to be abandoned; they would have to survive on their own. I didn’t notice the gift from Laura, an essay still hiding in the starboard of my bag, stowed away, not accepting the fate of my indifference; funny how Laura and her gift shared character traits.
As I got into Toronto I decided to stay with Jenn instead of Uncle James; trading family for friendship, and luxury for likeness. It doesn’t matter how much you paid for that cold, gaspless leather couch, the arms of an elderly broken-in sofa will sing me happier lullabies. I would be my Uncle if I was straight and fucked every woman who could moan. As he took me out for Chinese, he flirted with the waitress as he taught me how to write up a formal withstanding tort.
Who want to get sued?
With Jenn and Andrea around, a memory of our formal alcoholiday was envisioned and we decided to conjure up our past with the present. As I sat in the courtyard with my last bottle of Keiths, out of sheer compulsion I smashed it on the ground. For a split second it reminded me of my birthday night at Oliver’s. I frowned after I realized what I had done, I envisioned the man from the Alexander Keiths commercials appearing and berating me, “Since 1894! The Pride of Nova Scotia! Wasted!”
We went to a dank bar entitled the “Dance Cave,” for an acquaintance’s birthday. I was glad I went as I was introduced to a striking and mysterious man. I saw in him- myself, and I had the need to get to know him. He was at that moment the peanut butter to my jam. Methinks I shall convince him to start a livejournal, as his skills for writing far overshadow mine own.
After a healthy Pizza Pizza after-party, we got home to the apartment, and I decided to find an exit to the day, longing to be rocked to sleep by the sofa. As my hands groped the inside of my satchel for a pair of fresh underwear, I came across my friend the stowaway. I took out the essay and scrutinized it up and down. It was ripped out of the book- not a photocopy. It wasn’t something that was intellectually borrowed, it was given. Laura’s grandchildren upon finding the book would one day feel the torn binding edge and wonder the story behind the lost pages which made up the full compilation of works.
It reminded me of my birthday, but this time the ghost of Christmas past appeared, “Since 1894! The Pride of Nova Scotia! Wasted!”
Déjà vu
So I read it reluctantly, and it became as important and identity setting to me as the Shroud of Turin is to a Christian. People say “seeing is believing,” maybe that should be revised to “reading.”
I wish there were some universal techniques to writing, like there are for painting and poetry. In writing, to copy another is to cheat your own creativity, yet it’s hard when nowhere is the designated starting area.
I haven’t found my feet yet, but right now getting up can mean winning the battle.
Ryan