For your entertainment and my nostalgia, the following is a little piece I spontaneously wrote one spring evening in 2007 as a means of stalling before bed.
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Here I sit, three minutes ago, in a recliner with my laptop powered down in my hands, ready to go to bed. I look blankly around me maybe for a distraction, maybe just to look. My two eyes fall upon a bottle of water to my right that says to them, in their language of course, “From the Island of Fiji: Natural Artesian Water.”
I understand the concept of an “artesian well” well enough but my mind can’t help but think “artisan” water as I almost silently chuckle at the thought of there actually being a natural artisan in my bottle. It’s now a question of whether or not anyone could find an artisan, let alone a natural one, small enough to fit into such a bottle. The bottle is cubical in shape which, for some reason or another, suggests that an artisan could, in fact, fit in such a bottle. This seems reasonable not because artisans are shaped like boxes, though they would certainly deserve my pity if this were the case, but because in my mind artisans are capable of making such a box regardless of their actual trade. Somehow this suggests to me that because they put so much of their self into the making of it, they would be able to fit into it. It seems to be a reverse metaphor of sorts. I would like to think, however, that if there were an artisan in my bottle of water, I would recognize it as easily as i might recognize a knife in a glass, and promptly set it aside. I digress. It’s partially fictitious; I can do that.
“Untouched by man. Until you drink it” says the bottle. I would hope so. What business has a man’s hands with my water? There’s not much one can do with it with one’s hands. Does this imply that the men (do no women work at bottling factories?) of other bottling companies touch their water with their hands before bottling it? Again, what business do their hands have in my water? If they did have business there I would be perfectly fine with it because after all, they have business there.
I note the expiration note at the base of the cube. By this time, the time elapsed since first looking upon the bottle is arbitrary. Enough content has been imaginatively added to this experience that the value of time, what little value, if any, existed, is now completely nil. “Best before 08 January 09.” This is rather curious to me. This water, that itself has lasted presumably quite a while, will shortly be expiring, or if not expiring, perhaps just diminishing in quality. How lucky am I to be presented with the opportunity of experiencing the expiration of this particular water. If I am to assume this water has never been molecularly deconstructed, which I will admit is rather far-fetched, I am quite the lucky fellow to have it in my possession not two years ante-expiration after it has been around for billions.
Though perhaps it’s arbitrary. Arbitrary like the time since I began this speech of self entertainment. Not the water, that certainly seems to have enough meaning if am I to assume, which I do, that meaning is created by the subject, by he or she who participates in this world, by he or she who must participate by creating action, by he or she who therefore MUST create. Rather, I am refering to the time. The time, of course, that it takes for water to expire. Rather fanciful, if I do say so myself; the expiration of water.
This is a rather daunting piece to try to close, so I’ll simply leave in peace.
Nathan
I should, and will, add the following. I felt that this was difficult to end because I know no more about ending a creative peace than starting or perpetuating one. I’ve recently, and by recently I mean for the past five years, been a strictly academic writer and therefore feel like a Seattlite in the Bahamas when dealing with such an endeavor.
Once again,
Nathan
