Monday, January 13, 2014


In that small red building,
next to the big building, is my space.

Who am I, and where do I belong in the scheme of things?

What things?  Well, the world ...

I belong in America, state of New York, New York City, in a hundred-year-old brownstone, in the heart of the city.
I'm just a rectangle amid thousands-upon-thousands of others.

What do I do? I write and try to get people to read what I've written -- most of the people who are reading what I write are like me  -- specks -- located inside one of the rectangles or curved, or other shapes. (NYC's got the Guggenheim Museum, and other odd-shaped structures you note, if you're looking down at the city from high above.) 

A speck?  Gee, when I was a little girl, I certainly wasn't a speck. I was first name and last name, with parents' first and last names, and when the school's attendance taker called out my name I said "here." If I put my hand up, and waved, the teacher would pick me to answer the question, or I could ask a question that might affect everyone.

My size and importance changed. I wasn't a speck when I took my first dance classes, or when I went I got a job in New York to help pay for dance classes. I was not a speck when I danced -- I was the center.  The spotlight was on me. I was somebody. (No wonder show biz stardom -- singer, dancer, actor --  is such a big dream for kids.)

But now, as a writer, I'm aware of the fact that I am one among millions -- rectangle or odd shaped space that you can see looking down at the world --  a speck inside a rectangle -- a speck among specks, who works -- not just to emerge from being a non-entity, but because writing -- what I do now, sort of evolved  from all the things I have done as I've grown up.

Right now, I'm aware of my friends, who are writers, bopping themselves on the head like me, who are asking what I'm asking  -- what is my place. where is my place on earth?

Okay, I am a reacher, a person grabbing at recognition, trying to seize  more space, a better place. When I leave the earth, will I be missed? Things I said or did may be remembered -- words, even tone -- but no, time will pass and as it passes, the rectangle I occupied will be crowded with, golly, billions of specs.

Hey --
hit me --
and womankind.

Be we specks or whatever, right now, my house and your house are the world and we own the world.


That's more  than space and a place.  I like that. 


Carola said...

This posting reminds me of your novel called Somebody.

Marcus Dandaneau said...

I consider you to be much more than a simple speck Emily. The spiritual part of you that reaches out across space and time and is tethered to something that science disdains, that's beyond reason and analysis is a welcome gift that has a gravity that draws people to you who need a bit more light in their lives. If you sneak out of here before me I'll be exceedingly jealous but won't despair too long; because I feel confident that you'll be around forever in a dimension that's great and not beyond our reach. Get well soon, sez Marcus.

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