World of Lint

I’ve never been to New York. I haven’t been to Singapore, either. I don’t like rum. Rum, to me, is sacred music. The desk where I do my writing is two meters long. Those two meters are divided into four zones of exactly fifty centimeters each. Paper and pencil to the left, something to drink on the right, and a laptop in the middle. In the mornings, I drink coffee, and in the evenings, water. I’ve been to London. I love the weather there. I’ve been to Paris too, but the weather in Paris isn’t as dark and damp as in London. I savor my cup of tea as evening sets in, accompanied by a dampness that seeps into my bones. A guitar hangs on the wall opposite the desk. I contemplate the guitar and picture myself strumming it. I know how to play but not with the consummate ease I display in my vision. So, every day I imagine but never play. Now and then, my ears catch the strains of a guitarbeing strummed, but I can’t tell if they’re real or if I’m hearing things. When the writing doesn’t flow, I switch on a TV channel that plays classical music. I keep it on mute. The sounds of the orchestra strain to flow out of the screen. I often watch operas too. Likewise, I kill the sound. A man strikes down a woman with an axe. The shadow the axe casts upon the wall slices through the woman’s shadow. It’s an opera by Verdi. I’ve never been to Boston. I haven’t been to Oakland, either. Oakland is the home ground of my favorite basketball team. Stephen Curry and Klay Thompson play for it. The games, too, I watch without the sound. I like the sound of the ball bouncing off the floor, but it makes me dizzy. The sound of the ball is always louder than what I expect. The echo of the ball rebounding off the floor, interspersed with the sounds of shoes skidding across the court, should sound beautiful. I’m writing a love story. A story about a man and a woman. In “Lint” Richard Brautigan writes: “I’m haunted a little this evening by feelings that have no vocabulary and events that should be explained in dimensions of lint rather than words. I’ve been examining half-scraps of my childhood. They are pieces of distant life that have no form or meaning. They are things that just happened, like lint.” That’s the whole story—fiftytwo words long. Right above the guitar, hangs a huge panel. The characters of my love story live up there. According to the character chart, A loves B and so does C. D wants to kill A but also hates C. I want to know...