Rendered Fat Content


It hurts my eyes to think about it, my mind casts around for shadows to hide behind. My own brilliance blinds me sometimes and blindsides me the rest of the time. I have no control over it. No will or volition, no intention guides it. It gooshes around the gaskets, often unnoticed in the moment it appears. Later, when I’m cleaning up some crusty mess, I might glimpse its presence, its past presence, for it’s never present for me, just past. Like light finally washing across a familiar landscape, light that left its source light-millenia ago; far, far from home by the time it finally arrives.

It feels used up, pull-dated, expired, never inspiring. I shove through disbelief into ragged acceptance of mere possibilities. It’s never enough to suspend my unwavering disbelief, I must rough my way deep into it and struggle slime-covered back out again before any magic seems possible, let alone manifesting. Nobody’s in control of anything, really, except for some intermittent illusion almost resembling control.

I put too much significance on some efforts, as if I’d bet the farm on the outcome, as if I could lose what had not yet emerged; I’m superstitious, perhaps mediocerstitious. I mostly slink and crawl. I feel the challenge, though, a faint, echoing call. The opportunity to replicate what I’ve never once experienced in the moment, the moment of creation. The Muse says that mistaking conception for creation bedevils our culture. We imagine life before we encounter it, and sometimes defend our imaginings more fiercely than we would protect any living being. Conception needs no defenders and creation defends her self.

I am not feeling brilliant today, this day within which I’m relying upon my brilliance. I attend to my rituals, hoping to jinn up some magic. I pretend to discipline myself, faux focus and all. My head fills with frilly scenarios and my tongue dries to so much shoe leather. By the end of this day, only the scorch marks will show my passage. I will have left behind some work, or the evidence of work having been attempted. It will not seem brilliant then, as it never feels brilliant then. Later, though, after the fuss subsides, in a quiet and unassuming moment, then I will recognize its passage. Others might ascribe some ability to its presence. I hope I will know better.


©2013 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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