Mud, bishops and lovemaking. I am thinking about L'Age d'Or, that jagged film by Buñuel and Dali. I'm in the café I frequent practically every day. I sit in the corner and bury myself in my phone. That is what I use to write with. The gentle clatter and hubbub around me is conducive to writing, in a similar way perhaps to the use of white noise as a sleeping aid for some people. I can sit here and nurse a cup of coffee for hours without being moved on.
 
I had a flurry once, something that approximated motion towards success. I had two books published and I wrote some screenplays. With titles like 'Wedlock' and 'The History of the Chair', it's not surprising that they were never made. My agent is not much help as she suffers from the occupational hazard of drinking too much, too often. I've approached a few others, but I don't seem to be of any use to them, so I am sticking with Sally Newcombe for now.
 
I toy with the idea of not considering myself a writer, but just as someone who writes. Though there is no question of giving it up. It might be because it is inextricably knotted with my identity, or because its promise of reaching into another world is simply too alluring.
 
But that is all moot now because I am unable to write anything. I have nothing to say, and if I did I probably couldn't find the words or string them together. The problem is an existential one.
 
The phone is to blame. Socrates may have railed against literacy but Apple, intentionally or not, has set the course for the destruction of civilization as it has been conceived for millennia. Either that or it has caused an accelerated evolution which has sent humanity careening towards existence as a digital machine. Maybe I am wrong, just trapped in my Luddite mind, but I used to carry a notebook and scribble feverishly. Now I carry a phone and the screed has become virtual, just an idea of writing, not writing itself. And now the spigot has completely seized up. Not a drop. It's like cancer of that gland. Pituitary gland? No. Which gland is it? It escapes me. Everything has gone.
 
Phone in hand I wait. There are thoughts but no purpose to them, no way they can be manipulated on to a page or screen. I have thrown a giraffe out of the window and kicked a violin down the street. I have shot someone for no reason. I have shaken back the oily quiff from my eyes. Now what?
 
Perhaps I should assume that I am a Celt. It makes sense. Those blue people had an insatiable need for sacrifice. A need so bad that they were inclined to sacrifice a victim three times - by garrotting, drowning and burning, or was it clubbing? The victim having chosen a piece of burnt bannock cake.
 
Those ancient people would have considered me decadent or deranged because, despite my entertaining fantasies, I don't like to kill anything. Still, they had other modes of sacrifice more appealing to me. They liked to throw things in water - valuable things into lakes or rivers. There is obviously something quintessentially human about that. The practice survives today as coins being tossed into fountains.
 
This form of sacrifice inspires me to fish a penny from my pocket and drop it into my half-full cup of tepid coffee. No sooner has it disappeared beneath the surface with a plop, than I think I hear a hiss. I watch as bubbles rise up from the bottom of the cup. They do not diminish but become more virulent until I realise that the liquid is boiling and emitting a large amount of steam. As the vapour gushes out, first the ambience and then the room itself disappear from my consciousness. A large person with a massive head stands before me. I can't  determine whether it is male or female. I suspect that the head is covered by a wig of wild and straggly hair that reaches down to the shoulders.
 
"So you say you're a writer."
 
"I didn't say that."
 
"Well that's what you think. I know all your thoughts. I've been in your pocket. I'll be returning there soon."
 
"Who are you?"
 
"Winston Churchill. Have you ever thought that you are a clamourer, arrogant in your ignorance?”
 
I'm in the situation where good things to say come too late.
 
"You're not Winston Churchill."
 
"Nor are you. What of it? You're a second rate writer, a hack whose creations are so insignificant that even you can no longer believe in them. Yet you can't put them down. Your horse is dead but you persist in trying to ride it."
 
"What's your point?”
 
"I can put wings on your horse and breathe life back into its carcass. I can unblock your colon."
 
The large being in front of me has tears cascading down its bulbous cheeks.
 
"You're insulting me while offering to help, and you're crying. I don't understand."
 
"I'm not crying. I am ridding myself of excess fluid and I have no interest in helping you. What I'm offering is a proposition."
 
"Which is?"
 
"You want to write something good. I can make that happen. But it comes with a price."
 
I wanted to be able to write again. Quality was not yet a concern.
 
"And what do you charge for your services?"
 
"Whatever you write from now on, if you agree to my offer, will be italicized. That's not part of the fee. It's a parameter. The cost to you will be this - you will never write with pen or pencil on paper again. You will take the coin from your cup and put it back in your pocket. You will keep it there always. If you change your trousers the coin stays with you. Agreed?"
 
I reach for the pen I keep in my jacket.
 
"Do I have to sign?"
 
"No. If you renege, your newfound talents will shrivel faster than an old man's cock. No signature required."
 
With that, the being is gone and the café returns to normal, as if no time has passed.  I scoop the coin out of the slimy dregs at the bottom of my coffee cup, wipe it off and put it in my pocket. I snap my pen in half and throw it away. From now on I will embrace my phone without misgivings.
 
Prostate. That's what that gland is. I feel clearer. I no longer need to meditate on the poster of the buxom farm woman with a basket of olives in her powerful arms or on the flaking paint on the wall beside her. A screenplay begins to form, faster than I had ever thought possible. My concentration is sharper than an obsidian knife. It is all flowing out in italics.
 
Within two weeks I've got a masterpiece. I'm not deluding myself this time. It's the best writing I've ever done. I have to get it out there. I call Sally.
 
"Hi Sally."
 
"Hold on."
 
I wait. The minutes seem like hours. There are some banging noises in the background.
 
"Yes?"
 
"It's me."
 
"Me? All people are 'me' to themselves. Who are you?"
 
"You know who I am. We lived together for five years."
 
Click.
 
In my enthusiasm I forgot to check the time. It's getting on for four-thirty. If you want to get anywhere with Sally it has to be earlier in the day.
 
The next morning I print a copy and take it over to her personally. I hand her the wad of paper. She is in her dressing gown, seated in her kitchen alcove. Flakes of croissant litter the table. She takes it from me and thumbs through it.
 
"The whole thing is in fucking italics."
 
"So?"
 
"What did you do that for?"
 
"I don't know. It just came out that way. Does it matter?"
 
"It's unprofessional, off-putting. I'm not going to read this in its current form. Give me another – without the italics."
 
She hands it back.
 
"I'm not sure I can do that."
 
I'd thought of this and tried to switch the tab before printing it. I'd attempted it on several different computers. Nothing worked. Even the copy shop couldn't do it. They told me the file was corrupted.
 
"You're not sure? What's wrong with you?"
 
She looks up and scowls at me through her glasses.
 
"Well, this may be as good a time as any to tell you. I've been thinking about our relationship. It's been stagnant for quite a while. You'd better look around for someone else. I can't help you anymore. Goodbye. And take that thing with you."
 
 
© Tom Newton 2018