Blank Out, No More

†-- Pen

A confession I am pressed to make at this hour as I gaze upon this blank white screen is the immoderate weakness I have for blank pages. Every time I have looked away from a blank page, it has often been with a sense of regret and self- deprecation. A child would be more willing to let go of a piece of new toy than I would be able to tear myself away from a blank page. A blank page for me would be among one of the most fascinating piece of spectacle there is. Yes, you read right!

Bored senseless and without an object of entertainment, it was to a blank page that I turned about a year ago waiting for a friend who was running late for our tete-a-tete. Needless to say a blank page never holds you up. Here, see what I wrote…

Hear, hear, oh spectrum of light

Morph and spread into particles of words and imagery

Let my quill make a beautiful array

Of quirks and mirths upon your fallow field

It was in the most unusual of environments but my mojo found me. I would have been lost if I had not a blank page to work with. Now when I look at a neat blank paper, all I want to do is to stretch my wands, invoke the magic of words and fill it up with trifle nothings.

The truth is that there are not many things that are truly blank. Blankness only exists for most things in a manner of appearance. A face, which arguably could be said to be the most readable of matters, would rally both the learned and the unlearned easily to a consensus on the interpretation of a look, except of course, when it comes to the knotty matter of beauty (where even the camp of the intellectuals with such attributes of fine taste and learning have been known to disagree).

On other matters easily telling on the face, my un-schooled grandma in the village would just as easily tell the soft lines of happiness much like my college Professor would. From the wrinkled lines and angled ridges of the aged, the dark gloomy cast of the despondent to the slightly tilted chin of sarcasm; the features of the face can be boldly read if we skip the sometimes outlandish palette of the Mary Kay’s which could be easily mistaken for the colour of clowning or the outright creepy appearance of a witch or a masquerade. Nevertheless, it would still be a logical premise to propose that the face is by far one of the most universally readable expression that there is.

But far from being the easy-to-read barometer of the human condition, we are of such mysterious nature that in spite of all the range of expressions that the human face is capable of ; and the very many smileys and emoticons dedicated to such enterprise, the true content of the heart lay beyond the face. A few years could be ripped off by cosmetology and wrinkles dissolved in a layer of chemicals and light effects, pulling off the appearance of youth and fairness. It would be better to deal with such false-positives in women, if the nature of beauty isn’t already controversial as it is. Imagine a beholder thinking he’s got a Dorian Gray when the person behind the mask is a clone of Frankenstein!

It therefore becomes a contentious thing when such expressions as a ‘blank face’ are shoved in our faces. A lost face or maybe even a non-descript face admits to the ignorance of the observer, but blank is never to be associated with the face. Just like life is never caught in a lull, so are the elements that make up the physical face. It is thus safe to conclude that the expression of a blank face is a remiss – a deliberate attempt to beguile the observer like the drawing of an impenetrable curtain over an act.

To then see something as honest and straight-forward as a blank page is refreshing. It opens up the observer to the many possibilities that could be laid upon the surface and the potentials that such virgin territory holds. It is the most effective aphrodisiac in the world of invention and it isn’t even a novelty! I would wager right now that Michelangelo got a kick starring at that bland orifice of the Sistine.

 In today’s world, it is almost as if we are surrounded by a world that continues to beguile us with its whims. Greenhouse effect, melting of the polar ice caps, ebola, hurricane this, hurricane that –  what is all that! A cloud would as soon disperse without as much as a drop and the rain would soon be bearing down in torrents without as much as a sign. Our nursery rhymes are becoming a misnomer with the current trends. Why would a child feel any different when the sun is up and fiercely so, that mom will keep her in when she ought to be out and about that the rhymes from telling the rain to hold its peace because little children wants to play has lost its meaning. Her elementary geography lessons mean no more, less so the hackneyed rhymes.

To get down to the heart of the matter, a man would then be hard pressed to do a careful re-evaluation or devote some time for study and re-learning to truly find out what lay beneath the surface, and with a big fat luck, he’ll be able to come to terms with the changing times.

Ironically, of such nature are certain men whose interests are so mild and fleeting that all things are what they appear to be at a cursory glance. You couldn’t draw them into a conversation on the intrinsic quality of a thing if you do not lay the gleaming edge of a sword to their throat and swear to go all Spartacus on them. The shutters of their mind are like an amnesiac’s. Barely had a scene focussed than it has hopped on to the next one. It matters little to them that in the rear of their minds there isn’t much but a blurry of pictures and scenes that could hardly be processed in the dark room of memory. It is not uncommon that the world seen by these people are confined to the acutely inadequate and often inaccurate summation of the general rather than the particular. The ancient pyramid of Egypt would be confined to the same trifle sphere as the Stonehenge in England or the Maj Tahal in India. Such is their timid line of vision that you wouldn’t dare to catch them frolicking in the expansive stretch of awe, passion and imagination.

But to some other men, the walls of their mind is leak proof, give them a blank page and a tale is borne, an image forged, a thought immortalized. You could feel their hands gyrating to the rhythm of life, reveling, birthing ideas and trivias in the wild throes of ecstasy. These artistes would rob the nose of the most repressive government in its own shame or fill the heads of knights with the most exquisite of words to match their stellar deeds – all with a pen and a paper.

I, for most part, cannot look upon a thing without looking into it. I am greatly disturbed by the concept of abstraction and as much pleased by the sessions of reflections and conjectures it breeds. If a puppet show makes me laugh, the strings had first pulled at my heart (mind), if I like a piece of song, I’d have churned the words, hop on the melody, basically gone over to heaven and back. It is tedious and rewarding and exhilarating.

So, every time I come face to face with a blank page, often there is a pen poised to rap upon it. I start with that first streak of light and lightly pencil down again those words from that restaurant from a year ago.

 Hear, hear, oh spectrum of light

Morph and spread into particles of words and imagery

Let my quill make a beautiful array

Of quirks and mirths upon your fallow field.


4 thoughts on “Blank Out, No More

  1. He’s back! He’s back! Thank God Almighty. Midas is back! Where have you been?
    A good read. Brilliant as always. I enjoyed it.
    I’m patiently waiting for your book oooooo.
    Thank you sir.

  2. Darn! This is truly. “Blankin out no more” Very Insightful, Moreso the diffeent scenarios employed to this end . Stay tuned, u’d hear frm me soon enough….

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