The Canadian Writers' Collective

Writing, and writerly tangents

Thursday, April 27, 2006

My Journey to the Internet and Back

BY ANTONIOS MALTEZOS

FRIDAY, APRIL 25, 2003


I’ve had two sips of coffee, and I’m already thinking about the mailbox, the screeching sound of the cast aluminum lid scraping against the bricks, the hollow clap signaling the mailman has started down my front steps two at a time. As I sneak to the front door and peer through the peephole, I’ll be hoping one corner of my envelope will be sticking out, saving me one split second of wait time. It’s been six months now. When I see it, my SASE, my heartbeat will flutter, my fingers will tingle as they push the lid out of the way. It’s my envelope, I know… I know… but you never really know, so I’ll snatch my long lost but not forgotten submission, and rush it into the kitchen. My coffee cup has rings in it, but they’re my rings, so I’ll refill without rinsing it first. I’ll need a coffee for this. I have to enjoy the moment. I’ll weigh the envelope in my hands, and see if I can tell the difference between real ink and the moutzoura from a photocopy machine. Deep inside, I know acceptances don’t come back like this. They’re phoned in, I think, aren’t they? I won’t be able to wait any longer. It’s been six months. I’ll tap the envelope on the table so I don’t rip any of the pages insides, and then tear a clean opening along the top. I’ll blow, ballooning the sides out, and listen to the rattle of my unmolested story shivering like a dog waiting to be let out of a cage.

THURSDAY, APRIL 27, 2006

Here’s where I get all psycho-analytical with myself. When I see that receiving mail message tick, tick, ticking in my inbox, I feel connected to the world. It takes what… a couple seconds and the message appears? Within those couple seconds, that space in time when the sneeze is pulling your guts out through your nose, when every orifice in your body is loosened and partaking in the orgasm, I actually believe I am connected. Someone is thinking of me. Someone knows I’m here. Even if it’s only the exiled King of a tiny African country in need of my assistance, because, hey… I’m Antonios Maltezos, and he couldn’t think of any one else to ask. I’m connected. It’s as if the numbers are about to start falling, and I can see that nine resting upside down in the plastic tubing. I’m gonna win this time, maybe. Someone big, high up in the literary world, is gonna come calling in a moment asking me for something I don’t yet have. Okay, it’s just spam, but it could have been. It could have been—damnit!

MONDAY, APRIL 27, 2009

Coming home from work today, I was cut off. A little old lady stepped in front of me just as I was about to board the bus. I would have nudged her out of the way, but there were people behind me. What’s more, I knew she’d get the last seat, and that I’d have to focus in on those tiny dots of color forming the overhead advertisements, wonder what the hell a spot of blue has to do with a model smile, if it’s all computers, or someone’s chosen which color dot goes where? Jeez. It’s been six months now and still nothing in the mailbox but bills and an assortment of flyers. I may order pizza from Adamo tonight, eat it cold while working on character, the conflict in my latest story.

1 Comments:

Blogger Patricia said...

This is excellent, sooo true, I check my email a million time a day, turn on my computer first thing in the morning and it's the last thing I shut off before falling asleep, great post, keep them coming.

Thu Apr 27, 08:58:00 pm GMT-4  

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