Then
it's handled. Unclean, unclean. Still white, with no visible marks,
but dirtied. Touched, even caressed. Where have those hands been?
What might they do next? Will they rumple, fold, press a ballpoint
pen to its surface, hammer letters onto it, sketch lightly upon it,
mangle it in a machine, rip up and throw away.
The
page no longer blank has fulfilled its use. The page no longer only
white is of no use. Its blankness has been filled, not necessarily to
capacity but blank is now not a term that can be said of it. Now it
is just a page. A page used, a page that is a sheet in a document.
Its white space has been utilised, to the user's satisfaction or
dissatisfaction. A crisp white sheet on which black beetles waltz and
attract an admiring eye. A crisp white sheet where the black beetles
have revolted. The manual or mechanical hand that applied the beetles
to its surface has made a mistake. The eye is disappointed; the
waltz of the beetles has been halted. Some beetles continue to dance
but the eye disapproves. The unpaired beetles and the arguing couples
grab all the attention. Imperfection. Chaos. In the hall, on that one
page. Trapped there forever, uncorrected, or the hall brought to
fall, torn up and destroyed. A improved hall constructed, its new
design complex or minimal, where black beetles jostle for space or
whirl freely.
A
crush of crawling black, a stifled closeness. A pressing of limbs, a
pushing surge. A forward movement like an army moving under the cover
of shields. A war fought on the page.
Or:
the war forgot, the war never happened; the war is
not happening.
A
swaying black, a circling current. One motion, one rhythm. Air to
breathe, air to move in. The couples, like those in a ballroom,
dizzy, drunk on dance. Freedom has been let loose on the page.
Neither
pages have brought perfection; their beauty or flawlessness is not
that of a blank untouched page. Theirs is of a different kind, which
changes according to the user, the reader, the time. It can become
beautiful; it can grow ugly. The beetles come alive or wither and
die, dry out and fossilise. All they stood for, danced
for,
has meaning. All they fought
for
means little. The filled page, now aged and yellowed, praised or
disregarded. Respect shed or earned late.
The
blank page is where it starts.
Or
doesn't.
Narrative
beetles. Loving beetles. Amusing beetles. Maddened and maddening
beetles. Philosophic beetles, given to opinion. Contemplative
beetles, given to religion. Reflective beetles, given to
self-criticism. Who don't begin as they end. Who change throughout.
Who cause surprise and revulsion. Who bring disappointment and joy.
Who reverse fortunes – good to bad, bad to good. Lift and depress.
Open and suppress.
Flawed
or flawless, black beetles work to keep their place on the page. To
convey what was meant to be conveyed. The eye, however, will
interpret how it wills. The black beetles blurred, unclear. Or their
movements so obvious that the eye knows what's coming before it's
reached them. A missed, never seen before, beetle noticed for the
first time; a familiar beetle met again. A new beetle befriended.
These
black beetles pressed to, on, the page can't be taken away, forcibly
removed, not without leaving a hole in the paper, a gap in the story.
But
neither can the blank page return to what it was, to its original
starting point. A pencil has been run along it, a pen across it. A
hand has perspired on it, left traces of its sojourn: sweat and food.
Maybe other secretions, too.
The
black beetles march to a beat, the black beetles dance to a tune.
The
blank page, recorded on, exists.
Picture credit: Page one of an illustrated letter from Betty Parsons to Henry Ernst Schnakenberg (source: WikiArt).
This post was written in 2019.
