When even the crickets hesitate

I am tired tonight. I do not feel like words. This is perhaps why we have images. Only I do not want images either. Not tonight. No, I will watch the artist instead. She is at the same table with some of her work, which she moves like weather symbols on a small map. I love watching her work. There is nothing self-conscious about it. She is sharpening a pencil for example into a tin and I hear the shavings fall. Her head is bowed and I cannot see her face. Her nose is running. She has hay-fever. The TV is talking to itself about drunken astronauts. I smile at this lunacy. I met two astronauts. They stood in the corner of the room drinking mineral water. They had shaved heads and I thought they were Buddhist monks. Shush. Right now the artist is putting pencil to paper. There is something satisfying about watching a sharpened pencil give meaning to paper. The artist sneezes, careful not to spray her work, and resumes what she is doing. I can hear the pencil this time. Listen. How would you describe that sound? It’s like the tiniest paw of the tiniest animal making a little path. No, the artist definitely has hay-fever. Perhaps she is allergic to art. That would be something. An artist allergic to art. Perhaps, tonight, I was allergic to writing. Bless you. Excuse me.