The line stands. From one end to the other, she stands. The line is the line. She wants to speak, to embark, to intrigue. She wants to describe airplanes, red balloons, apples and oranges, all the blues of the sky, maybe even the last time the sun shone in the eyes of the narrator. She wants to make believe in their sudden appearance, as if out of nowhere, she wants them to live.
The line must start somewhere, stop somewhere else. Between the two, you have to put a whole. The pencil could have a magic power but it looks gray. He knows neither the beginning nor the end, he does not even have the idea of an outline. But the line must stand and the pencil knows nothing. He has only interwoven ideas, a blur of material, nothing very serious. It should still start.
He could draw waves, sheep and a little grass around to make them happy, but that's not what he's asked to do. He must draw letters, a and p, words aligned with accents, commas, apostrophes, not to mention the capital and the point. The beginning and the end.
How will he find meaning if nothing exists concretely? The imbroglio is at its maximum. Yet, the line requires order and precision without which it does not hold. The pencil skates. It is said that the line is beautifully restrictive. His rules of righteousness impose on him a framework, he does not know what to do with it. The pencil sulks. He attacks grammar and spelling as one defies the policeman as soon as his back is turned.
"What's the use of all this?" He starts to moan, crushing his annoyance. A lot of strokes appear on the leaf. Then he begins to scribble, scribble, scribble again. Soon the leaf is covered with gray. With small white holes here and there because the concentric movements always leave gaps.
The sheet goes to the trash, but the idea of hole remains. A big void is created. The pencil takes a deep breath and decides to let go. He draws a curved line. A curved line? He becomes crazy? It sinks to the bottom edge of the leaf, after there is nothing. The line falls into nothingness, it disappears, no one knows where. Suddenly, the pencil lights up and is written: "We must cut the line, cut it into sections, make it skin, cut it until we see nothing of the beginning or of the end. You have to throw all its pieces in a big tank, bring all that to a boil, and wait for it to take. "
With that, the pencil goes back to bed by decreeing that it is not yet time to work. In the large vat, a broth ferments. The pencil is in no hurry to lift the lid, but the writer does.
"How do you know if the juice is ripe?" She complains in pencil in a last attempt to interest her. The pencil yawns a long time. His mouth begins a closing movement and then changes at the last moment. He gives a smirk because the writer is enjoying it now.
"Ah, my dear, that's your job! I am only your pencil. Warn me when you know. "The writer is peeved. She has no choice, she has to go back to the stove.
While she does the laundry, the kitchen and she takes care of her brats, the broth bubbles. She will buy two three things at the supermarket. The broth ferments at its ease. She sets the table for the evening meal. The juice burst small bubbles of gas whose flowery smell augurs good things. The family discussion is lively. Pass me the salt mom, please. Will we go to the movies tomorrow? Come on mom, please please! Can you drive me to school on Monday morning? There is bus strike. Say mum, by the way, what does it mean "oxymoron"? The writer thinks that it is necessary to lower the fire if its broth will tie at the bottom of the pot. Yes, I'll drive you to school on Monday, do not worry. And for "oxymoron", you should look in the dictionary, it's safer.
The writer clears the table and puts away the dishes, she wonders if the broth is ruined. A doubt assails her, she has the impression that everything evaporated. She wants to her pencil lazy, she wants the calendar that reminds her that Monday is approaching, she wants all this time so to speak lost.
So, she sends her waltz to her apron and orders her children to go to bed. She knows they will only do their thing but the signal is given. She prepares a good teapot of Russian Earl Gray and then holds his back in the chair of his office. She takes her pencil, he pretends to be surprised. "You will obey me now," she orders. Intimidated, the pencil is forgotten.
The line finds its beginning. It's a good sign. The reel starts. The wheels of the gears creak a little, it is still necessary to find oil to grease the turbines. The line takes its direction. The letters are drawn to give form to the words, the words bind to each other, move, change endings. The writer blows, she sweats, she drinks, she adjusts her shawl on her shoulders or removes it, it is according to. She enters another world. Her back stiffens, she stretches two seconds and plunges into the adventure.
The next morning, the writer is a little stunned. She did not sleep much but you have to prepare the breakfast. Make the coffee, squeeze the oranges, go out and buy the Sunday croissants. Taking fresh air gives him the slap on the cheek he needs. The day is starting well, she thought. She will find a moment to re-read what the pencil wrote the day before. Monday, it will be too late.
The writer is not really one, she knows it. She has a real job that occupies her full time, much more serious than those pencil stories. Between roast and cheese, however, new ideas sprout. The pencil loses nothing to wait, it will have to work. The Sunday writer has her requirements. The line must be held.
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