A dry well of words

A friend asked recently if I was writing. I answered him with an unqualified "no." I say unqualified because usually I reply to questions like this with something like, "Not as much as I should," or, "Well, I've got some ideas I'm working on." But as of now, the answer is simply, "No."

That said, I read an article in the NY Times this weekend that, for the first time in a while, really made me want to write. The article, about the pain of economic contraction in Palm Beach (of all places), has a single captivating image, an unclaimed pair of trousers.

Of course, these aren't just any trousers. They were a pair of $2000 trousers that Madoff ordered before being arrested for perpetrating his enormous ponzi scheme. (There's an interesting followup article here). The pants were still hanging there at the clothiers from whom he ordered them.

This image of stasis, of an object suspended in time, to be an interesting contrast to the general sense of irrevocable change that came over many of the people who lost fortunes (or at least half of their already sizable fortunes). It is interesting how physical, inanimate objects can get stuck between two moments like this, an expression of unfulfilled potential or possibility.

The article end with a brief meditation on the meaning of the trousers:

One day the Money Men were brilliant; the next day, they were thieves. One day, cash flowed; the next day, credit vanished. One day, it seemed extravagant to buy a garment for the same price as a low-end used car; the next day, it seemed insane.

Not to bring this around too neatly, but my own creative energies feel just as bound up on the non-time, the interstitial space, between what could have been and what is.