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He wanted to write about young love,but, the old man had forgotten what that was like. Forgot what it was like to lay with her head in your lap and watch the sun go down. Couldn’t remember ever running his hands through a woman’s hair. Or, holding her close down in his parent’s basement.

Maybe it was the booze. Perhaps the cigarettes clouded his head. Maybe it never happened. Maybe all that loving was made up in his mind, daydreams. He wasn’t sure anymore.

He popped open a can of Old Style and lit a cigarette as he sat in front of his typewriter. Someone had asked him once about technology and writing. The old man said his electric typewriter was just fine; a real God’s send. He stared at the blank page.

Mailer called it, “The spooky art.” And it was. You never knew what was going to enter the mind and show up on the page. You never knew if the magic was going to be there. This was the old man’s fear. He was forgetting things. Parts of his life had vanished. He drank another beer. Couldn’t remember his first love, or, his first date, a first kiss, the loss of innocence. He couldn’t remember the day before.

The rain dripped on the windows. It was dark outside; a moonless night. A fan over in the corner made a humming sound that half way put him to sleep. He opened another beer. The old man began to curse at the blank page. His old bony fingers wanted to touch the keys, but, he didn’t know what to say.

The old man was alone. He’d always been alone. Just him, a room filled with books, and a typewriter. He drank another beer. Heard birds chirping outside. He opened his drawer and pulled a bottle of whiskey out. Poured a shot. And said, good morning.

It is, “the spooky art.”

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