Synesthesia of Trash and a question about nonfiction and Fiction
- Mood: tired, frustrated, curious
A Synesthesia of Trash
Friday, March 04, 2005; 3:37:16 PM Sunshine on snow and I'm inside wishing to be outside but glued to my chair. I came up for tools. To take apart my computer. Which isn't working. Won't get on-line.
I am thinking about creative nonfiction. What is it that makes it creative and how do you separate that from fiction? How creative can you get and still be truthful? That is, still be NONfiction? And when is fiction true and when is it false?
A Synesthesia of trash: (How do you spell that, anyway?) When I was a child and played the clarinet, my notes came out in colors. I loved the colors, brilliant saturated primary colors and rainbow blends. When I was older, I lost the synesthesia somehow, a terrible loss—the colors were gone!!! But I've rediscovered them in trash as I lay the recycling down on the floor for Keith to take to the garage. The real trash is dark brownish, a bruised plum color: unwanted junk mail. The things I hate to part with are bright turquoise, brilliant chartreuse. One piece I lay gently sideways is red. Scarlet, really. It's something I want to do and can't afford: a writer's conference. I want Keith to see it, but when he gathers up the recycling, he folds it all together like an accordion, the colors dulling to grey and blending to nothing as he slides them into the red bin and pulls down the garage door. Somewhere in the darkness, the red writer's conference flyer begins to blink on and off like a beacon, lighting a flickering sliver under the garage door. But only I can see it. Keith is unaware of my loss. For him, synesthesia revolves around big machines; locomotives, massive generators. Huge electrical circuits. Those black and dirty things are shine bright for him, while in the dark garage, a small coal of desire fades.
Like I said, where is the line between fiction and nonfiction, and what is truth?
Mary 3:52 PM