The pencil that didn't want to know anything

That of the Sunday writer.
The line is holding. From one end to the other, she's standing there. The line is the line. She wants to talk, board, intrigue. She wants to describe planes, red balloons, apples and oranges, all the blue skies, perhaps even the last time the sun shone in the eyes of the narrator. She wants them to believe in their sudden appearance, like coming out of nowhere, she wants them to live.

The line has to start somewhere, stop somewhere else. Between the two, you have to put a whole. The pencil could have a magical power, but it looks gray. He doesn't know the beginning or the end, he doesn't even have the idea of a contour. But the line has to hold and the pencil doesn't know anything. He has nothing but intertwined ideas, blurred matter, nothing serious. He'd still have to go for it.

He could draw waves, sheep and a little grass around to make them happy, but that's not what we're asking him. He must draw letters, a and p's, well aligned words with accents, commas, apostrophes, not to mention capital letters and period. The beginning and the end.

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How is he going to make sense if nothing really exists? The imbroglio is at its maximum. However, the line requires order and precision or else it will not hold. The pencil is slipping. He thinks the line is pretty tight. His rules of law impose a framework on him, he doesn't know what to do with it. The pencil's pouting. He attacks grammar and spelling as one defies the gendarme as soon as his back is turned.

"What's the point of all this?" he starts to grumble as he crushes his annoying face. A large touillon of strokes appears on the leaf. So he starts to doodle, doodle, doodle again. Soon the leaf is covered with grey. With small white holes here and there because concentric movements always leave gaps.

The leaf goes to the trash can, but the idea of a hole remains. A great emptiness is created. The pencil takes a deep breath and decides to let go. He draws a curved line. A curved line? Is he going crazy? It sinks down to the lower edge of the leaf, after which there is nothing left. The line falls into oblivion, it disappears somewhere. All of a sudden, the pencil lights up and writes:"You have to sausage the line, you have to cut it into sections, skin it, cut it until you can no longer see anything from the beginning or the end. You have to throw all his pieces in a big vat, bring it to a boil, and wait for it to set."

On this, the pencil goes back to bed declaring that it is not yet time to work. In the large vat, a broth ferments. The pencil is not in a hurry to lift the lid, but the writer is.

"How do I know if the juice is ripe?" she complains in pencil in a last attempt to interest her. The pencil yawns for a long time. His mouth begins a closing movement and then comes back at the last moment. He casts a smirk because the writer amuses him now.

"Oh, my dear, that's your job! I'm just your pencil. Let me know when you find out." The writer is disappointed. She doesn't have a choice, she has to go back to the kitchen.

While she's doing the laundry, cooking and taking care of her marmots, the broth is boiling. She's going to buy a couple of do-it-yourselfers at the supermarket. The broth ferments at ease. She sets the table for dinner. The juice makes small gas bubbles burst, the flowery smell of which augurs well for good things. The family discussion is lively. Pass me the salt, Mom, please. Shall we go to the movies tomorrow? Come on, Mom, please, please! Can you drive me to school on Monday morning? There's a bus strike. Say, Mom, by the way, what does "oxymore" mean? The writer tells herself that it is necessary to lower the fire or else her broth will stick to the bottom of the pot. Yeah, I'll drive you to school on Monday, don't worry. And for "oxymore", you should look in the dictionary, it's safer.

The writer clears the table and tidies up the dishes, she wonders if the broth is ruined. Doubtful assaults her, she feels like everything has evaporated. She's mad at her lazy pencil, she's mad at the calendar that reminds her that Monday is approaching, she's mad at all this time, so to speak, lost.

Then she sends her apron waltzing and intimates the order to her marmaille to lie down. She knows that they will only do what they want, but the signal is given. She prepares a good teapot from Russian Earl Grey and holds her back in the chair of her desk. She takes her pencil, he pretends to be surprised. "You're going to obey me now," she says. Intimidated, the pencil gets forgotten.

The line begins. That's a good sign. The hose reel is switched on. The gear wheels squeak a little, we still have to find oil.