Invisible Ink

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Invisible Ink - book excerpt

CONNECTIVE TISSUE

We played Connect 4 last night. Only it was Connect 5 and called by some other name. Its title escapes me now. I envy the title’s ability to flee as I remain both present and presently disoriented. The laminated gameboard rotated randomly. To the right. The left, too. I never knew which way it was going to turn. The game adopted all of the traditional rules—one color per player, proceed in clockwise formation, wait for turns. Only, there was little tradition. Superficial familiarity lacked both substance and solidarity. Gravity played cruel tricks. Predictable patterns—rows and columns of monochromatic chips—turned chaotic. Four shiny reds in a row quickly turned to three blue with one red in the middle. Next, three in a row blue—standing in solidarity—rotated to form a patchwork of green, yellow, blue, and red—some chips wayward, others alone—in a rotating fashion. Turns rotated, time, too. I went through the motions, but my motions no longer mattered. I asked for mercy following norms and niceties—added a merci—yet found none.

I should have chosen another box from the shelf. There were many options. Classics such as Life and Clue. Monopoly, too. Newcomers with familiar elements. Smart Ass. Noodlers. Blokus. Each wrong. I had no clue what life was any longer. Thoughts are monopolized by the news. News is monopolized by limits and limitations. Mirrors seeking Mercy. Mirrors revealing Memory. All elements of the game. As a child, I preferred Twister to Trivial Pursuit. Othello to Ouija. Now, I crave a life with fewer twists and turns. Coffee and care spill unexpectedly. Carelessly and casually, too.

Temperatures rise and what rises falls. I used to be able to visualize patterns. Count possibilities and pursue unique paths and distinguishable outcomes in advance of their fruition. Consumed apples before fully ripe. Bananas, too. Reality and ripeness are both relatable routes. Now, I feel as if I am always in a reactionary zone. Table talk and teams. Red on black. Blue on the green. Unsuspected alliances and unsuspecting moves. Chips drop, then scatter. Traps taunt. Play persists, too.

I cleaned the stovetop in between rounds. Scrubbed at grease that secured its position— spots on the board of Life—long ago. Worked on the overhead hood, too. Spent a few hours scrubbing with little impact. As my fingers scraped, my eyes observed a community of ants on the floor. I must have dropped crumbs while I prepared snacks—a bowl of popcorn, a plate of veggie straws, and M&Ms. More colors than I recalled. More competition, too. Each is a symbol of what once was. Memories were washed in the kitchen sink and wiped with days-old paper.