Galvin crop

Today, as is the case for every day, begins with a blank space.

Let me stop and assure you right from the start: This is not going to be about Her. This particular blank spaced had been filled with a discussion concerning Her — for which I am still working through my repentance.

Rather, this is about the original, non co-opted blank space upon which nothing is written. Zilch. Nada. Zippo. A fat, old goose egg. Diddly-squat.

‘Twas ever thus. Whether painted on cave walls; chiseled into stone; scribbled onto papyrus or goat skin; chalked onto slate, porcelain, or pine covered with egg whites and charred potatoes; inked onto paper; or typed onto a computer monitor, this space always begins the same.

Blank.

Staring at it doesn’t make this void go away. If anything, it draws you deeper within, fumbling for a way out — like poor saps trying to dig their way out of a hole.

Sculptors, so the apocryphal tale goes, have it easier. Find a giant granite block and chip away anything that isn’t an elephant.

Voila!

Sculptors never have to make an elephant appear out of thin air. David Copperfield provided proof that it was far easier to perform the trick in reverse.

It’s not enough to have ideas. Anyone can have an idea. Most of us have more ideas that Carter has liver pills. Nothing to crow about there.

Take, for example, the previous two sentences. Pure inspiration, I’ll let you know. Good idea.

The other day, we were driving home from the store after replenishing our supplies of various and sundry, when I blurted out — being prone to blurting — that “there used to more of those than Carter has liver pills.”

I have no memory (or recording) of what piece of bric-a-brac constituted the “those” in that blurtation, what stopped us both was that I had referenced the miracle cure for dyspepsia and biliousness originally known as Carter’s Little Liver Pills.

Why this came to mind, I haven’t a clue. I’m fairly certain I haven’t heard it since my mother used to describe the plethora of excuses I’d concoct to get myself out of being force-fed a teaspoon of Castor Oil.

Still, one of the other promoted uses for Carter’s pills was to relieve constipation — and since I found myself, umm, stuck with a way to fill the blank space before me, perhaps I was channeling my mother’s encouragement from the great beyond.

Whereas my father, the more direct of the pair, would simply tell me to get on with it or get off the porcelain … or words to that effect.

So, that explains the first of the two inspiring sentences: “Most of us have more ideas that Carter has liver pills.” That led me to perform an in-depth five minutes of research of the Carter phenomenon, during which I discovered that the advertising mascot for the product — which also “cured” headaches, in case you currently find yourself having one — was a drooling crow.

Now that little sidetrack during this week’s cognitive offering might mean diddly-squat to you. But, to me, it meant 294 words.

Voila!

Oscar Wilde, who was adorned with the nickname “Grey Crow” (whether it was because he drooled is unclear), probably said it best when discussing the necessity, the problem, and the solution to filling a void.

“I love to talk about nothing,” he said. “It’s the only thing I know anything about.”

All I can add is that tomorrow, as is the case for every day, will begin with a blank space.