Two nights ago, while driving over the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, just after the tunnel, heading East at 3am, I had a great idea. Instinctively, I knew the brainwave would keep giving, a whole gallon of mental paint waiting to be stirred into a project, a story, maybe even a book. Satisfied, I rolled down the window, switched on the classical channel and done a bit of symphony.
When I woke up, I looked for my idea everywhere, under the mattress, inside my sock, in the snot rag at the bedside. Where the fuck was it? I squeezed the last of the toothpaste from the tube - not there. I wiped my armpits, not there either. The shaved beard hairs in the sink were no trigger, the tea leaves in my morning cup were no fortune for my memory. The grapefruit for breakfast would surely locate it but the bitterness was now too much. How could I have lost a fucking idea? There was only one thing to do. Head back to the Bay Bridge.
I pulled into the lane, this was where the idea had arrived, I slowed, cars whipped around me, a large UPS truck blasted its horn, a hip hop vibration vehicle cursed me. But there was nothing. It was gone. Likely tossed over into the Bay when I opened the window, listening to the symphony. I pulled out my violin, and scratched a lament. Another idea was dead at birth.
A man I knew who was ill, told me that all his good ideas came back to him, after the doctor gave up the bad news. But by then it was too late. His minutes dropped away like his weight. His ideas would be eaten by the worms. I thought of him as I headed home, and imagined my gravestone. HE HAD AN IDEA...ONCE UPON A TIME.