possibility (staples and coins)

I have neither the time nor the mental stamina to be writing an entry, but I don't care. There is something seriously wrong with me.

Whenever I have a thick paper to staple--pages and pages of carefully thought-out, written, proofread, edited words merging into sentences and paragraphs and so on--I stop for a second. Because this is the final product. From another's words in a text, to the drifting ideas in my mind, to the initial scribbles on scratch paper, to stream-of-consciousness writing, to the rearrangement of letters and imposing structure, to making sure the broad themes are bracketed by minutely perfect punctuation. I've printed it out. The staple is the absolute last step. So I position the stapler carefully, but I don't take too much time because somehow if you let it linger over the paper too long you lose the right proportion of conviction and hesitation. Then, it happens and there comes the satisfaction of completion, contained in something you can hold in your hands. The staple is flawless. It made it through the pile of laser printer paper, it's straight, you can see it grasp the last paper firmly and convincingly.

Except I'm never convinced. I always think, what if it comes apart? One staple, even one as clearly sufficient as this one, could not possibly hold all this work I've done. How can I rely on this tiny thing to keep everything together? So I say, one more. It will be just as good as the last one, and then I'll have double the comfort, double the feeling of accomplishment, and I won't have to deal with any residual doubt. So I do it. Inevitably something goes wrong. I hold the stapler longer than I should. The stapler is still recovering from its first exertion. The staple can't quite make it through, and gets stuck somewhere in the middle. I have to wrestle it out. This failure should tell me to stop, but the empty holes the second attempt has left in the paper stare me in the face. I can't just leave it, so multiple staples ensue accompanied by sounds of frustration and thoughts of should've-known-better. Until finally one that doesn't resemble a complete misfire makes its way through. It's not nearly as nice as the first, and it even makes the first one look less attractive. I sigh, and turn it in.

This picture is the fountain in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. My most distinct memory of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler is when they take the coins from the fountain to fund their adventures. I can't remember if the feeling of admiration or sadness came first, after reading that. Probably as a kid, admiration. That was pretty clever, and it sounds like a lot of fun to wade around in that thing. It's probably a thought most people entertain but something they never do--rules, self-consciousness, silly real things like that stop them. But it seems a little sad, in a way, or maybe bittersweet. The different functions of these coins...loose change in your pocket, a burden almost. Then a source of possible wish fulfillment--to be able to use something you don't really need or want anyway to ask for something you might need or want, or to believe you might someday get what you need or want. And then to be usurped for practical purposes. Your wish now lying in another's pocket. I suppose that circulation is constant, and not just restricted to wishing fountains. Now that I think about it, it's nice to have such thoughts floating around, exchanging hands.

I think, should I throw my coin in, knowing where it might end up? Not shining at the bottom of a clear pool in a beautiful museum but fulfilling purposes I never foresaw? Should I add my penny to the pile of copper, when it's already comfortable in my pocket? Should I risk it? What if the actual act of throwing it in there mars my image of what it would look like, how it would feel? How can I ever reconcile contentment with what is with an infatuation with what could be?