Were I to love a rock, it would be a thick rock, dense and meaningful, satisfying when I cradled it. It would be grave, grand, and majestic, but without the trappings of celebrity. It would be unassuming, prepossessed, resistant of poetics. There would be no minstrel who could sing of it, no writer plumb it, no mystic wise enough to root it out for metaphor. It would be full without being vain, weighty without being grim, staid and certain and solid and serene. It would know no shame. It would know no pride. It would be a stranger to hatred and hurry, and to love and wait.
Yet it would not be a dull rock. It would have within it some sly spirit, a brazen streak, a bit of cheek; there would be something of the knave in it, the scoundrel; it would challenge all who live predictable lives, goading them at times, calling on them to examine that which they presume to love. It would not know half. It would not know compromise.
It would be impudent, then, and brave, but it would not dream. For what use for a rock to dream? A rock must be satisfied to sit in the earth, or get dug up as the case may be, or rested on a writer’s shelf, or pitched into a bucket, or thrown in fury from a young girl’s hand, or sunk to the bottom of a fishtank, or ground and polished into a precious jewel. A rock in the finest sense — a rock that I might love — would not fight this truth, would not pine for some disparate fate far removed from the engines of terrestrial necessity, but would be quick to perceive that the greatest freedom comes only when will is truly forsaken. It would be a shrewd rock indeed.
I have such a rock. It sits on my desk and holds up my dictionary. I am grateful to it for this task, as essential as any on my desk.
But I do not love it.
It is just a rock.
Who loves a rock?
While marveling at the number of articles written by Jay Hardwig appearing in one particular week’s issue, Chronicle editor Louis Black was heard to remark, “Jay Hardwig could write about a rock, and it would be good.”
Gauntlet thrown. Story assigned. Story delivered. We hope you enjoyed it.
This article appears in January 22 • 1999 and January 22 • 1999 (Cover).