May. 23rd, 2016 02:04 pm
anonymousblack: (blueglass)
with a hushed quality. with a quality of reverence. with reverence for the dead, for everything that has gone on before this moment, this moment we thought would never arrive, would never get here but here it is now, here in living colors, here in the breath and pace of who we intended to be from the very beginning. from the very beginning: we know what that means, at least in part. at least the part that extends to the beginning, because i think as a species we believe we have a grip on the beginning, when an event first occurred, when people first met, that first day of school or at a new job,that first time you met someone important in the eye and said what you meant to say, no matter how terrifying an overall sentiment.

how terrifying a sentiment, overall? all sentiments can be terrifying, given the right context: telling someone how you really feel, i love you but there's no reason for this, i don't love you and there's just as much reason for that, i don't know who you are despite the fact that i live with you, i don't know what i'm doing despite the fact that i'm getting paid to do it. what am i getting paid to do, where should my instincts lead me now? lead me into the fray, into the battle, into the names of names of names, into the post-modern functions of senseless destruction thought carefully through for the sake of art.

for the sake of art, which is a dubious patron, always looking one direction while addressing someone in another, always dressing up fancy for a casual date, always making one matter into another and setting our most carefully documentation ablaze if for no other reason than there cannot be a simple genealogy process to those matters that really get to us, to the matters that shape us, flush us square, paste us into the scene we've made without realizing we were making a scene. we were making a scene all along, from the beginning but also from the very beginning, a concept that is a bit more tenuous, a bit harder to pull together, almost impossible to explain to a randomly selected group of one's most judgmental peers.


one's most judgmental peers could explain a thing or two back to you: this wasn't the start of things, the start of things that you've been describing, the start of things that you were calibrated to see. what you've been calibrated to see is what you can cope with, the beginning that feels most comfortable to you, the beginning that feels safe or at least not blatantly dangerous. blatant danger lies in true beginnings. true beginnings demonstrate our weaknesses, our sick tendencies, our weird interpretations of failed strivings, of making ourselves look our best for our absolute worst, of masking ourselves so we can walk through the gate ignorant of our baser motivations. baser motivations so often pouring the foundation for the very beginning: haven't we seen each other before? don't you have something to do with who i used to be? don't you have something of mine? is it possible that i don't know who it was i used to be, i don't know at all who i used to be, and maybe that's not so much that i'm forgetful as i am willing myself to forget?

willed to forget, i wake from a dream of remembering. in a dream of remembering i pick up that notebook i lost in the ninth grade from the study hall floor. on the study hall floor i page through it, thinking as i would think now, i almost forgot this, why did i almost forget this? was it so painful? i did forget it, for a time. did i need to forget, at least for a time? i page through it and i page through it again. paging through it again, the story is there. story of the middle of nowhere, story of the suicide bathtub. suicide bathtubs: where did the story go? where did it go? i mean, where did my story go?

derailed, disintegrated, discarded, demolished, deteriorated, diseased, disenfranchised, disillusioned, disregarded, detonated and dropped on the study hall floor. on the study hall floor i don't think i'm alone. i don't think i'm alone and i don't know what that means. somebody somewhere. sometimes. is this the beginning, is it the very beginning? does it have anything to do with anything at all? still, sometimes the story is there. sometimes. sometimes at the start of any number of words, an ambiguous page count, another book that could have been a diary if i allowed myself keep a diary at that age. at that age, i thought i knew better. better to forget what was lost, better to start a new notebook, but then again, maybe not. what have i left unfinished? and i think i know better, but then again, holy god.


anonymousblack: (Default)
selva oscura

April 2017

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