Saturday, November 29, 2008
He finally realized that it didn't make any sense. None of it made any sense. So he would stop trying to make sense. Stop trying to get the memories exactly right. Stop trying to describe their eyes perfectly. It does not matter whether they are blue, brown, green or hazel. It does not matter either whether or not their lips were rosy red or thin and pink. Color doesn't matter. Whether everyone who was there was there doesn't matter. More people can be added and more people can be subtracted. Some people can be thought to have been there while others are forgotten to have been there. There can be anywhere even if it's not where it happened or where anything happened. What really happened never really happens again no matter how it is written. There is no sense in trying to make sense. There is no sense in trying to reach what really happened since what really happened can only happen once. Once in a lifetime will anything happening no matter how often it happens. So he stopped trying to make sense out of what did or did not happen anymore. So much of it was dedicated to trying to remember every single detail down to every single letter color eye. He was scared he wouldn't get it right and something would be lost. It was as if something could be retrieved but writing isn't about having the perfect memory. Writing is for the forgetful either intentionally or unintentionally. Writing is filling in all the gaps in what did or did not happen in the most nonsensical way possible. He realized that now. It could even mean only filling in gaps insofar as there was nothing surrounding the gaps for them to be gaps. It would just be the filling up of giant empty ravines gorged into the face of the earth that nobody really noticed since they were so large. A hopeless task, but not as hopeless as trying to make sense. Even better: a senseless task since it would never be filled up to the top by any one person at any one time. He would keep on going without end without conclusion without death infinitely transgressing and regressing one step two step, respectively. Infinitely which is what he wanted to avoid in the first place since it made too much sense and he wanted to avoid sense since he would never get anything done. Everything would be another thought about whether or not that made since or if she exists or if that time or place really happened. Everything would be another thought about whether or not that made since or if she exists or if that time or place really happened. Along with the inevitable paranoia of saying something you don't mean accidently either senselessly or with an adequate amount of sense. Or if something was worth saying and not merely excessive or exaggerated or superfluous. What if everything was superfluous? I don't want to forget anybody. He was worried about editing or if "first thought, best thought" was the way to go. He thought he might be lazy but then he thought that he might not care. And then he asked his mother what was for dinner and she said apples and then he said he did not want that and she said "oranges" and gave him an organ. Whether anything gets done or not and whether he ever will say what he wants he at least knows that he wants to say this sense memory representation be damned: She was beautiful and he knew he loved her even though he could only remember and this was all that rose up out of the refuse and the rubble.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
On a midnight stroll going nowhere in particular I end up at the corner of Nowhere and In Particular deciding blindly to take the road less travelled down Nowhere. The darkness at the end of the street seemed more mysterious. I feel like someone painted this, me doing this, already in the past and probably seeing the painting made me want to walk this way. I probably didn't know what the painting meant at the time but I appreciated the night sky painted at the bottom of the canvas as a reflection of pale moonlight dimly lit up in the middle of the lake of the town I grew up in. All I could think about, however, distractedly, while admiring the painting of what I was doing now, but portrayed then, was, "what was the first thing that popped into your head when someone asked, 'what was the first thing that popped into your head when someone asked, 'what was the first thing that popped into your head?''" I smiled and kept on walking imagining the painterly life written inside a notebook while going nowhere and ignoring the particulars. It was too dark, anyway. I prefer notebooks and scrap paper. They are more immediate and impermanent and they lead just as equally to nowhere as the rest of my body since they rest comfortably in the back pocket of the jeans I am wearing as I am walking down that unlit street far from the suburbs where I grew up. Or maybe it is the same town I grew up in, I don't remember exactly, but it could just be the time or day, or the time of night. However, I don't remember where I grew up being named Nowhere, but I guess they could have changed the name since I grew up and moved away and removed all the details and just left a dark street with no street lamps, at least no street lamps that work properly. I at least remember the street lamps working in the town I was from. Or maybe they are just old, but I doubt it. They weren't that old since I'm not that old but maybe they are old for street lamps. I keep walking down Nowhere but the street doesn't seem to end and I think I keep seeing the same houses over and over again, but I can't tell exactly since everything seems to be only slightly different from the last time I decided to lift my head and pay attention. I guess it could be different but it could just as well still slightly be the same. Without the particulars it is too hard to tell the difference. So I think I will keep walking until I can tell the difference. Maybe one day I will turn around and walk the other way and take a jog down particulars, but right now I don't feel like it. So I will keep walking. I will keep walking. And walking. And walking.Then I realized, none of this makes sense and nothing makes sense. My senses don't make sense nor are they sense, but senses. Sense plural, with an s. This means that there is a lot of issing to be done. Or is it izzing, since ss is too long of an s sound? Either way there is a lot of issing to be done since nothing makes sense. And with that in mind, it would matter if i had gone anywhere or nowhere in particular.