| (no subject) |
[Dec. 31st, 2008|01:33 pm]
remindedme
|
I hate that stupid ball. It's fucking stupid. It's big and it's shiny and it descends a pole. We'd be better off with a stripper up there.
The year is gone. This was the year I was twenty and twenty one. Life is getting strange. The string of events my life takes seems ever expanding, mirrors parallel and I wonder, if it's to wonder, when do those light beams actually end. Never, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder if a light source were to be introduced into a room of all mirrors if it would ever get dark in there. As if the light could bounce forever, it would sustain itself as a moving force, the only moving force. This is, of course, nonsense.
2008 was a year. Things happened. I was happy. I was sad. I was confused. I was learned. I was impressed. I was angered. I was abandoned. I was. I think I'll take that and run with it. I hate to press the issue, but you're going to die one day. It's okay. In fact, it's wonderful. It's god damn beautiful and you know it and you can't wait to find out what happens, you just hope it doesn't hurt and it doesn't happen until you're good and old and can't jump off of rocks or drink till you see three images for every one in your field of view without waking up with a headache and throwing up blood.
Sometimes I think there's nothing I can forget. Not one thing. Every night is a story to be told or remembered. These anecdotes are why I breath. I've never wanted anything other than a moment of your time and to tell you a story. The stories are different, and I don't want you to expect anything much of them. I think that would be folly. They are just stories. Sometimes I think that I have to know what I mean, but then if I knew what I mean and always said what I meant then I don't think I would ever be able to say anything new.
Two days ago Aaron and I decided to follow the street signs for the Connecticut Wine Tour. We wound up at a Winery in Brookfield or Newtown. I don't forget, I just never knew. An older lady worked there, came out of a small building to the side of the one filled with wine bottles. She was knowledgeable, but seemed to be a bit reserved. Me in my blue and black flannel and Aaron in his big boarding jacket hardly seemed the type to her, you could hear it in her voice, see it in the calmness of her folded hands. We didn't stay long. Neither of us would like to spend fifteen dollars on a bottle of wine.
I took a left out of the parking lot. I knew what was to the right and that bored me. We wound up in a Culdesac with a small path running up over a ridge. There were two signs posted, one informing people that use of motorized vehicles was not allowed and the other saying that it was a place for bow hunting only.
The sun was setting and it wasn't too windy. The sky was blue. No, the sky wasn't just blue. It was also red. It was orange. It was yellow. It was clear and strong and it silhouetted those old style windmills, the small ones built on shaky frames of wood that seem to have offered a use at some time, but that time is gone and you'd have to read a book written by someone older than you to figure it out. That place, there was a bench and a tree and tall grass and deer pellets everywhere. You could see over houses, you could feel the slight damp of the mud under your shoes, and you could run if you wanted to. I wanted to. I didn't. The sun sank slowly, it has that tendency in the winter. I would have stayed there till the light left the sky, but Adam wanted us to pick him up.
Ryan Greg and I went Duck Pin Bowling a couple of weeks ago. It was fantastic. I want to do that every day of my life. I could enjoy that. I could get into it. I could be happy with that.
I hung out with Marie Peak for the first time in a very long time the other day. I told her a lot of things I don't talk to anybody about. About the fact that I think about all my lovers, no matter what the length or expectations of the relationship, every day. I miss people, I'm nostalgic about everything, I never want to forget anything. Andrew said that it's thought that we forget as a process of continuity. If we remembered everything we'd be bogged down. Damn it, bog me down. I want to be the log soaked so thoroughly with water that in the winter it expands and busts open.
Somewhere in this was supposed to be something about the year passing. Something, perhaps, about transformation. But to everything there is a season, to every season there are phases, and to each phase a transition. So the finger the hand the arm the torso the body you? When does something start being more than just a part of you. Are we more or less then our sums? All I have are questions. My answers are questions, my questions are questions, and my solution is none different. |
|
