April 09, 2004 - 1:36 p.m.
yet again, sparked by a plug i assumed was un... plugged.
i can't help myself. the more i seem to float in some surroundings, the more i feel like the images outside the bowl are plastic... like the awful aquarium backdrops, laminated sixties colour schemed coral monstrosities that are supposed to represent some distorted image of what somebody thought would be comforting to some godforsaken fish that we feel good about trapping because we give it a name and food on a regular basis. This world is belly up. The tapping on the glass is a reminder to avoid that three second memory reflex. WAKE UP. it screams, tap tap tap tap.
i see outside and it makes me sad sometimes. bubbles rise and i follow them with my eyes. they go somewhere. somewhere that i imagine. and you.
you are outside. and i am glad of it.
Memory IS selective. because i remember what was said. I remember what i did. I did something right. maybe even something(s). But three seconds can erase all that. or more accurately several weeks which stretch into these interminable periods of monthlike time lines that hurt more as the batteries run low and only start to stab at you when the headlong speed at which you ran into them subsides and you realize with a creak that you're rolling to a halt and now... somehow you're in a completely different place and you forgot to say good bye. but now you can't cause there's no point. cause they saw you leaving and man, were they pissed once denial wore off and they realized the damage was far worse than the joy ride they'd envisioned. And tangled somewhere there are appologies and explanations but they don't really matter. because same as they've done, you realize that all the things you remeber are entirely subjective and that you probably used teh good stuff for yourself, the same way they remember what makes it easiest for them...
i remember what you said. i remember how it happened. because i was more careful to remember than i ever was in my actions.
armistead maupin says,
"leave some room for disillusionment" that i did.
Does it really matter what the reality is... if the end is the same? does it matter that the man on the computer in Stone's article was really a man when the disembodied voice pointed to a woman?
"I had split myself into two personalities, one of whom was capable of fearless, unconditional love, while the other, braced against the prospect of imminent loss, warned me not to surrender completely".
you were never very good at that, and for this i am sorry. But in a way, fully deserving it, i have lost too. I am lost in bitterness, anything i might have written, like the advice of a man incognito, is broken and betrayed by the unveiling of rough hands that act in tandem, but are clearly divided from the soft intent of the words they shape out of the split mind, split heart... split past.
"the slide marked split.. and fill with bullshit"
that's our past baby, remember it.
