last glass...dusty buckets...parched e-lips...sponge...drip...drop

2005-05-14 - 5:47 p.m.: wind

�The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.� � Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory

The words above make me feel something strange�something that I�ve felt before but have never quite been able to name. In the time that has passed since my last real entry, a lot has happened. Some of it I could spell out in here, and it might even sound poetic. Some of it would sound boring. Some of it is a little too fresh�a little too immediate, painful�and I won�t be able to write about it well until it�s old.

Even if it *is* already memory.

In some ways it would be easier to write about the spaces in between the things that have happened. When �things happen,� your self turns into a little waiting man (or woman) perched tensely on the edge of the seat of your mind. He registers the happening of things and makes notes on a small pad of recyclable paper� noting smells, colors, risks, pains, thrills, tears and jolts. The body, during this time, reacts automatically. When the happening of things is finished, the little man (or woman) takes the finished notes and writes a report to the Mind. The Mind uses this report to design a proper reaction, to undo the damage caused, perhaps, by the knee-jerk response of the body, and to create poetry from whatever beauty could be found in the situation.

When things aren�t happening, this little man (or woman) doodles. Bored easily, he searches through the smaller, less significant happenings of things to find humor, strangeness, metaphorical significance and metaphysical grace. It is like the fullness of silence�the feeling of your ear�s �soul� stretching out into the surrounding space to pick up sounds that are not strong enough to penetrate your natural, physical membranes.

(I think most insanity must start with profound and lasting ennui.)

My grandmother died last week. She was old enough that a natural death would have been acceptable, but universal forces conspired to end her life in a cinematic way. Perhaps she was too gentle and graceful in life to have a gentle and graceful death. It�s strange the way things balance out. She drove my grandfather�s truck at high speeds off the edge of a ravine�flying through the air and landing nose-first on the bank of a farmer�s pond. She wasn�t wearing a seatbelt, and the body in her casket looked like a poorly-made up prop for a B movie. I know that�s crude, but I don�t know how else to describe it. The grandmother I knew had a warm smile, sparkly eyes and soft, translucent cheeks that got pink when she hugged people. All of that was gone. I suppose that makes sense.

I think my father suspects that she killed herself on purpose. I don�t know how that could be possible, but I also don�t know how to talk about it with him. Maybe it makes her death more noble in his mind. I don�t know. Maybe he�s right. This world is a crazy place.

I feel pretty lost right now. I think writing in here will help a lot. I met a boy and fell in love and now am trying to fall back out of it�which will be okay in the end, but hurts right now. Partly because it will always hurt to back away from something beautiful. Partly because�in the process of falling in love�I�ve found exactly what I�ve been missing from �regular life��a certain depth�and I�m a little bit scared that I won�t be able to find it again without jumping away from my comfort zone. I know I don�t belong where I am. I�m a chameleon, good at pretending, and used to be satisfied enough, but if I don�t change something soon I�m going to be torn apart by my own conflicting desires (i.e. my frustrated dark side will eat my inner child. :)

Dramatic, but true. Hooray for revelations.

And hooray for updates. Hopefully I�ll be able to keep this up, this time.