Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Becoming the Past in a Present Moment

He told me to lie down with him, so I slipped between the quilt and sheets, cradling my son in the darkness of early Thursday morning. For a short time I felt his small feet pressing up against my sides— a confirmation of my presence, a reassurance that I remained, until he fell asleep, breathing rhythmically, a heavy pulse of slumber.
Finally began reading W. Faulkner’s Intruder in the Dust this week. Falling into his lengthy sentence structures and insistent interior monologues. The same fashion Gabriel Garcia Marquez influences my thought— alterations of reality, the matter-of-fact-descriptions, an unfolding of dream logic.

      Taking the language from experience to recreate experience.
And, also, I just finalized my reading of Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. Now the time is almost midnight. I am drained. Weary. The story of an unreliable narrator devising a surreal breakdown of plot and character, impractical details— I have to soak in this one for awhile.

Yet, a nagging feeling keeps pestering me—that I read the book before this week—years ago I mean. Some of the scenes echo in my memory: the comparison of bombed-out Dresden to the lunar surface. The mention of multiple sex partners as procreation practices for the race of aliens from another dimension. A heavy déjà vu hovers over the reading lamp.
My fractured lines grow in quantity. Daily. I have reached 669 entries to be posted in 2015— I aimed for much more by the end of this month— a limit perhaps out of reach— but the important element to keep in mind, the clichéd fact of quality-over-quantity. The direction of these lines merge towards the perspective point’s horizon line of one long Whitman-esque, Faulknerian poem played out over an extended timeline.
There are moments when I stand on the bridge looking down at my reflection moth-dark in the water beneath me— inspiration I mean, reflection as meditation. Not mere repetition of what is in the past, but rather becoming the past in a present moment.

A convoluted statement, yes. Yet intentional. Taking the language from experience to recreate experience. Circle within a circle. Gears. Clockwork actions exposed to daylight. Symphonic aspirations.

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