I read an article on the brain and then I read a whole textbook about it. The bedroom was public. So I took myself to the bathroom where I could lock the door. Lifted the same square from the floor. Childhood is stupid, and so is studying the self in a general way, unless you are writing poetry.
Thinking is only good when it’s a trick, and trick it we do. Usually we need only close our eyes.
What am I doing being so silver.
We hate to see the future. What a horrid thing, the things we can see that really do happen. I can’t imagine myself riding the bus home and then actually going and doing it, and so I take the subway instead. With airplanes it is harder.
Let’s say I spent a lot of time on one paragraph in 2004. Let’s say it was about a cave. I wound about the cave, disguised as a man named Larry. I read him aloud in parked cars to make him a better dreamer. Larry, dream better. I learned that I hate working these things out in the open; it bores the fiction.
Moments of intimacy with language are often marked by urgency, and are often as stupid as childhood. There is a reckless abandon that overcomes when there is both something to say and a way to say it. This instinctual relationship of a person to the translation of experience is retrospective and present at once. The receiver of language, similarly, is present, but is also inside of several other memories, and subjected to the usual intrusive assimilations.
The need to hold initiative and narrative desire together in a single strategic space.
To distance oneself from the vastness of a petty emotional connection. To forget some terribly overwrought piece of media.
When _____________ recorded his every utterance from ____________ to ___________ and made it into a book, all hell broke loose, and a sad story was produced.
Narrative is not as immediate to the nature of experience as immediate to the nature of ____________ as