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16 February 2018 @ 12:05 am
nothing ever changes when you're acting your age  
investigating paper journal entries where i pick up a dropped thread (trying to understand how i did that)

7.8.2013 [5 mos. without an entry]

where to start is the problem, because nothing begins when it begins and nothing's over when it's over, and everything needs a preface, a postscript, a chart of simultaneous events. history is a construct... any point of entry is possible and all choices are arbitrary. still, there are definitive movements, movements we use as references, because they break our sense of continuity, they change the direction of time. we can look at these events and we can say that after them, things were never the same again. they provide beginnings for us, and endings too.
- margaret atwood, the robber bride, from "onset"

funny, how time piles up on itself. or would it be more accurate to say: how time jumbles up upon itself? because that's more the way of it, this jumble of time, this tangle of time, this incoherent and directionless force that will survive all of us: time. if we said "the pile of time," there's an accuracy in this sort of hoarding accumulation; though a pile might infer some degree of linearity; one event stacked upon an event that occurred before it; the individual confronted with a time pile would therefore, one might assume, experience the most impact from the event on the top of the pile - that which has most recently occurred while each event behind that would lessen in impact, poignancy, emotional draw.

really, it is nothing like that. time is more of a tangle, a jumble: otherwise, how could yesterday be so easily swallowed up in the shadow of something that happened a full week before? how could you be traveling on a road nowhere near the road you are remembering so perfectly; completely perfumed in the essence of seventeen years prior, the same fall of light, the same unbearable longing, now so much more clear than whatever you were thinking about when you turned off the highway?

these ghosts that possess us so totally, that take control of all our senses. these ghosts of ourselves. it's not digging into a pile, it can't be. it's more like brushing up against a thread started some years before. like how, upon coming to the end of certain labyrinths, you walk closer than you have at any other point to the entryway.

music: edgar froese - aqua