Another pile of dreck from the blue filigree notebook, marked for my reference in fuchsia and powder-blue Post-It notes. Sigh…
I want someone to tell it’s alright, even when it’s not.
“At least it’s intense.” -Kathy, 1986
“At least you know you’re alive.” -Ann (who is no longer alive), 2002
I look at pictures of us together and think, “did it really happen?” (Applies to everyone)
In his last dying days and suffering a brain tumor, V was asked if he saw people where he was going. He counted eight.
There’s no going back now. There’s nothing back there, anyway.
c 2001: Disappearance.. My problem is very obviously too much imagination when it comes to romance. That they have beautiful eyes is more about their mastery of mascara than the depth of love in their hearts. Their slender hands grow without any help from their concepts of right and wrong. The intoxication I feel when I smell their soft hair isn’t from inhaling their brilliant insights.
Then I find that even looking in the mirror is too much to bear.
I lent him a cent for lent
but now I relent
for the scent
is that the cent
I lent him for lent
has been spent
for lent ~Dream fragment, 1993
As if any of you care, that’s it for the blue notebook.
I look at pictures of us together and think, “did it really happen?”
This struck a chord with me. Many times I have seen photos of a particular event/activity in which I participated and yet have no memory of that event/activity. Or the memory is decidedly ethereal in comparison to the stark reality of the photo.
There is a possibility that I was constructed at a later date than once believed, at which point all “earlier” memories were simply written to my brain. (Yes, I’ve seen ‘Blade Runner’ too many times.)