Page 15, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

We really have yet to have a proper conversation, you and I.  But what to say about us?  I will have been long gone when you are ever yet to arrive.  Still, you are already present as I remain.  The ability of this shape, not unlike fire ø

and by fire I mean the swamp these words will get sucked into.  Breakfasts, walks tables, rugs, pets, plants, the lighting, the way you will remember the lighting which won’t be the same as the lighting that still lights the same room.  I mean the lighting that will have remained with you from the morning when you woke, the rooms you passed through, the weather — then you were in this lighting.  Lighting which very well may change from one end of a sentence to another.  My lighting has changed since I began writing these pages.  And yet there is much to cover.  And already we have arrived at fire.

I always hated reading books when the author addresses the reader as if it was 

absolutely certain in the mind of the author who would be reading their words.  

Sometimes the text doesn’t even have to explicably state an address to be addressed to a

subject.  I do, however, have a certain taste for writers that anticipate a kinship, 

although the that comes across in these sentences often can’t help but reproduce 

melancholy.

**
The time we take to do these things.  What other things can/could we be doing?  The time we take, the time we spend, that passes, that we kill, waste, profit from, procrastinate.  We are sometimes led to believe that all we have is time and it isn’t entirely false.  Perhaps it is only time that interferes between grass and ground.  Time-lapse videos of plants growing entice us the way a flame tells a history in a flash.

A flash captures movement, they say, freezes it.  Like the sharp edge of consonants trapping vowel sound in an echo.  Capture is an important tool of understanding what exists around us, through us.  We can investigate.  Crime scene photos.  Holding a truth just beyond our finger tips.  If we were there, if only we were there.  Postcards.  Keepsakes.  What do we actually remember when we look at a photo of our younger selves?  

What do we expect to know when we look at the photo of another?

We consider plants to be still, inanimate sort of, we can’t hear them unless we get real near and then only if we go near on a regular basis.  Their sentences are long to understand.  IF recorded, plants show incredible movement, indiscernible.

When do we start remembering our lover?

It can be tremendous fun to be in love.

Probably for good reason.