There’s nothing more to come out than a few lines of ‘there’s nothing more to talk about’ describing the back of dining halls, tennis courts, trucks that make that beeping sound as they go in reverse, and ducks on a pond eating bread together. Do you know what I mean?
Next year there’s a handful of us that scatter, you know, and this every instant now is what it is -- I can’t say it because the rules state that “discussions concerning matters of helices, rings, or metaphors are strictly prohibited” and so instead we all dance around words like ‘candles’ or ‘books’ or ‘telephones’. As if talking about what we have would keep anything latched together and not talking about what we have would change anything at all.
Most of all it’s that active emotion for the past that you feel in the present -- you know what I mean if you do. The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. Statements like that which might be true but might not -- because to discuss things with the vessel that they lie in severely impairs our ability to find those things that lie across mediums with a living statement -- a living meaning.
Maybe it’s all coincidence -- you notice that that thing you said is in this book and what you felt and that, and maybe things fit together and mesh and maybe they don’t. Who are we to say? All I need are prayers that don’t work to be happy.
Still, someone bleeds from a cut with the kitchen knife and needs a band-aid, and that’s that. When you’re sick the sidewalk whirls and tumbles and everything is oh so immediate. I have twenty hours until the end of a chapter in a book somewhere. A single guitar chord strums out with that sound, and I’m before preschool looking up at green banana trees, watching wheat fields touch the horizon, first learning how to grin, first time on a subway (back when it was still 300 won). Mottled daubs of viscerality appearing unexpectedly, like that gas station off the highway to Denver selling gallons of antifreeze, where we stood and watched the sun rise.
I hope that the periods and the commas do what I want them to do, but there’s no guarantee. I can’t see what you see and we’re all in this dance -- but what I can’t do is attribute characteristics of what I’ve made that you give and pretend they’re my own. If it’s genuine it shouldn't be pretentious -- purchase these accompanying hand motions and maybe then I’ll tell you about the viscerality, the thick dark viscous barriers that prevent me from falling off the edge, you know? It’s not a metaphor? No. But it’s alright.
If I could translate this to music I would -- we all should. It’s out there somewhere, that sense of calm and loss and existence, that sense of loss of calm and calm of loss, that sense of loss of calm of loss of calm. He describes a scene that only he knows, or maybe that’s me, leaning against the inside of a bus in the rain, sodium yellow lights sliding by, red tail-lights fading in and out in that traffic jam over there. All that jazz. And then there’s only one thing that’s certain; we’re here to go, to leave, to move, and this is, yeah but also this will, and it’s simple as that, and it’s like lying on a patch of grass in the sunshine, and that’s it, but more, but none.