Private Eye. (Chapter 4) .:Memoir Excerpt:.
“Who has twisted us around like this, so that
no matter what we do, we are in the posture
of someone going away? Just as, upon
the farthest hill, which shows him his whole valley
one last time, he turns, stops, lingers - ,
so we live here, forever taking leave.”
Rainer Maria Rilke
(excerpt from The Eighth Elegy)
Blue ink on my hand a couple of hours ago and it’s already fading. Like this moment and the next; in whatever way I chose to divide my time, it is constantly moving and flowing farther away from me. The blue ink signals my own impermanence in this world. Our human quality goes off like rockets or blossoms like flowers. Although are we perennial or annual? How do we know when our end has come, and when there is still so much left? Before I was in high school, I never thought I would make it to be where I am now. I never thought I would have gone in this direction. Wait - this is supposed to be the future I’m talking about. It applies in the same way, I think. I’ll look back on this curbing into adulthood and realize how different I thought things were going to be.
Forever it seems my life has been in black and white. The grays aren’t really there. They don’t want to be, I don’t want them mostly. What I have ahead is more like a huge gray smudge. As if I wrote out my plans with an 8B graphite pencil and as soon as I was finished, my hand dragged across the paper and everything spread itself out. Fear rains disappointment, or maybe vise-versa, but if I leave my plans vague, then I won’t be hurt if they don’t pan out right. Of course, by doing that I leave the open and frightening possibility of nothing happening at all. Me sitting by the roadside as all my friends rev their engines and speed away. Would I really mind? I’ll watch everyone’s furious driving, getting to all those places they planned. What if when they get there, what if when they reach this destination that’s supposed to save them, it doesn’t?
....
“What else?”
This. I love this keyboard. Have I mentioned that before? Have I mentioned that even when my CPU was gone, I took my keyboard into my bed and typed words into the air until I had nothing more to say? My way of immortality is here, I think. Watching my thoughts find permanence and solidity. It’s hard admitting a love. Who wants to be obsessed? Who wants to be tied down? Certainly I don’t. If I tie myself to writing; if I decide, “Yes, this is where I want to go,” couldn’t it be like making the written word my ball and chain? Jump into the river for a swim, but end up drowning with lack of oxygen and passion. I liked you so much, I turned my head in feigned ignorance of your presence. Word, what will you have with me?
Word, where will you take me?
no matter what we do, we are in the posture
of someone going away? Just as, upon
the farthest hill, which shows him his whole valley
one last time, he turns, stops, lingers - ,
so we live here, forever taking leave.”
Rainer Maria Rilke
(excerpt from The Eighth Elegy)
Blue ink on my hand a couple of hours ago and it’s already fading. Like this moment and the next; in whatever way I chose to divide my time, it is constantly moving and flowing farther away from me. The blue ink signals my own impermanence in this world. Our human quality goes off like rockets or blossoms like flowers. Although are we perennial or annual? How do we know when our end has come, and when there is still so much left? Before I was in high school, I never thought I would make it to be where I am now. I never thought I would have gone in this direction. Wait - this is supposed to be the future I’m talking about. It applies in the same way, I think. I’ll look back on this curbing into adulthood and realize how different I thought things were going to be.
Forever it seems my life has been in black and white. The grays aren’t really there. They don’t want to be, I don’t want them mostly. What I have ahead is more like a huge gray smudge. As if I wrote out my plans with an 8B graphite pencil and as soon as I was finished, my hand dragged across the paper and everything spread itself out. Fear rains disappointment, or maybe vise-versa, but if I leave my plans vague, then I won’t be hurt if they don’t pan out right. Of course, by doing that I leave the open and frightening possibility of nothing happening at all. Me sitting by the roadside as all my friends rev their engines and speed away. Would I really mind? I’ll watch everyone’s furious driving, getting to all those places they planned. What if when they get there, what if when they reach this destination that’s supposed to save them, it doesn’t?
....
“What else?”
This. I love this keyboard. Have I mentioned that before? Have I mentioned that even when my CPU was gone, I took my keyboard into my bed and typed words into the air until I had nothing more to say? My way of immortality is here, I think. Watching my thoughts find permanence and solidity. It’s hard admitting a love. Who wants to be obsessed? Who wants to be tied down? Certainly I don’t. If I tie myself to writing; if I decide, “Yes, this is where I want to go,” couldn’t it be like making the written word my ball and chain? Jump into the river for a swim, but end up drowning with lack of oxygen and passion. I liked you so much, I turned my head in feigned ignorance of your presence. Word, what will you have with me?
Word, where will you take me?