Homes and away and summer and ages

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Homes and away and summer and ages

Homes* are now further away than images from a summer** were when they were ages away. As in more than ten versus less than eight. Years.

Just pondering some about time and the sense of it and the lack of it.


*an actual project title, a working one at least.
**also a title but more of a collection that kind of happened, not by coincidence but almost, shortened from images from a summer some years ago.
Both awaiting, something.

a home don’t you

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a home don’t you

“You have a home don’t you, I mean a house? Where?”

And he replied “yes”, smiling, a little proud perhaps, and told her where, and then went on about how he and his wife renovated it four years ago and that it was time to paint the living room again but they didn’t seem to find the time and she zoned out but not for long and added “bet it’s nice” and “didn’t I hear you mention a hut the other day?” and he continued answering this time about how he had inherited it and that it was wonderful and all the wonderful things they were able to do outside and “when was the last time you had to worry about not be able to pay rent?” only a drink too drunk to not be able to censor herself before it slipped past her lips and how his face turned embarrassed but she has this look when she looks at someone waiting for an answer and he tried he really did try and made a proper ass of himself in the process and “oh you can’t remember, bet it’s nice?”

“So do you like living in” and she couldn’t not notice how he didn’t know or remember the name of where she lived and the look on his face as if he just realized that asking someone who lived in that part of town whether or not they liked it was perhaps not a subject for a work party chatter so she decided to nod and utter a longish consonant and not get into how living in her home resembled dead more than living and how it didn’t have much to do with geography and save him by turning it around: “You have a home don’t you, I mean a house?”

before you forgot what

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before you forgot what

Do you remember when you went to bed early before you forgot what you used to do at nights before you started going to bed early?

Before you forgot what used to be before you started going to bed early?

Does it work by the way, going to bed early, did it work, ever? Did I just ruin it?

lapse of

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lapse of

Many years ago I wrote that “water, in this form, falling in slow motion, is truly fascinating“. Which is odd, when in reality I find it terrifying. Perhaps it was a momentary lapse of,.. lapse of whatever. Perhaps I hadn’t connected the dots by then. Either way, can’t water just be itself?

It’s not about water, this, it just makes it easier to think about, visualize, and not panic.

Can’t fingers be just fingers? Body be just body, the room be the space within the walls and the floor and the ceiling in which you can move and expect it to feel like movement, or does all of this sometimes have to be stuck in time like water in the form of a glacier?

Slow motion should exist only as a motion picture effect.

Many years later I wrote that “pushing you down as one foot still moves in front of the other“. I don’t know how that’s connected, how it connects, only that it does. Dots.

variations were both subtle

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variations were both subtle

He doesn’t even like spruces. What’s that? He puts a lot of of effort into not liking spruces instead of concentrating on the ones that do attract him like pine, especially the crooked ones, and cedar, he really loves cedar. Pine smells so good. Red cedar. He never saw a cedar though, not properly. Not the tree, only the wood. It’s beautiful, the wood, he remembers. Remembers. The colour variations were both subtle and abrupt, beautiful colour variations. Remembers. There were others, also, their presence, their presence variations were both subtle and abrupt, beautiful vari,.. no. Yes. Perhaps they don’t grow around him, cedars. Perhaps he didn’t look closely, or didn’t know what to look for. Indifferent. Never bothered to, never risked looking.

state is insignificance

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Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair. When it comes, it degrades one’s self and ultimately eclipses the capacity to give or receive affection. It is the aloneness within us made manifest, and it destroys not only connection to others but also the ability to be peacefully alone with oneself. Love, though it is no prophylactic against depression, is what cushions the mind and protects it from itself. Medications and psychotheraphy can renew that protection, making it easier to love and be loved, and that is why they work. In good spirits, some love themselves and some love others and some love work and some love God: any of these passions can furnish that vital sense of purpose that is the opposite of depression. Love forsakes us from time to time, and we forsake love. In depression, the meaninglessness of every enterprise and every emotion, the meaninglessness of life itself, becomes self-evident. The only feeling left in this loveless state is insignificance.

That is no way to begin a book. Why are you making me weep like that?