'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

The top

has a note of autobiography and the bottom has a sense of resolve, a sense of some reversal of an expected perspective, an allegory of perception as it were and I see huge explosions that I feel impelled to trace. I wonder what good it would do, what good it does?

Last night, during a mantra of self deprecation I thought I might up the ante a little and cracked myself over the head with a wooden spoon. Afterwards, after a little while burrowing in the corner of the basement at four in the morning I found an old diary written by my mother from 1979. In its pages I found specific, seminal points, sleep overs and fights after school, the merest of entries to mark days that she lost or gained a lover, lists, appointments with dentists and all of this time framed in the architecture of the diary like wires pulled across a frame.