Uzamaki- thoughts on spirals from the road
Thursday August 26th- 12:45
A certain longing, a certain anguish, a certain resentment against things that I cannot control. Such machine-like efficiency in planning thrown awry by overbooked busses, train delays, overpriced lasagna and unplanned acne.
But we go on, we breathe, we fumble stubble and contemplate futures that can be dreamed, can be controlled, can grow wild across the hillside of possibility. Can be, can be true, can be real, can be part of the what if and the when. Can be out of control but passionate.
Passion. Again I discover Jeanette Winterson, whose “Written on the Body” inspired me so deeply, and into the great unknown I trudge with her through cyberspace and the world with “The Powerbook”. I am touched.
There is always the danger to automatic writing. The danger of writing yourself towards an ending that need never be told. At a certain point the story gathers momentum. It convinces itself, and does its best to convince you, that the end in sight is the only possible outcome. There is a fatefulness and a loss of control that is somehow comforting. That was your script, but now it writes itself.
I feel like her Parisian lover, and somehow ponder how many I have betrayed with the randomness of my being. Mixael, will you forgive me? Pwththth… a dream that keeps being rekindled when I have no logs to throw to the flame? Max a dream born and killed over and over again as tears stream down our face on an empty bench made of recycled plastic. Lovers who I never told. Lovers who I let slip through fingers. A thousand names trail off the memories of my tongue as I ponder where they went, where I went, paths chosen and dreams betrayed.
Close my eyes. Breathe. Be. Focus on a ring and realize that paths past are past- but where do the paths across this hillside take me next? To another plateau where he’ll wait for me? Where her body electric will dance magic across the screen? I rub the insignia of past assignments on my uniform and ponder whether she left me another clue somewhere on the hill… somewhere on the hill.
Fuck this is depressing. Outside the world whirs by as the train finally moves on, houses and green a blur of motion, as my life spins forward and I contemplate happy endings, or whether the script will just keep writing itself.Spirals of silver. Spirals of black. Time the spiral, spiral the shell, spiral the beauty of it all. Faces contort, laundry spins on, and I can feel a deep sadness mingled with my joy. Too many bridges burned, too many others hurt. How does one live and love fully and not leave a trail of destruction in the spiraling wake?