Notes on Nothing Important

Note 1.

If someone was to write the story of my life I would want them to start with the lay out of my apartment. I would want them to know how long the paintings sat against the wall, next to the books that laid across the floor by the succulent plant named Freddie. I would want them to know that my partner named the plant Freddie, and that though I would have never named the plant Freddie myself, the plant definitely looked like a Freddie. I would want them to know that I thought that a partner was a time traveler, and that I’ve always sort of thought of the partners in our lives as person’s traveling through time with us. I would want them to know that time has always been felt intensely for me. Time has always felt like something that was worn and heavy. Time as thick apparel. Temporal apparel as the swagger of bags that form under your eyes, as the style of wrinkle that forms next to your nose, as the the fashion of strut that becomes a part of your step. I would want them to know that I saw Time as an almost sacred aesthetic, as the fashion of temporality. Indeed, Time was a crown of thorns. A beautiful crown of thorns; messily constructed and deconstructively falling apart yet, maintaining its ground like that old, cheap and uncomfortable couch that sat in my living room. They’d need to start with the architecture of my bedroom, to the way the light hit the window at roughly 7 AM right before her alarm went off and just before my biological clock decided to wake itself. They’d need to know I loved waking up. But that sometimes I wish that waking up didn’t have to imply Being. They’d need to know my clothes were never folded in my closet and that there was a box in that closet with archived writings from me since the 5th Grade and that this box was symbolic more of my desire to gather Time, to collect glimpses of transparency from myself and others, than anything else. And that the former sentence about desire is a sentence about something that is never stable since desires are never stable. And that sometimes this box was symbolic of nothing more than habit and a sense of internal necessity. If someone was to write the story of my life they would have to pay attention to the mundane and the quotidian.

Note 2.

Most of our World is to close to our eyes to see.

To write a story of anyone, one must attend to the sound and architecture of that person’s World. Sounds pervade language as the genome of linguistics. Sound may be the bare bones of something akin to culture. Architecture is the meeting ground of ecology and engineering. Architecture may be the bare bones of structure.

We have to learn to listen for the implicit in the World.

Most of our World is to close to our eyes to see.

 

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