why am i still apologizing?
guilt: the state of having committed an offense; remorse caused by feeling responsible for some offence
inhaling poison day and night. talking non stop. i watched the sun go down behind the tall tall monsters today. the moon is directly overhead here sometimes. how strange. while i spoke of feudals and pawns, i watched the sun, orange and gold in my peripheral vision. can one go blind peripherally? what do they think of me? do they wonder as i wonder? what do they see?
soon i will go back to start and collect 200 and things will try to be the same. wonder where they all are.
sometimes i remember. sometimes i have to remember.
April 2007 (I think). That was a long time ago but does that even matter?
Time is strange. In my art-practice (silly as that sounds) I have tried to ignore time altogether. I remember spending a lot of time bullshitting about my own ideas of the present not being possible at all. Now that I look back, it all seems rather silly. But that could just be my usual self-deprecation talking. I’m always looking back, belittling myself in hopes of achieving some twisted understanding of myself in humility. But that too, is bullshit. I’m just looking for something.
I remember when I was looking for freedom. And it was sweet (like revenge -bittersweet):
March 14, 2007
your hand in mine. such a perfect day. i should cut my hand off. tyranny and cruelty are imagined violations. sometimes i wish i could turn it back and turn it around. but it is too late. i just didn’t understand. in this amber haze, i can only sigh and relent. repent. look back turn back. but nothing. no voice no hand.
it’s time. to give it up. to let it go. i let it go. so there.
who are you when i’m not watching? it’s too late, too late now. maybe that’s why my story brought me here. to move. movement like motions. sensations of sensations. moments of moments.
today on the train i thought about spaces. i make spaces. white ones. purple ones. on my body. my body unraveled with desire of things past. the piano plays. people dance sometimes across my mind. such beautiful landscapes. crescendo. rain and snow. what do you see now? did you even see me at all?
not really. i couldn’t even see myself. here in these big wide open spaces i see myself. flying in a red biplane with two yellow dots. the thing of dreams. the red biplane of my dreams. you sent me a picture of it once. where did you find that picture? where did it come from? what did you want from me?
questions that will never be answered.
the piano plays on.
outside the orange globes and the rain go hand in hand. your hand in mine. our hands.
turn it around and you’ll see the mark you made. nothing takes it away. not one thing. not anything. i can stay here for as long as i want and wish it all away. sometimes in my dreams nothing changed. and maybe that is frightening. i never knew who you were. it was all in my head. who were you? who are you?
now i am myself.
And now… What concerns me now is so different. But is it? Can one change an approach completely? Sometimes I remember myself as somebody else. Sometimes I remember being me. The complete fantasy of memory is a wonderful past-time. Spinning tales round and round. Who am I? Am I the same that I was? Will I ever be anyone other than me?
The constants are something to consider here. The fantasy of memory is elusive and dangerously seductive. Like the game of chinese-whisper, facts turn into fiction. The fiction of memory, therefore, becomes a cornerstone or even, a point of origin for nostalgia.
I am concerned about nostalgia these days. If I look back, who do I see? Where do my ideas about myself/the world come from? Is truth important? Can fiction create further realities/fictional realities?