The past and present wilt… I have filled them and emptied them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
I am unfaithful to the moment.
So much thought that it will never live to be anything.
It will always disappoint.
I will always disappoint.
The blame must be laid at the door of these heady procedures, these investigative traces that expose the craters and ridges of possibility, these cumbersome safety-checks, blueprints of expectancy, scanned and altered, altered and rejected with dreary fatigue. I exhaust what could happen.
I have a thought of the future.
SHODDY - DO NOT USE etched upon it in pencil.
Place it back in the drawer, the moment is lost.
I cannot achieve and I cannot remember my childhood. There are strains of kin to be drawn between these two definites.
I cannot achieve.
I cannot remember my childhood.
This is different than stating that I fail, and I have forgotten my childhood.
There is no failing for me, just lofty expectation and an adequate response. I am up to the mark, I just do enough, this is mediocrity. I am always ahead of myself. Wait. I am always ahead of myself. I am forever beyond what might occur, I have always placed the emphasises, scoured the culminations, invalidated the opportunities by placing them in a context of abstract relations, drawn-out false dawns and inadequate gods. I play all this out amongst them, changing the spots upon the dice so that a three may roll a two, and a six is often a seven.
This too is a vindication of the blank celluloid that is my memory. I remember a sense of the places (temporally speaking) where I have been, but I haven’t been paying attention and every voice from the past splits fissures across the day. I haven’t forgotten anything. I was never really there in the first place.
I long to control, to force the hand, pre-emption in all its silky, sullen glory quietly raging under sheets and covers, hiding behind pillows, planning things out hoping that a thought of them will preclude their existence. To think is to kill.
It is the Rule Of Unexpectation. What you least expect, will happen.
Except that it doesn’t work.
What I expect does happen, but by then I have already experienced it, I have been there, living through and beyond the moment I once imagined so now that very same moment is a pale copy of itself, a photocopy with the ink run dry.
The moment then goes to its room and flings itself upon its bed, all canopied and crumpled from the nights activities when it couldn’t sleep for the fear of it all. The moment looks in a mirror and sobs with uncomfortable intakes of breath. The moment tears at hair and punches at walls. The moment sits quietly, staring at nothing though the window. The moment can’t eat. The only words that come from its mouth are a long time coming, and when they finally do arrive they are tangled and dry.
“Cheating bastard. Cheating fucking bastard.”
I’m sorry, moment, but I will always be unfaithful.