Wednesday, 22 April 2009

Without the frames of documentation, it becomes hard to remember a life. Leading like signposts peering out of a September gloom, jotted notes on the backs of envelopes offer codes and enigmas, secret messages waiting for a key.

PLayba ck oF oudio
shipping - changed
*/enocuntered a problem
832 | 416
653 | 326

There are pieces of paper around this flat with lists and lists of numbers, great columns of digits without explanation. I cannot recall what they were for. I turn the sheets over only to find printed interview notes, some long lost preparation for a future life that never arrived. How long away are those thoughts now? Those times when I thought that perhaps success would arrive at my door? Those times when I was readying my threshold to receive a titles of sorts, respect from peers, adequate compensation for skillsets, visions, ambition.

What do these missives all mean? There, they lie in huge teetering piles, each one lain exactly upon the other by a hand too afraid to throw anything away. Usually, on the front, an enormous paragraph of German exactitude, some mass of meandering subclauses too ridiculous and convoluted for even the Germans to understand. What makes more sense? These weird, constant summonings, official letters asking me to attend, or write, or notify? Or, the thin characters written in mauve and royal blue and lime green ink, thin spreading waves which once meant something as a reminder?

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