exploration of aesthetic + scattered pieces of a cluttered mind
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PREFACE: Every so often something terrible, dramatic, whatever it may be, happens and I find myself purposefully sifting through the complexity of its awfulness.  This act has only two components: crying endlessly and re-reading old journals, letters, random nostalgia.  So tonight, I sift through the small Documents folder on my desktop computer that I cannot believe I have had for 3/4 of a year, but nonetheless do not write frequently like I did when I was younger and had yet to make the acquaintance of fear.  Nearly everything have written, no matter how self indulgent, can be traced back to a person.  Like clockwork I would cry over their inevitable loss.  Few are far between are the times when I do not feel loss when I have found something I’ve written.  I stumbled apun this quote in which I apparently wrote the following response, and instead of the above bullshit found my mouth at an odd angle.  Oh, I was smiling.  6/6/11 5:38 AM When the mystery of the connection goes, love goes. It’s that simple. This suggests that it isn’t love that is so important to us but the mystery itself. The love connection may be merely a device to put us in contact with the mystery, and we long for love to last so that the ecstacy of being near the mystery will last. It is contrary to the nature of mystery to stand still. Yet it’s always there, somewhere, a world on the other side of the mirror (or the Camel pack), a promise in the next pair of eyes that smile at us. We glimpse it when we stand still. The romance of new love, the romance of solitude, the romance of objecthood, the romance of ancient pyramids and distant stars are means of making contact with the mystery. When it comes to perpetuating it, however, I got no advice. But I can and will remind you of two of the most important facts I know: 1. Everything is part of it. 2. It’s never too late to have a happy childhood. -Tom Robbins In response: I wish I still had my first copy of Still Life with Woodpecker I owned myself, where my marginalia was free to inhabit its every corner.  Unlike the prior copy, borrowed from a friend who only recommends excellent literature I agree with, with sepia pages that flaked between my heavier fingers, each could be sold vintage- precious, worn into its own desirousness to hip kids who already loved and lost the words they held borrowed but not beaten enough for their reputations and trophy shelves lined with classics.  It was a gorgeous copy, indeed- but this was my first experience reading Robbins, I had no connection to be able to gaze at the bruise marks of the dead hippie artists gorgeous illustrated covered, where it was faded away in spots I did not gander at the freckles with curiosity.  With the spine an it’s many fault lines, they were simply a bother, a paranoia that I might break this crystalline figurine standing for a time my god father rambled drunkenly about… Sometimes, buying a new copy is worth it, making it your own in a somewhat selfish manner. And somehow, I lost that one too.

PREFACE: Every so often something terrible, dramatic, whatever it may be, happens and I find myself purposefully sifting through the complexity of its awfulness.  This act has only two components: crying endlessly and re-reading old journals, letters, random nostalgia.  So tonight, I sift through the small Documents folder on my desktop computer that I cannot believe I have had for 3/4 of a year, but nonetheless do not write frequently like I did when I was younger and had yet to make the acquaintance of fear.  Nearly everything have written, no matter how self indulgent, can be traced back to a person.  Like clockwork I would cry over their inevitable loss.  Few are far between are the times when I do not feel loss when I have found something I’ve written.  I stumbled apun this quote in which I apparently wrote the following response, and instead of the above bullshit found my mouth at an odd angle.  Oh, I was smiling. 


6/6/11 5:38 AM

When the mystery of the connection goes, love goes. It’s that simple. This suggests that it isn’t love that is so important to us but the mystery itself. The love connection may be merely a device to put us in contact with the mystery, and we long for love to last so that the ecstacy of being near the mystery will last. It is contrary to the nature of mystery to stand still. Yet it’s always there, somewhere, a world on the other side of the mirror (or the Camel pack), a promise in the next pair of eyes that smile at us. We glimpse it when we stand still. 
The romance of new love, the romance of solitude, the romance of objecthood, the romance of ancient pyramids and distant stars are means of making contact with the mystery. When it comes to perpetuating it, however, I got no advice. But I can and will remind you of two of the most important facts I know: 
1. Everything is part of it. 
2. It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.
-Tom Robbins

In response: I wish I still had my first copy of Still Life with Woodpecker I owned myself, where my marginalia was free to inhabit its every corner.  Unlike the prior copy, borrowed from a friend who only recommends excellent literature I agree with, with sepia pages that flaked between my heavier fingers, each could be sold vintage- precious, worn into its own desirousness to hip kids who already loved and lost the words they held borrowed but not beaten enough for their reputations and trophy shelves lined with classics.  It was a gorgeous copy, indeed- but this was my first experience reading Robbins, I had no connection to be able to gaze at the bruise marks of the dead hippie artists gorgeous illustrated covered, where it was faded away in spots I did not gander at the freckles with curiosity.  With the spine an it’s many fault lines, they were simply a bother, a paranoia that I might break this crystalline figurine standing for a time my god father rambled drunkenly about… Sometimes, buying a new copy is worth it, making it your own in a somewhat selfish manner. And somehow, I lost that one too.

5 months ago September 08, 2011 1 note #lady talk #literature #oh so emo
  1. kathrynb posted this