Series of Screens – Aug 31, 2009

by practicalspactical

A window pops up on my screen – do you want to chat. On the other end of that window, which has been assembled from a series of electron pulses, packets, from radio waves to cable and back to radio waves, is a girl. Some girl. Some girl I do not know.

The window is not just a window. The box is not just a box. It is accompanied by a chime. And the chime keeps chiming. Chiming. There is a girl on the other end of that chime. Not my ex-girlfriend. Not my other ex-girlfriend. I am sick of the world, heart-sick of everything. Every fiber of my being says no, says do not, do not try, what will you say, do not do this. Every fiber — every stitch — every sick subconcious echoing self (how many legions of fractured selves lie hidden down there — does deep terrible trauma cause personality disassociation or does it reveal it? Cf. When Rabbit Howled? or something like that) every sick subconscious echoing self says no.

Series of screens. I’m still sitting here, staring down the rabbit hole. Outside my window REM’s It’s the End of The World As We Know It plays for a second and then is gone, as the car from which its playing presumably speeds away. Do you like that, Reader? That was real time for you. On the other side of this screen, this screen you’re looking at, is a whole world, a whole world extending and extending backwards and backwards behind my head, out my window, through the streets of New York City, across the Hudson River, and on and on and on and on until wrapping back around itself it meets me back here, but also not also going higher and higher and if the sky had steps you could walk there, endless steps up miles and miles into the ether, until the sky grew cold and thin and dark and at first it would look no different than night no different than night all just endless inky night above — below though — the view below — what I wouldn’t give for that view below — for $200,000 I could do it — childhood memory of watching the Challenger take off on a screen — Kaputt it goes, and memory and history begin.

379 words on this screen. 382 now. Oops. Keeps going. Dust in the wind. Only for a moment and the moment’s gone. Who were those guys? Everything is getting recorded now, written down, the Great Silent Serfdom that stayed quiet for ten thousand years has now learned to read and write and do we ever — writing it all down — every man a poet, in each woman a Sappho or a Nephertiti, burning brightly, Socrates and Plato and Aristotle — available to all, for .99 cents down at the Strand.

Walked along the High Line today. Beautiful little piece of public space. A little commercial. A little high fashion. Mall of America. This city of ruins redux. Lights in the sky. Where do we go from here? It ends. It is not the pristine wild High Line seen in photographs at the Armory Show last spring. No. Last spring. I am becoming part of this city. The loneliness is seeping into my bones and transcending itself. There are others in this city. Others out there. Other lonelies. Newly brokenhearted. My ex-baby is one, in a different city, a small and lonely city in its own right. She will do well, though, I know it, she is strong and fierce and wonderful, magnificient. I miss her. I do. She was wonderful — so so wonderful. I loved her — like Ashley loved Melanie in Gone With the Wind. There I go again. But read enough books — and all of human existence is arrayed there, carefully selected and polished by authors who are now long dead.

Five thousand words a day? Lucky if I can write 500. Where are we? Halfway to a picture? Oh yes. Perhaps I’ll cheat.

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