I can easily tell embarrassing and mortifying stories about my former selves
because those characters are not me.
They’re interesting roles in a book of curiosity.
But they’re not the me of now.
Saying they are would be like saying last spring’s blooms are the producers of the following year’s summer fruit.
But they kind of are, of course.
In one way, I am the product of that spring’s fruit.
Literally.
I am that fruit.
I am that vine.
I am that sight.
I am the survivor of the spring.
I am wavelength extended forward into the imagined future.
I took the witnessing and brought it here to pencil and paper.
But no.
I’m never the character’s story.
That story is an imagined plot over the truth of vine and bud and fruit.
The truth is nature emerging.
The lie is human drama over what is.
When, in God’s name, was someone’s rehearsed narrative even close to reality?
Yet we keep on imagining ourselves into mini-dramas.
We keep on denying the seasons in order to keep the brain-buttressed fiction alive.
A story we demand is us.
A story crafted of nothing, just as easily blown away as the lone cloud that formed on Monday night
but disappeared moments later.
And David Byrne said Stop Making Sense.
