4-26
We hope for a heavenly judge so our impact is measured, but we know we are only judged by ourselves. To measure a life’s impact, its reach wide and deep, what scope an impossibility for one eye to see, the asking for possession of all our lonely moments, the thought they’re not our own. That “own” is the illusion within which we craft our ego, shape it, define it to “norm”. All existing actions reverberating through time, causing the next action, then the next action, to the next. From one big bang first action, the web of next action has sprung out to the universal, all down to the action of my writing to your reading.
What exists with our kind if nobody writes about the events going down? Who comes closer to the judge God-realized than one who writes, who transfers the idea with their hand? Between the autobi and the biography, between the performance and critic, lies truth. Always in that middle intimate, the third point beyond the dimension of the line, truth plays outside our petty limits of time.
4-27
I know it’s not fun to read all this abstraction, this bursting of ideological fragments tied to impersonal lyrics that correspond to my own internal, very personal rhythm and rhyme, and of course, I cannot help but imagine you, reader.
Does ever one write and not think about the recipient on the other end. I immediately, as always, want to disagree with myself and say no, in truth writing is merely an essential release of a bursting soul, unfit to contain the ideas to the self, to the limits of the space and the body. I release myself from time so that, however fragmentary, that illusion of “Sam” can keep existing once I’m gone up the line. I leave a note on the table, and still, I’m in the room, just a ghost left behind by a pen. If death is an act of ego, perhaps here I conquer it, imagine the ego might somehow live on. It does- it will- if you read this. Consumed, my ego ghost now you’ve sucked inside you, my words mix inside your consciousness, blending together, infect the one with another into two. Like magicians, the writer casts wanton spells, defining reality for those to come.
What’s missing? I know you want me to explain myself clearly so you feel I can be better understood. Well, I’m confusing enough unto myself, how can I be understood by some “you”? All I know is I know nothing, but my theories abound, my imagings of the edits that I’d make to the story pour out endless, beyond reason and sound.
Thoughts, deliberations into actions. These writings, I guess, are my trying to understand my own actions, my attempt at a commentary of the self, and I suppose I most write them for my own long tomorrow, a way for who I am today to introduce this current self to Sam Tomorrow, that stranger I hope I might one day be. If writing creates ghosts that reading carries into life, then in this small creation, oh so very small, I create ghosts of my self for my self of tomorrow. Self, self, self, self, I truly must be twenties to think so much of self. Here then, in words, Sam’s Selfie.
–
Well here’s a snippet of biograph I will tease. I’m listening to P. Kalanthi’s dying memoir, and he says the challenging thing about illness is it constantly tests one’s values, the acute awareness of death brings present realities into stark contrast. The problem, to me it seems, is the need for the acute awareness of the dying for the trigger. No doubt its a truth, one we all commonly accept, that in dying we think so much more upon life. Illness perhaps does not create an acute awareness of death, then, but of life. It’s a common cliche to think life gets defined by death, its the common cliches we must watch as too often ringing true. Death, life, all the same, chapters in the great novel of existence.
–
I feel I have so much to say, see with eyes clearly, merely as protection from the reality of the normal. Looking out at the world I see wasteland, and pray God I am not one of these wastrels. I am more, I am something, I am great. I write as justification, proof of such boastings. If not in life, I comfort, then surely after, I shall be as Van Gogh, madness today planting a seed for something they might pluck for nourishment tomorrow, though likely no, I know, no it won’t be, I would be lucky if it were even read by my children, in fact I want nothing more than it be read by my children, those abstract fantasies that provide daily hopes for this present illusion.
If the seeds carry and plant beyond even one generation, grow outside “me” inside some other self’s iteration, then my project succeeds.
The further disconnect of the mind from the body further advances the great progress of ourkind.
Great myths and stories leap out at me from the ether, cry out for selection and manipulation, to be told. They beg for my wrenching them into the world, to give justice to their truth with my own. Yet when I try, the words to shape refuse to come. They sound wrong, they don’t flow, they’re not right.