April 02, 2004

Chronological order. Chronological order -- reversed. A life, lived backward.

Of course it lies in the immediacy of the thing. With the here and now readily accessible, why backflip through history and then-memory? What point context?

Atemporal now-ness is not the same thing as determined rejection of past and future alike.

To read my life, at least what little of it I can convert to text, it might frequently seem as though the world outside has never existed, or at best is irrelevant to me. (Never mind that the phrase is worse than useless. Rather like "omnipotent", describing limitations of observation as a function of action/power rather than any reality: in fact, describing a determined internal-external relationship. All words approximate. All words fall short.) What do you ever hear about my trials, and tribulations, and joys? The offshoots of occasional, anonymous encounters, tentative soon-to-be-stepping-stoned conclusions pontooned upon a lifetime of learning what cannot be done, what is not possible, for me.

Which in some ways is strange: for I learned to conceal very early on in life (and missed entirely the lessons discipline was intended to enforce), and came to understanding of overt rebellion much later ... and to the unlearnings which ground the beginning of understanding self later still. If, indeed, I can be said to have started them even yet.

But no, insofar as it might have meaning to another: I am perfectly aware that there is a "world outside" ... even if my knowledge is necessarily limited both chronologically and otherwise, as is that of all living things; and some of my senses fall below the standard for humans, and some above.

A nine-year-old girl, kidnapped out of her bedroom in the middle of the night. Never mind that I knew the moment I heard of it that the kidnapping was profit/blackmail-motivated, that I knew that her parents calling the police had been a fatal mistake: does it help any when her corpse is actually discovered?

A fiery collision involving an articulated lorry on a major motorway, heat such as to melt overpass supports -- and only minor injuries sustained, the driver able to walk away?

Knowledge is a necessary beginning thing, only. It is no more than that.

How many people have I crossed paths with, this day? How many loves, joys, sadnesses, tragedies in their lives? Their lives, their emotions are as real as anything which exists. They sweep into me. They are part of me. I worked in a hospital, everyday with people on long-term dialysis or intensive care. I have two legs upon which I can walk, and I have the breath and the heart and will yet to be able to do so. I have two people in my life whom I have chosen to keep in my life out of something that might be called love, despite a continued, determined restriction upon whatever part of spirit -- my own and each other's -- is not moulded in their own respective images: in the absolute conviction that there could be no more perfect mould than their own.

I have -- am -- something which might define "driven". God only knows what mould that fits. It is something that I do not know how to explain. It chooses to come through mostly in my writing, although of late my spoken words have increasingly been sweeping through me as well - and afterwards I find myself with a wish to apologise. I don't want to embarrass, or hurt, or completely demolish a person's ego-structure-construct. I think too much. I don't think enough. And both of those are become a deep part of who I am. I don't understand it.

My life has its ups and downs, as do all lives: smaller than some, greater than others. It is the nature of living!

And of me: I will talk about the rain, and maybe some other things. Because that is who I am.

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