I spent this morning cleaning up and organizing my room at my grandmother's. I loaded up my car with as much shit as I could, and I do mean shit, and meanwhile managed to part with a substantial part of my papers and broken objects. But I fingered each and felt the flood of memories and endogenous psychotropic chemicals. Because I don't keep photographs, I keep things. Each thing holds a memory, and when I touch them I feel a clairvoyant rush of images, emotions. Hum's "The Very Old Man" comes on my headphones as I open my hand to release something over the mouth of the garbage bag and I'm seized by a thought. I know now why the elderly are so prone to depression. I know that I was depressed, and I could actually feel depression for the first time. I was pervaded by memory and all the chemicals it releases into the brain, confined to the small glass case of a perfect past unable to see the possibilities of any future. I realize that I will have plenty of time to be lost in the past when I have fewer years left than passed, but for now I need to concentrate on making those memories. It's almost with a light heart that I toss the filled garbage bag into the waste receptacle.
"struck between the eyes by the big time world"
On the way home, it occurred to me that I was not only physically exhausted but also emotionally. And that that was not necessarily a phony-balogna excuse for a moment of weakness. And like the surge that ends The Fountain of Lamneth or Mask of the Great Deceiver I felt the final lingering death scream of all that I had just left behind, amplified by the thought that if I were going to somewhere else, somewhere new, I could feel a sense of progress. I began to tear. But like Archimedes Screw, the engine doesn't have to move with the water for there to be flow. I don't have to be going anywhere for there to be progress; I don't have to fly off to far away places and meet interesting people. I need to take an interest in myself; to make myself interesting.
"it slips between your hands like water, this living in real time. a dizzying lifetime, reeling by on celluloid"
Fortunately, Canadian Bacon is on HBO-Latino. The mind boggles. But I'm laughing. "That'll be $1,000 Canadian, or $10 US, if you prefer." Wait, I pay my Canadjun webhost that for service...