Entr'acte / the Meta
Sacrifice feels like you’re winding up
to do. And the slaughter is not the end unto itself. There are reactions of what you want to happen, + when you want something bad enough you can talk yourself into needing it. What remains is the longing for things that didn’t happen.
It is more difficult to make a beautiful painting interesting than to make an interesting painting beautiful. Someone needs to not only understand this, but put it into practice - then, please, explain it to me. I think Pessoa could have. When he said you or they, he meant himself. And when he said himself, he still meant himself. His switchbacks + sideways created authors unto themselves. You are excused from being my idea of you. I channel him on my blank writing days. I simply cut + paste everything I say, because that really is as non-sequential as I feel.
It becomes the winding up to say something unique, + after it’s launch from the tongue + now almost landed onto paper — the phone bleep-bleeps because I’ve forgotten to switch it to airplane mode. Then it becomes chasing the idea. The time lost has severed the thread. Finding even one word to get back on the track is impossible with every lost moment. What is that lost time called? Were does it go? There must be a word somewhere that simplifies this feeling of difference between unfurling and unraveling.
I awake excited about the day + end exhausted from it. And, somewhere in between I visit the central gardens - at a distance of 6 feet. I absorb details surrounding me. Sort of like superman hearing everything yet waiting to hear the one thing that piques his interest. I land on a pair of converse shoes with laces tied together, apparently granny thrown to sail up and whip wrap around the electric line going form the street to the park privy. (EW! Helen! A public bathroom!) And that’s not all I see. Focusing on these keds, I see the structure of the thing gently swinging above me. The black cotton canvas, + the work involved in making it. The fertile land in Egypt where the raw materials were grown, the sweating backs of the laborers, their homes, their families setting the table for the evening meal. I see the manufacturers in distant regions, the machines, the dyers coloring the threads + weaving the tough cloth, the seamstresses, those who made up the individual pieces — the shaped stamped rubber toe, the converse decal, shoe laces + the plastic end tips of the laces. The schleps that brought the pieces here + there + those truckers that connected the dots to make the product displayed above me. And beyond them I see their thoughts and hopes for their lives + their days + their next moments. The domestic lives each play out as their realities unfold before my eyes. All these hours, all these lives dedicated to the building of a pair of shoes someone has casually thrown up on wires. I become dense smoke + feel myself shrinking + implode in my seat. I’ve traveled 30 years + 3000 miles without out leaving my bench. I leave the park exhausted, like a sleepwalker, having lived a whole life.
In order to understand, I destroyed myself. -Fernando Pessoa
It is what has happened in the shadows that will remain with me forever.