7.29.06, The Faulkner Wall

Another day appears and moves, with or without choice, as if it were a simple keystroke command. Open, new, begin, move. You will move with or without me. Me, choice. I am choice, or like a keystroke; you move, on we go. A funky day today (equally funky post possibly) with the Franky Scale somewhere around a flat six, 6. Certain days higher, certain days lower. Seattle at least has cooled so today’s high has been about 70, a nice reprieve. Thank you, Cheebus.

A few odd thoughts have been swimming around my head today and relate to yesterday’s short post. To its shortness and postness. I feel like once I sit down to write I don’t ever find myself at a loss, necessarily, although at times I wonder how relevant is what I’m typing or thinking of putting down. The other day the overwhelming question post was apparently fine, despite being written with no audience, in the wee hours. Curious to note, then, which passages stand out: like the issue / question of being forgotten. Telling. And I suppose I’m glad to learn, by accident, what it tells. Related there is a Faulkner post, unbelievably quotable but I not right in front of me and I don’t want to mis-state, so just wait. But imagine the Faulkner wall . . .

The gist of what’s upstairs today is simply about the writing itself. All that I want to say is too limited or rather it feels like the chance/s to say it are, even with this daily soapbox, even with the web, even with friends telling friends, and I start to wonder how can I reach you, and even though I know there are some reached and there is, despite the sentimental side of telling it, all this love and it’s proof that I am not alone in the universe, but still a part of keeps revolving around a different question how can I reach you now with all of it? How can I tell all, all that I desire to speak, or maybe that’s not it, it’s rather how can I say what I want in any limited timeframe?

Perhaps it extends farther than the edges of this experience, too.

An example that comes to mind after hearing someone on NPR discuss a “diarist.” A word I rarely if ever use. When I turn to look, it seems for twenty years I’ve been a diarist, doesn’t that seem like an elaborate title, and there is an appropriate amount of “material” to go with that time. Still everything I’ve written remains, some way some how, it is accurate and it is true, if you will, but not fully satisfying when I go back and read the pages. It did happen but not to me; or no, it did happen to me, but it wasn’t as I wish it would be on paper, is that more accurate? That’s the idea, as Bob Marley puts it “So much things to say.” But the form, the goddam form. And to, the goddam time.

Apart from the writing, today has been not quite colossal in size but still somewhat of a chore in the physiology department, the issues of GI function, managing pain not quite so well (odd how that “becomes” the issue — not pain per se but rather the issue of management, then some odd sweats, perhaps no more than normal, but enough to shrink me down. Some. Still, this shouldn’t be over read and probably all has to do with the normal ups and downs of chemo side effects. Just some days my “management” skills are better than others. Skills that now spill over to quality of life and to writing and everything else, if there is “else” besides the former. Ideally.

And then, now, look at this use of space and time. It’s difficult to get out all I want, so I say, and then I spend today’s space writing nothing but that. More than the obvious. Another day plus of the weekend I hope everyone spends well.