What I’m talking about here is passage of time, how the memories pile up, how you remember other times, but even what I’ve been thinking about the last few days: when what we say reveals more than we mean to. When I said to that kid in the hall—he asked about A.J., I said, “I don’t even know who that is,” that revealed my annoyance, though I didn’t need to. And the guy at Marathon—”I’ve got another place” where he buys tix.
So those meanings can be—that intent—can be behind the particular wording of a statement, and also there can be just the sense that, no matter what particular idea or sentence I’m writing, it’s still me who is writing—I’m sitting here writing, so you can always see me writing behind the particular words. I was sitting here at this kitchen table, before school, fitting in my morning writing time—even when I say dull things (“say” seeming to be my all-purpose word for “expression,” even when “write” would be more accurate—but all my words start in voice, inner voice, and while speech offers immediacy, sometimes repeatability, and vocal qualities, writing offers precision, re-readability, and print/display qualities—do you mean “I” or “eye”? It’s easy to tell if you’re reading, harder to tell, needing to be deduced from context, in speech).
I wonder if H__ did graduate? Check the computer. I think S__ did. And where does W__ life? Where do T__ & J__ live—near the high school?
Ah, well. That’s 30 minutes, I’m nearly out of time. Gotta poop and shower and eat breakfast and make a sandwich for dinner tonight—at least I’ve got snacks to take with (from Friday’s shopping trip).
[From journal of Mon., 31 August 2009, Journal 118, page 93]
MonkeyMoonMachine 