I just realized that New Year's Eve is tomorrow, and that I have to go back to the factory on Thursday. I will be at home alone on New Year's Eve and will never make midnight. I don't want to. Going back to the factory is simply to take care of the business of packing up my stuff. It will be horrible, I think, but it must be done.
I don't want to reflect on the passing decade. I made some good pictures, but they seem for the previous decade--if not for the century before. This decade has been punctuated by Trump and "the woke." It is hard to remember that Obama was president for most of it. So many things are difficult to remember now. Laughing, compassion, subtlety. After the Fukushima tsunami and nuclear disaster of 2011, things just got weirder.
Or maybe it was my fault.
Jesus. . . I'm being gloomy again. The weather has not improved.
What will we do with the past? Judge and revise it, sure. Maybe reorganize and replace it? Discredit and desecrate it?
I'm in the process of going through my own archives now. What a mess. Thousands of pages of scribbles, notes, and letters. Terabytes of pictures and writing. I thought in the end it might all mean something.
About that, I might have been wrong.
ReplyDeleteThey mean something. Your words. It is the story of you and since you are in this world - it is part of our story - a woven tapestry - a broken mosaic - or the song of life.
Song: Anna Akhmatova
the pain made the poems
into a blue ice;
a rage that made the Volga moan.
Such ice encased the bodies
laid in neat rows by the near living,
between the wars
as Anna swore
standing in long rows
her mind full of small poems,
shards of bone
black ice made of the blood
and salt.
of those not with her anymore.
in the long lines
between the wars
when the shadows filled
the Moscow streets.
still-
the words are cold
frozen in place;
what poems remain
hang in space
phased
what passions remain
cold
even the smell of the death shit.
dispersed
cold where they fell to earth
the frozen world
where the dead lie in neat rows
as the snow drifts and swirls
an aria of soft hiss.
She, cold,
wrapped in death's kiss
holding the angular words
as though they were warm
and with child.
T. 2006
Everything is connected somehow - some way. Etching into the ether here in the dark.