Distortionary Dialogues

Questions and quandaries to catalyze abstract or atypical thinking. All manner of responses welcomed.


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Journal Entry, October 2017

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1 Journal Entry, October 2017 on Wed May 23, 2018 7:07 pm

After dreaming of unlikely reunions with childhood friends, I awake to a steady tapping sound hiding somewhere within the house. A fear of rodents, or maybe of identifying with them. I tell myself that I am allowing this scurrying to continue, that it is part of my will for my home, but the necessity of the rats’ scrounging is all their own.
It seems a great crime that I should allow a day to go by without writing in this notebook. Every entry adds to my experience. Yet what is a day? A day can be comprised of constant motion in a single direction, static sullenness, stumbling cycles. I have my preferences.
It may be sometimes fun to pretend otherwise, but time really does pass. We know this not only by our submission to the calendar’s law, but also in our faint sense that we cannot ever keep hold of those things which keep coming back to us. The sound continues repeating.
One Christmas, I opined (upon request) that the nature of the holiday was necessarily nostalgic and retrospective, though the speech closed with a respectful nod towards “the people who continually make the magic possible, year after year.” Several summers later, I tore up my notes in a fit of rage. But I still remember the speech, verbatim. I could recite it again now.
There seems to be a certain narcissism in wanting to believe that I will ever be the one who makes magic possible for other people, despite the surface-level generosity of such a desire. Besides, how would such a gift appear? One of my youthful dreams is to generate and execute some riveting, radical performance that will brandish its own truth unashamedly to the tiny world of some tucked-away, miniature auditorium. What then? Perhaps I will briefly touch the heart of a single drunk, perhaps I will belatedly attract the cursory interest of a few curious minds revisiting a deadened, recorded account.
A special evening is something indeed, and there is beauty in its ephemerality. But I have always felt a yearning towards something more robust, although everything and every life will end, including my own. And what lasts longer than a lifetime? Desire, desire to create. To share a desire, rather than its effects, one must cultivate a new life, life in which that desire might live.

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