Sunday, May 18, 2003
I'm writing this entry early on Sunday afternoon, beginning at 12:31 pm, but I don't know when you'll get to read it. My website (and blog) have been offline since yesterday afternoon, along with Poppy's and Gothic.Net. I assume it's a server problem. We're looking in to it. Of course, by the time you read this, the crises will have passed. Which is really not that different than the rest of what I write. I write it in The Present and each reader reconstitutes The Moment, simulating an earlier Present. I create those moments of Present and package them, condensed time, events placed on hold until the moment you have time for The Moment. It's all the same.
I'm in the midst of a moderately severe temporal collapse today. Hence, the extended metaphor above. It all folds down on me, weeks compressed to days, days compressed to hours, hours hardly halfway decent minutes. I haven't seen a second in ages. I'm not sure that they exist anymore. Not here. Not now. Somewhere, seconds may still have relevance. In fact, I'm reasonably sure of it. But here they're past before they can be registered, underscoring my conviction that Present is, at best, illusion. Past, I can see, and Future is only unrealized Past - unless it's all the other way around. It depends which "direction" you're headed. "Cause" and "effect" are only arbitray turns of phrase based on the direction we happen to be traveling through time. I drop the glass and it shatters, because I am a traveler moving Past to Future. But to suppose that all travelers move the same direction as I do is to adopt a sort of temporal fascism. The glass shatters and someone drops it. Because it shatters, they drop it. The one event demands the other. Order is beside the point. Because they drop it, their elbow strikes the glass. Because they are startled, a dog barks loudly. Some days it's easier for me to pretend I am not stitched to this runaway Past to Future train. What has this to do with my writing?
Everything.
If you can't see how, you haven't been paying attention.
Back up. Start again.
When I was a child, a day seemed to last forever. When you grow up, things seem smaller.
I often feel that if I knew the right word, or the right way of looking at things, or could only shout loudly enough, I could find the brakes. Sparks would fly. The accerlation would stop, and forward movement would become constant, sane, considerate of my limitations. I have no doubt someone will figure all this out one day. Or they have, which is worth consideration, and time collapses around us as a consequence of the realization of a single mind, a single mind's perspective, spoken word, shout. The clock says it's 12:50 (now), and I believe the clock, because I'm terrified of being alone in a cave without a flashlight.
I can't think of any other reason to believe it.
My senses tell me it lies, but there's little comfort in my senses. They rarely bring more than bad news, anyway.
Sophie's feeling better.
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