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Sunday, November 22, 2015

The Burden of Being Real...

The pain and pleasure of any sentence is in the reading/listening I do and the believing I do thereafter regarding the projection I create of "a writer/speaker", which could only be me...reading/hearing it that way I read and heard it.
The burden of being real is the patience it takes to read slower, listen slower, to the sentences hanging around the island.
No one forces me to read or listen the way I do. That kind of blameless interpreting pins all my hopes on me to simply not react to my own imagination regarding what I read, hear, and believe about where I decide it comes from, those sentences, and those utterances.
Can say "he said-she said" all I want to. That does not make me less responsible for my interpretation or assumption of authorship.
Can explode and yell and scream and weep and moan and laugh and sigh at anything I hear or read. The topic can be anything! Anything! There is no one else making it come to life. There is no one else forcing me to take the sentences seriously, or see them that way, or assume they are right or wrong or mean this or that.
That emotion comes from that interpretation. It cannot come from any other place. Nothing forces me to stay alive.
Not once have I met an author separate from the sentences, separate from my interaction with the words spoken or painted.
The name of "whoever" wrote it just another thing I interpret and decide I like or don't like, approve of or don't approve of.
"That’s a cool name."
"That’s a dumb name."
"That name means they are from this and that means they think this because that what I know about that spot on the map I am making up out of my interpretations, memories, desires, etc..."
Are the reader, listener and believer of whatever words I find arranged in whatever sentences travel by me. I make me miserable or happy or free or bound by what I believe about the sentences and by what I imagine about the author...the further sentences I add to the name of whomever I interpret.
I am a builder.
I make up a world and in that world I make someone else responsible for how I made it up; a child on the floor yelling at Lagos to "Behave!"
The bizarre agony and strange delight of being real is I cannot fault any name for how I feel about a world, a reality, a universe, if at all those are words I can use wisely. I doubt I can.
I cannot know if another side exists where what I imagine to be the case, or what I build from the cases I have previously built, is actually there separate from how I imagine and build it;
An alphabet in a lookout tower made of black boards and chalk and slow-melting lit fuses;
A wayward castaway on an island made of amnesia.
"Who made these words come to life?!"

love light and peace