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22 de Agosto, 2006
and the sky unpeels a green orange (with her mango fingertips)
Categorized under Palabras | Tags:
Evening.
The one thing I really don't like about blogs and doing writing online and such us that a post, no matter how old or tangential a thought or specific moment, always seems so permanent when you roll up on it. Yet you never intended to bestow upon it such everlasting importance. It's not like something you are writing for (actual) publication. You don't look it over quite as much, you don't feel it's quite as settled as those times you have a proofreader and an editor and have to go over something a number of times, make the deadline, wait for f&gs to come back from the printer; when you expect something to be printed, in the library of congress, in bookstores. You just type it into a text field. Edit it a few times, post it. Post again later about the next moment that grabs you and forces you to take note, make a record.
Yet every single post sits there, as if carved in stone (until the next server dump). Even when you're in the back yard, lying in a hammock, drinkin' a beer and watching the sunset. Or stuffing your face with rice and beans. Or ice cream. Even throughout the stillest, longest night, your post (your raving post) never sleeps. It continues to yell, to lecture, to query, to shout, to be surprised, to be aghast; to be disgusted—over and over again. It remains warmly frozen in the digital aether, like some dream-fog monument. As if somewhere—every moment—you are thinking the same thoughts and feeling the same feelings. You come and meet her years later, and you can only laugh.
I just sat here for like eight minutes trying to find the right way to describe the sunset out my window. It's amazing. But I couldn't find the words...they all sounded so self-important, so...intentional...and the harder I search for the most delicious and rapturous adjectives, the more I feel like a thief, and a phony. So finally I gave up and figured I'd just fix you a leaf of digital cabbage, a smatt'rin' of unrepentent verbiage. You know. Just to let you know that I'm thinking of you, and what we did at my crib. And that the night we had in Queens was the best time of my life—no matter what I told your folks (and the pigs).
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kick it, ése.