Anonymized.
She parries and weaves
She dances
She struggles with her faith
She dances and the world is new
She talks and shows her self
She has unlimited potential and reminds me of mine
It seems a bit like poetry, though it’s about someone who I don’t speak to anymore, so it’s defiantly bittersweet. I’m hesitant even to post it, but by posting it here I can get it out of my system and throw it away.
I’m reminded of the scene in A River Runs Through It, when the father has the son write something, a story. The boy gives it to the father, the father approves and says “throw it away.” Then the child is released and eagerly scampers off to play.
Writing can be transient, and be safely thrown away.
Though here, the writing is permanent.
Or, at least as permanent as the hosting of artlung.com, and attendant backups.
I’m reminded of William Gibson’s book Agrippa: A Book of the Dead, from 1992. It is described here as “Ruminations on memory and family, fragmented. Released as a limited edition encrypted program on floppy, designed to self-destruct when read. Some versions came with self-destructing artwork by Dennis Ashbaugh. Eventually decoded by hackers, versions of the text are available on the net.”
My 22 year old self wanted to buy it. It was far too expensive.
But indeed it is available on the net.
The net wants to remember. The real world, possibly, wants to forget.
Entropy.
I’m reminded of the Love & Rockets song No New Tale To Tell, with its’ line “You cannot go against nature / cause when you do / go against nature / it’s part of nature too”.
The theme is recursion, catch-22, and entropy this morning.
Anyway. The paper will now be recycled into something else. And time flows onward.
Or maybe the theme is impermanence.
Or maybe the theme is permanence.
Today, the net remembers.
I remember too. Today is the anniversary of my parents, and I remember or misremember that it was either me or my sister, when presented with photos of my parents’ wedding, asked “Where was I?”
Which is a neat question.
Neither of us existed, yet. Not yet conceived. Not yet born.
The trick is that maybe we didn’t exist as we know existence to be, but perhaps in the minds of our parents as an idea of having children. Or perhaps in matters of the soul or spirit. Or in a materialistic sense, our matter existed somewhere on the earth. Or maybe something else, elusive.
So where were we?
It’s a good question.
Onward.
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