im already pissed because the elements aren't right.
wanted to sit outside- no outlets
wanted to sit in the leather chairs- all taken
wanted to bring in my cup of coffee- can't bring in outside drinks. dumbass monoply.
eff it; lebron can still hit the jumper with his eyes closed and no shoes, so imma ball with the elements against me.
I'm in Borders Bookstore today. i'd rather rummage through books than do this damn work. Beloved, Incidents, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Finding Fish, and The Color of Water sit in a spiral tower at the corner of my tiny table.trying to connect the prompt to what I actually want to say about these books. i'm trying articulate how memory works in each. i'd like to just choose one and go to town on it- really analyze it as its own entity- but i have to use 3. sometimes too many books, for such a short paper es no bueno. i think i want to say something about how memory is our way of keeping things alive- duh, i know, but in its simple premise there's tons.
time is not a linear concept; things don't ever die. memory is proof of this, or rather our tuperware container to keep things fresh, to keep them alive, edible. but, it's up to the container, the transmitter of memory to make it work, not the actual site you're remembering. Morrison echo: "it is not an effort to find out the way it really was- that is research. The point is to dwell on the way it appeared and why it appeared in that particular way" the onus is on the reader of that memory to, in many ways, "re-member" it. we shift and sort memories constantly, consciously and unconsciously. we don't exist in isolation. I'm still workin it out obviously.
we see this in every text we've read: Beloved is the ephemeral and tangible manifestation of this notion- nothing is dead. Nana Peazant in Daughters screams this to Eli's cry-baby ass: "the dead ain't dead; i'm tryna learn ya!" or something like that. memory and sites of memory work to complicate our propensity toward linear time sequencing. we see the keys to our first house, we remember. we smell the cologne of our first crush, we remember. we hear the macarena, and whether we like it or not, we are pulled back into another time- even though our conceptual sense of reality is rooted in forward motion. we are constantly negotiating notions of past, present, and future because of memory. Memory suggests that nothing is ever dead and that time does not move forward. or something like that. im rambling. . .
john Mayer in my speakers today: slow dancin in a burning room. the sound is filling in all capacities. i'm a fan of sitting in the moments of songs, squeezing every drop of it into cups. I drink it, then repeat. 2:37 is where I always like to replay.
it's the height of the argument- so fuckin mean, so real: "go cry about it, why don't you." But, he makes it so beautiful. strummin that guitar so methodically, so gently. i appreciate mayer's artistic encapsulation of this type of argument. haven't we all had it? argg
It's a slow type day- the hours fold into each other and the sun never quite alludes to the hour because shadows are hidden, probably still sleeping in.
Last night I went to what I call my hood spot. All black, except for the DJ- a white boy who gets crunker than anybody in the place, bumpin exactly the music he wants to play. that's the kind of DJ i would be. just bumpin my musack and gettin payyed.
the sea of books downstairs is calling my name- it's a whisper call, but i'm going to indulge it. I want to find a book on einstein's theory of relatvity and time to poke at this notion for my paper.
heeya goes nothin.
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