summer in abaddon
I think that I'm overinvolved with the past.
I want to edit. I want my past to be as flexible as my present; that these unresolved plotlines should find a natural close. I've marked the pages where the narrative drifted off, and I come back to those pages when I should continue to write forward. A found-then-lost phone number; a series of calls unreturned; a cryptic message for which I had no logical response; an addled conversation in a college parking lot; an awkward last attempt over strip-mall burritos. I want resolution, and I want it too much.
Living with Bear, a person who lives so entirely in the moment that it consistently trips me up, has showed me how beautiful right-here-right-now can be. He acknowledges his past, but it is certainly not his master - I doubt he's ever flipped back the page. I find him brave for this. I used to have trouble believing that it was possible to be so present; now, I find deep inspiration and solace in it, and I long to have this power of meditative insouciance that I don't quite understand.
See, 'cause I still haven't really learned that the past isn't a redactable, graceful thing - an equation that sums neatly up to the energy expended to create its parts. It's a big heap of messy, rambling, repetitive Joyce, beautiful in its quaint and sparking live-wire untidiness.
Let it be.