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diaryland
scorch marks can’t capture a fire
28 August 2007 - 15:28
The following is from my first paper diary after I left home. It was written during my first trip to San Francisco. I was with Becky, and we barely knew each other then (is that even possible?).
*****
20 October 1999
What if our eyes were cameras and we took a picture of everything we saw every time we blinked? The picture would come out of our mouths and fall on the ground. We would have symbols on our foreheads that stood for who we are and they would also appear on the back of our pictures. Maybe someone would find a picture you took and realize you're her soul mate and travel the world to find you. Maybe there would be so many pictures everywhere we'd all end up taking pictures of pictures of pictures. If that happened, would it mean that the more you express yourself, the less of a self you have?
*****
It's no secret that I am obsessed with capturing the most compelling moments of my life. Years ago, I watched my ability to view my life as a coherent narrative fall apart. It was not painful to accept that "I" might be something that didn't make it from one moment to the next, that "I" cannot be confined to one story. I am starting to feel that "I" am not only not a single story, "I" am not even a museum that can collect beautiful moments. I have too many stories to remember them all, too many photos to cherish them all, too many dreams to recall and analyze them all. I'd need another life to try to string together all my favorite memories, to create a nostalgic shrine. And as it is, I want another life to hold all the experiences I can imagine for myself.
A revelation is flying at me not only from the past but from the future. It used to be that I could not enjoy a kiss from someone if I was worried whether he would call the next day. I used to have trouble loving the first litter of kittens born in my house because I knew I would have to give most of them away. Just as my fight against impermanence once drove me to preserve and memorialize my loveliest hours, it also prevented me from enjoying what was in front of me.
I am now -- in thought, feeling, and action -- ceding an enormous battle against time, against endings, against loss and running out. I am beginning to trust that there is no shortage of moments so breathtaking they bring me to my knees. I am falling in love with glimmers, hints, flashes, fragments because whether or not they blossom their source is something always blossoming.
The last rays of sunlight shine right through the house that's about to crumble.