Juvenile

A long long time ago, a girl told me to keep my voice. That was back in January of 2008, when I was writing this. I swear i remember absolutely nothing of the book that captured my moments and displayed them in a crystal case held up to the rays of an Amsterdam sun. Five years ago. Sometimes I can feel the suns of yesterday on my face again. I had a memory the other day of a smell, a place I conjured in my head, all of me pleading and straining, urging me on, like a woman’s voice above the din “make it!” as Jordan took a jumper in his final All-Star Game. For a second I was there again, and I told myself I could wrap it up and put it away and access it at will.

Yet here I am, and not only can I not access it, I don’t even remember the place I went to. I can only see the white crumbling walls of my patio, the scene of the crime. Unlocking my front door dispelled it, and life resumed.

I once emailed emailed a girl incessantly. Her Gchat icon turned permanently red because of my intrusions. But she was with me in those days, when I was still a juvenile, catching thoughts in the air and plastering them haphazardly on a page. I sent them to her and every intrusion of mine was a desperate plea for help.

Help me turn these diamonds into words.

I re-interpret Edward Said’s ideas of the amateur and the professional to suit my own needs. I needs be remembering my younger self, those younger days, when Foucalt’s Pendulum raged in my veins and I saw the lines everywhere, the words were everywhere and I had to shake my head clear just to be able to walk on. Spirits cloying, mussing my hair, pleading with me like women who have fallen in love for a second with a man and his struggle.

These days I have recording devices on me, numerous blogs and pads, pens and cellies, all ready. All on standby, to catch those thoughts before they dissolve like a snapchat tryst. How many precious gems have i let fall from my pockets, as I unlocked doors in this quivering world?

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