Hey, it’s nearly Christmas! Kindle, matches, candles, fires. Soon. Already it’s advent.
I am 27. There’s nothing big to say about it. But it’s strange to wait for someone or something, as if the future moved backwards towards you set in stone: as an objective public plan. The future would then be that which is on the way back towards the present, fucking it from the front. The past, then, is fucking the present from behind. If one was simply graphic, or evenly metaphorical, or terribly crude. Sigh. If I died before Christmas is to happen this year, it would lose me as one of the subjects whose annual happiness and anticipation it produces. But that would not be a big loss to Christmas, for it’s a big thing. It is, for now, as real as a tree, or the wind outside. Brilliant. In fact, it is mainly articulated by means of trees as one of its objects. And the fact that it does not mind me is almost reassuring, like it’s possible to think more, impersonally. Or alternatively to leave it, individually.
But which one? Which side are you on? Why are you saying one thing and its opposite?
When I say I, I should note, it’s not me I’m referring to, or not quite. I am a kind of inner democracy – or should one say I have a kind of inner democracy, or it has me – it’s a kind of horribly hypocritical state. Or should one say, I behave like a democracy. Which would be historically accurate: 1 behaves as if 1 was born into a liberal democracy, and 1 was. It’s a terrible weakness, but it’s not necessary, is it?
No. Why are you suddenly so constrained, so cold, so much like a – manager-ess? And just think: words as objects are real, real, real, as real as that wind, or that Christmas.