| dewy decimal |
2003-09-21 - 11:07 a.m.
"He understood that what life was now giving him was something not everyone has the privelege of looking at open-eyed, as if at the most dazzling core of the sun. And in the core of this sun was silence. nothing that was there at this moment could be translated into anything else, perhaps not even a memory." - Italo Calvino The Adventure of a PoetP/>
It is my duty, dear journal, to admit there is so much I cannot tell you. Lips sealed, fingers locked. So many feelings lost in the choke of reality. A maelstrom of fears and secrets, condemned to it�s own calamitous churning. .
Winding kisses that loop in the funk of gin. Names and judgments that are harmless in the mind but pernicious through the eye. Harmful words that will perhaps grow senile, and comical with age. The secrets of a man's heart, which are kept only to insure that they are forgotten, dealt with on later dates through deteriorated sight. .
My Grandpa once took a dog into the empty fields of Wahiawa because it kept barking at the dawn, stirring the neighborhood with its primal announcements. �Go, scat! Chuh! Beat it!� He threw pebbles and flung his sun-licked appendages at the mut, jumped in his truck and drove guilt-laden through the long drive home. Three days later the dog found it�s way to their doorsteps where it was quickly drowned and buried beneath the Chinese mango tree. The bones, almost literally right beneath my nose as I speak.
My dogs are buried beneath the mango tree, my secrets lost to mute storm. .
But, dear journal, you got a lot of shit on me. At least as much as I care to acknowledge myself. Since the very nature of this diary is auto biographical, I am naturally apprehensive of its simple being altering a much larger picture, my life. I am confident that you have an idea of what complications may find its way within the yearning soul of the common, Asian, art-fag from Hawaii, if there is such a thing.
There are no translations for the reveries of silence. This space must speak for itself.