Monday, September 4, 2017
an image imagining me
You know my confessional blog from years ago—so silly at times, but remediable. I ceased doing it in 2011, then wanted to continue in 2015, but barely did so. Well, why not do something with its non-embarrassing postings and begin anew?
So, I transferred many to “literairy living” (30 postings, mostly before 2011); filed away 44 (archived them—why?, I’m unsure: most all confessionals, mostly during 2011); transferred seven to this blog (2010-11); kept nine at that blog; and added an explanatory posting there that performs my sense (dated Sept. 10) of having left so much behind.
If you don’t have the bookmark anymore (or want it), email me—Ha!: in my dreams.
Letting myself be drawn back into all of that—briefly—was fun. I’m averse to old stuff (except as genealogical material for new stances, feeling myself on new territory). What interests me is the horizon ahead.
Along the way (archiving, transferring), I clicked links in the old postings, to see what I might have to change later; e.g., links to other postings that have been transferred; article links to what’s no longer available; whatever.
Whatever. I didn’t expect that any link remained to your blog, because I thought I’d removed them all years ago—because you asked me to, because you didn’t want the trackbacks to be found by others.
Also, I resolved years ago to not know what was happening with your blog, not know what was happening with you. So, I didn’t know that I missed a link, which caused me to know last week that you took your blog offline. I guess it’s private now, for specific friends. Good.
I knew I shouldn’t wonder if you decided to blog elsewhere. But I googled your name anyway. I was glad I didn’t find anything immediately; and I wasn’t about to get obsessive. Let it go.
But one photo turned up near the top of image results: I recognized you immediately. Your hair is nothing like what I knew it to be, the last I saw you. At that old photo, your gaze at the person imaging—part of an alumnus page—you seem merely tolerant.
But I see a depth of presence beyond that moment: you at heart.
Ah, yes: I see only myself? (The confessional blog shows for sure.)
Yet, I couldn’t bear my silly imagination that night (imagination as precious as all the old blog postings I was to delete). A PBS show I’d earlier intended to watch was due to begin in a few minutes, so I welcomed the distraction.
Afterward, I cried a little (unrelated to the TV), a little—which is nothing precious; I tear up easily: I recently video streamed “Paris” (2008, with Juliette Binoche). Near the end, the distracted gaze of Latitia (Mélanie Laurent) out of a café window while Pierre (whom she’d never met) sees her from his car window seeing him as he’s waiting for a red light to turn green was heartrending, in light of the earlier story.
Anyway, I’m just reporting in light of the earlier story that you were seeing me in that photo—you, once-upon-a time-girl so moved by East of Eden’s unbearable plight that you shoved the book under your bed while you cried—you, delicious topographer of vegetable love, writer who once lived Invisible Cities, later lamenting to me in a note penned onto the inner cover of a tattered copy of those stories you gave me that all the authors you love are “dead, dead, dead!”
Yet, letters are left for rebirth. And we’re the characters of archives made to live on, maybe.
