About Time
“Time is a circus, always packing up and moving away." - Ben Hecht
Here is what is this about. I don't know what I'm about. Nor does anybody else.
Things, such as time, are war. Games. War games. Time—is of the essence. I grasp the heavy rifle in my hands. I blast the dry abyss with bullets of memories, leaving sparkling lights that, slowly, dim into the darkness. Frequently I wish I was still younger. The terrain in my head, then, was a much smaller area to blow up.
Time after time—we do not have the luxury of forgetting that time is of the essence. The second hand unwinds. I got a suitcase of memories, I almost left behind.
Days and time whirl us up in its violent tornado. Lives living a billion schedules, pattering around the world in an infinitely interactive lacy web.
Somewhere. Some wheres. Somethings. Things. My bed. My paintings. My Le Creuset Enameled Cast Iron Dutch Oven. Blue Azure.
Now. I’m a writer. With published books. My published books are romance novels. Now I write my memories. My memories are rarely the same story accurately remembered. So. So I’m forcing myself to scrawl each version of the stories I remember. Then I just try to fit all the pieces together in a way that—fits. Or—doesn’t.
I love pretty stories. I love writing. Now I write. Now I’m in the middle of a tornado. Throwing the letters & words & exclamation points!!!
My brain is inside my skull. I know this is true because I’ve seen it.
I’m not sure why, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to know why, and even if I knew why, I wouldn't remember anyway. Time. Flies.
Inside my brain, carnival loudly attack me with their fake noises. Tacky. Frustrating. Exhausting. But. What isn’t?