I noticed I mix everything together, I have no boundaries, my lists and my feelings and the ‘facts’ I put down or forget to put down, man, there is no great god looking at me with one perspective—each moment is held up by effort, there is no record, no history, no time, no days, no hours, no love, no her or them or there, no car, no green Subaru, the green Subaru, the green man, Evanston in the summer, Buda in winter and the green fields in the fall. Something can land there, at one time they did. Each time these thoughts come to you, they’ll never come back, they’re different passengers each time they visit, sometimes they age, sometimes they die, sometimes they visit you as they are dying, sometimes they are sick or old or young, sometimes these thoughts have amnesia, they come to you lost, looking for the last place they lived:
“What was all around me before I forgot everything? Where is that building, where, where do they serve the white wine in winter outside the villamos stop, where do the workers drink and smoke? I’ll just stay with you until I remember everything once again, I’ll just stay with you for now, your bed is soft, your hair smells good, your shoulders tan so well, your breasts look at me perfectly, but I trouble you, I trouble you, I’m so bad for you but I’m bad for myself, there is no good or hope or wonder left, yet I’m so happy and lost and forgotten, the woods have never been steeper, I’ve never run quicker to the fire, I was here before they killed the tress, I was here before the path, I was here before suburbia landed, I was here when I climbed and peeked from the boulders, I’ve been here all along but you just haven’t noticed me.”
And by constantly writing there is a strength. What do you really hold on to when you create? What do you really give, she says there is a sadness, that I’m not getting any where, but I’m not going anywhere, no, I am looking, yes, I am seeing things now, I am seeing these things. The wrong creatures say the worst things.
