Friday March 8th 2013
An accurate account of events is rare. There is the
date and time of the event. The moment of it. Which can be
reasonably accurate. October 14th 1066, for example. Most
everything else is interpretation. I wished Harold victory, others
probably delighted that Harold died form a wound to the eye. And this is
something I can say with some confidence because recently, and by
'recently' I mean the past twenty odd years, I have been trying to
write the "history of me." Which in and of itself is a fairly
ludicrous exercise, because I am not yet dead. One solution
to the impasse would be to embrace what it is I am trying to sell.
Sadly I am not certain what that is, so invariably a "history of me"
becomes "A Propaganda of Me." A flagrancy that benefits no one.
I have considered the idea of reducing
my existence to separated moments. And giving each of those moments an end
date. A structure, inspired by Opinion Polls, which if I have heard it once
I have heard it a thousand times, are 'snapshots in time.' But if I look at
Opinion Polls, which since the advent of a tyranny called audience
participation that can be found even in the Dentist's waiting room, I would
make the observation that 'fickle is understatement.' And there is the
boogaloo of memory, which in polite terms is 'unreliable and fraught' and
can sometimes be checked. Then there is constraint of narrative, where
currently I am in a mental asylum, haunted by the spirit of a disgruntled
Saint who has appeared to me in the form of a Rabbit. And I'll tell
you this much, I have grown much fonder of the Rabbit than I am of me.