An English In Kentucky


















Friday March 8th 2013    Tim Candler


   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.


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