22AUG2010 – I was born on April 6, 1971. The stars looked different then.
With the right kind of eyes one can look up tonight, peer through the haze into the Great Nothing and measure the radial velocity of distant suns, their distance in parsecs, and calculate Cartesian coordinates in order to correctly pinpoint the date. Stellar motion can be used to compute what the sky will look like hundreds of years in the future, or thousands of years in the past.
I don’t have the right kind of eyes. Plus, I’m a little drunk.
Another day down, another day shot from the barrel of the Life Gun. Bits and pieces of dialog and fragments of color and conversation moved through me like a slow motion explosion at a radio station in a neighboring dimension. Obviously, I don’t remember much of it. There was joy, there was fun. Something about seasons in the sun…? I tried hard to capture what I could, but my pen just wasn’t fast enough.
Did you know that the ancient Greeks (as opposed to those of last Wednesday, tea time) saw the future as something that came upon them from behind their backs, as they watched the past recede before their eyes? When I say that much has transpired since my last entry, I only mean that events have taken place. Time measures entropy between events, and entropy makes life possible. And in the fleeting moments since you began to read these words, entropy has continued throughout the universe.
I’ve been reading a lot about time lately. It’s something most of us don’t think a lot about, because we don’t have the time. To me, time is one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring forces we’re ever likely to encounter, ranked right up there with love, sacrifice, and focus. We’re all familiar with time, having dealt with it every day of our lives. In a sense, we’re all time travelers, albeit slowly, and in one direction. But an hour is an hour, no matter where in the universe you choose to spend it.
Three days ago, I found myself staring at a half-empty glass of bourbon in a sticky bar somewhere in Brooklyn and thinking to myself that this glass was somehow a symbol for everything I would ever know or understand about my life. Not that I spend a lot of time drinking, nor that I’m somehow attached to this geographic location. Something else, something more… again, my pen wasn’t fast enough to keep up.
A steel box full of hand-scrawled notebooks, a shelf of books, stacks of airline boarding slips, concert tickets, two hard drives of music, literally tens of thousands of photographs and an alter of rocks, shell casings and other weird bits of metal at one end of my apartment.. This is my proof of yesterday.
We are only stories telling stories,
P.S. This is awesome: