I have witnessed, myself, the way knowledge slips backward and forward through time, insights forgotten reborn or the way dreams crash like waves (that reassuring sound) on the beach of one's bed, leaving behind clues about tomorrow or the tomorrow after that. And there is history (or memory) and the way it changes daily as more distance, more experience is layered, thin veils, a creeping glaucoma, a snow storm closing in on the farmhouse windows. The confidence, arrogance actually, of an individual's truth consumes them like a heretic's flame. When they are dust and ash, the snow globe's settling storm, the warmth of their words will cool as well, to be completely forgotten. This was something to die for? The body of knowledge is a naked stain on which we hang costumes that suggest various names. You decide who will be your hero (if you need one).
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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