Sunday, January 18, 2009


The transition took place with finespun peculiarities. The maiden days launched and landed instantaneously, almost too soon, almost nothing. Unhistorical yet benign, they are not worth detailing at length or brag about. But where this man is heading now – the next destination unbeknownst, undecided and unlisted – is pretty much anyone’s guess – a guess that requires a colossal amount of effort on anybody’s part, in sum or in pieces. Here he is typing, he is reflecting; not on the things that shouldn’t have been, but on those that truly could have been. He knew that he’s in for something, but not a single word (the ones prospective in nature or otherwise) is cast in stone. Only his past, marked in condensed prose and silly poetry full of mystic allusions, echoes somewhat vexingly over and over again in his head like a broken record. He wants to forget some names. He wants to delete some endings. He wishes for changes. Yet he can't. What he can is remembering what he had seen, what he had listened or read. These are points of escapism in high times or low times – a world (he fondly believes) where nothing is right or wrong, or true or false. Counterpoints, expositions, narrative structures, complex reenactments of variegated emotions, resulted by grids or by chances, harmonic synthesis, placements, displacements, magical realism, old school, neu waves, audio tinctures, photoplay, phraseology, propositions and double meanings. Thus this man makes a list of the past months, at a time when everyone looks upwards with eyes gazing into the open skies; pigmenting ideas out of clouds, out of love, out of things that are made of million other things. The Favlist, as what he calls it, is the collection of recollections. Not the best of the best list, but a list nonetheless.