Long Thought

I read an article where the contributor encouraged one to have long thought.  Here is a day of long thought.

Tuesday the 20^th of September

2:15pm—I woke up in the early afternoon to the shrill cries of a bulldozer and the persistent pecking of a jackhammer thrusting its nose into concrete.  I looked to my book shelf to my left and surveyed my books.  Could it be that I have too many?  I pulled a small but thick book of photographs and thumbing through it landed upon the photographs that caught my intrigue.  I remember that Madame Yvonde is one of my favorite featured artists (although I did not remember that her name is Madame Yvonde)—she appears last in the book.

I came across a picture taken in Afghanistan in 1986; in the foreground the shadow of two pairs of legs dangling from the nose of a tank; in the background, walls of crumbling brick that used to be houses.  In another photograph, one from the 1950s, were two water fountains against a wall.  Above the left fountain (which appeared to be refridgerated) was a sign that read “Whites.”  From this fountain stemmed a copper pipe that flowered into a shallow copper dish to the right; above this read a sign “Colored;” the blurred face of a  man was rising from it.

I felt very sad.

I put this book away and again surveyed my collection of books.  Yes, too many books, but which to give away?  My eyes landed upon Fitgerald’s Paradise Lost; the jackhammer was again pecking at the pavement outside the windows, so I felt very compelled to read this book that heralded an age of youthful confusion and excitement (much like my time).

I sat down to write down to write about what I just felt when I noticed my brother’s cat, Oliver, up on the window sill, gnawing on the threads of what was a spider’s web.  He then got his left front paw stuck in the screen.  He panicked.  Afraid that he was going to hurt himself, I got up from my chair, and just then his claws freed.  He jumped down and ran from the room, quite horrified.

The sun is now beginning to recede from the basement where I sit; I must begin to read soon.

3:28 pm—Is it self-inflicted isolation to read as much as I do?  Perhaps my excessive indulgence into literature is another facet of consumption, for I have yet to give anything back as of recent for the knowledge that I have consumed.  To perform music as I once did is to give back, but sitting here and ruminating does nothing to enhance human thought if my thoughts are not put to paper and given to the world.

3:39 pm—On a rainy afternoon last week I planted the seed of scattered words and phrases into the pages of my Catcher, the blueprint, the skeleton of a manifesto.  It remains to be written, steeping in my brain.  Wake up.  Is there something written of the scattered mind besides the need to medicate?

11:00 pm—I become aware of the abandon of my nightly dreams, which just months ago I recorded with diligence and wonder.

Wednesday the 21^st of September

1:57 am—Looking at my vast collection of books, I recognize why I am attached to certain things.  Every object has a purpose; when they (the objects) go unused and unread, their purpose is not being utilized and appreciated.  It is with guilt that these items have not lived their purposes under my care that I continue to possess them, thinking foolishly, “One day I will read this, one day I will wear this . . . “

1:30 pm—“It takes a whole village to raise a child.”

The German word for school is kindergarten, kinder meaning “children” and garten meaning “garden” . . . hence, a place for growing children.  If we treated children as apple seeds, gave them foundations for their roots to grab firmly, then they would grow fruit with which to nourish others.

There where times in my life when I felt not like a tree, but just its flower: a means of presentation and seduction, a means of production (this is of course when I followed what tradition expected of me); how purposeless I felt then.  But, truly, for most of my life, I’ve felt happily as a weed.  Weeds are much more useful than as they are lauded to be.