it was too new

fragments #7

“the sounds and smell of the ocean made speech unworthy, or required a language greater than they knew.”

~the transit of venus by shirley hazzard

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for a moment i thought maybe i’d like to fictionalize (only slightly, mind you) into a short story a particular memory from florence. and then the realization came over me that, if i did so, that fictionalization would probably take over the “actual” memory, and become what i believe my memory of that evening to be. but then, then, i realized that probably that night is already very fictionalized in my mind, and, isn’t that probably a shame,

(but at the same time i know that that’s just what memories are; simply a fictionalized interpretation of events; in fact it becomes fictionalized within the very moment it is first processed within, first pressed softly against, my mind— a moment scarcely separate from the moment of it’s actual existence— and in fact that must mean that nothing can be “real” or “pure, everything must always be an interpretation of itself.)

(the future is already a memory; the future is a memory to come; the future is a fiction to come)

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i couldn’t sleep. i came outside and laid in a hammock and watched the stars. i couldn’t recognize any constellations besides the big dipper. i wished the stars were brighter. i watched the smokey clouds fold over and under the constellations, embracing them for slow, soft moments. i saw a short shooting star fly by, resembling the ash of my cigarette. for a second i thought that seeing the shooting star might make me cry like how i really wanted to but it didn’t. i smoked one rolled cigarette of amber leaf loose tobacco and then three marlboro reds. the tobacco in ireland all tastes horrible but i smoke it all anyway.

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“and i need you more than want you; and i want you for all time.”

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i’ve always loved how in the nighttime nothing feels real.

i think that’s why i so strongly treasure dawn and dusk (which i don’t completely have here). the slow fadings in and out from a day; the departures and returns from reality.

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to be simultaneously so fulfilled and so unfulfilled in life

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they all seem to stare at me here. maybe it is because i am always alone. maybe it is because i am a “Young Woman Alone”. maybe it is because of my short hair, my mens trousers, my large button up shirt ballooning over the little curves i have. me, alone, slowly walking up and down the uneven dirt roads. me, alone, perched on a rock, bracing the gusts of wind off the ocean shore. me, alone, sitting at the local pub, reading and writing. many people often seem to find reading and writing to be an odd activity— they can’t comprehend doing it outside of school. i wonder what must they all think i am writing about? ha, jokes on you— you don’t know it, but you’re the subject of this one. you must think you’re seeing me, catching glances enough to maintain a judgement, but really, i am seeing you. i am sitting in my corner of corners, looking out, out, to all of you.

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“in their esteem for dispassion they began to yearn, perverse and unknowing, towards some strength that would, in turn, disturb the equilibrium and sweep them to higher ground.”

~the transit of venus by shirley hazzard

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there is the beach/ocean here of course. but i was thinking just now while smoking of how deeply i miss bodega head. that is one of the first places i’d like to go to once i’m back home. i’d like to go alone; it feels a place so personal to just me— not in some sense where i think i’m better than everyone and have some sort of special personal connection with it; i don’t know; it’s just that i feel i must be alone. i miss standing from up on the hill and looking out onto the endless sea. especially when the evening is growing into itself, and the sea regains it’s deep blue color— it’s truest shade, i feel. deep blue, both soft and intense, the sea preparing for it’s time of solitude in the night.

sea, what color are you when i cannot see you, when the night reaches the peak of its darkness and maybe there is no moon and you are all alone, when you are all alone what color are you?

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“secrets in her lipstick mouth
shining on again
shining on again
capture a smile and then thats all
you won't know her so it's ok
funny how things change
funny how things change"
~mazzy star, "rose blood"

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i have an intrigue, a perversity, of my future self. who will that person be, so foreign, yet so familiar?

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everything here is contained within one thin level. you may look out beside you to see the long flat stretches of bright green grassland, occasionally accessorized by grazing sheep or cows. above that is the sea in a tame blue line, and then, the hills, with soft, romantic curves that swell and slide down from the clouds, the clouds, the clouds sitting directly atop them, these ones full and stout (but not endless, and never tall, or too large, or looming— no, not looming, the irish sky only looms when it has been consumed by the clouds, the type of clouds that drape across the sky like wet grey washcloths, pressing heavy against, confining, the earth; leaving no ability to imagine the universe above.)

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“dreams are like water;
colorless, and dangerous"
~this mortal coil

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everything i write to you is a fiction. you probably should not trust any of it. everything i create is a fiction. no matter how hard i try. not that i actually try to keep it all from becoming fictional. secretly, i indulge in it. i embrace it. in fact, the more i examine a grain of truth through fiction, the more it slowly, carefully, expands into a larger truth.

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“we cried as we kissed-- it was too new.
we died and we lived-- it was too new.
too strong and still too much."
~this mortal coil

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[[p.s. would any of u be interested if i started a monthly book club through my substack? i think it would be really fun to use this platform to have more in-depth conversations about media. i could even do a movie or few as well. let me know, and i might make another post about it.]]