PRINT March 1991


DOWN THE ROAD OF REMEMBRANCE this time; remembrance being distinct from memory in that remembrance does not require one’s presence in it. Sick to death of memory, crapping out in it. No discovering the quality of one’s mind there; just wave after stony wave washing over the senses; nothing to contribute but bad feelings, nothing to offer but misperceptions, nothing to experience but bad memories, which are your own, not anyone else’s, ever. So stupid, this vulnerability to a process in which the quality of the mind is not discovered or anything else useful to me, to you, to anyone; just that stony wave of I. Big baby shitting and mewling, I, me, mine.

In remembrance there is the semblance of adulthood; very nice sofa there in remembrance, red as a heart. Sitting on it, we become adults, capable of emulating the extreme pomposity of the adults who came before and got it all wrong too;

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