Garbage (Barcelona-Perpignan; 7 de Septiembre 2012)
We feel uninspired.
To remain in an uninspired state is to embody the following metaphor: we are gathering up time, tossing it carelessly into a plastic bag and throwing the bag into that great green bin (okay, here the bins are grey), where it will inevitably be taken by garbage people (some of whom are probably very interesting; maybe they are writers, maybe they are welders and carvers, maybe they explore caves), to a great mountain of garbage, where the time will sit and rot, patiently, steadfastly refusing to decompose—it’s not biodegradable, yo. Decomposition happens over time; how can time happen over time? I mean, of course it does, but the material breaking down of time is time itself, only more time, and so we have entered into a cyclical sort of labyrinth here.
What I mean to say is: All we need to do is put this pen to paper, and suddenly, words are there, they’ve always been there, I don’t know where THERE is, but there is.
It doesn’t have to be good—it won’t be good—why would we want to be GOOD? Good is too flat, a plateau.
Let us desire complexity, profundity, intricacy, anything—let it be BAD—but do not fear a lack of good.
A lack of good can only lead us deeper, onward, toward the lost. After all, we are found in being lost, no? We are always lost, only lost. We, existing in miniature, cannot comprehend location. Cartographers create, they construct a tiny fraction of the “reality” we inhabit.
Do not trust the map. I fear it exists there, on the wall, to fool me into a false sense of security (“YOU ARE HERE”).
LOST is our natural state — in it, we are located; we are found; we are just where we need to be.