Yeah, it happens to some of the best of us, I guess- putting us out of the running for that select group of people who would simply be “the best of us,” the qualifying term “some” mercifully absent from the prologues to their terms of vaguest grouping. Bacchanalia is good for putting yourself outside of the things, the Catholicism, the morbid pasts, the unwhole and unwholesome reflections that revisit from time to time, hiccup memories of a different self set to chastise the current, worldly you in quiet moments when the hive-mind connection isn’t being used for downloading porn, loving someone, moving forward. But bacchanalia is a medium, set in place millions of years ago by the ur-cells when they were still thinking about getting together with these “mitochondrian” guys, still considering a strategic alliance to assert their permanent physicality in contradistinction to the spiritual world they were the pumping and oozing self-reflections of. Forgetfulness…
Step outside yourself and move ahead, but the important step you eventually cut the corners from (speed and sleek achievement of desired effect; as above, so in the corporeal below- remember the cellular dream imperative!): Remember to bring yourself along.
I have left hundreds of impressions on people, I have spoken from my soul over and over as a reflex, but the words press out ahead of my bread-crumb man who sits soaking up the leavings of his yeast brothers somewhere behind the tight column of meanings faster than the light that sighs forward in a free rage from the headlights of the rented automobile we escape in.
I am forgetting things, or people are remembering the parts of me they know are important for me, while I remember only the parts of myself that know where to find my next drink.
Was it in summer of 2004? Who is this man and what is he thinking about? What conclusions did he come to, what thunderclaps did he cleave the virgin souls of the assembled with when he broke his reverie and decided it was time to speak?
It becomes so frighteningly easy, as I become older, to internalize the lack of regard I think others must have for me… no one’s listening, and I just have all these sermons on the mount to pass my time discarding. An unremembering shell that my words continue to echo out of in search of new bodies, new lives.
Oh, memory. Will you help me to remember, once in awhile, to stop and talk to myself?