There is no such thing.

We are palimpsests. There is no essence, only sums – in the end.

And only then.
Meanwhile, we are continually re-formed, re-contextualised. Erasures.
Recorded, fragmented, rerecorded, as accurately as before –
but different.

We are as many stories as viewpoints, as points of contact. We will be
clouds seen through a cardboard tube on a windy afternoon
with the world on its back in a field.

We are the itch of a blade of grass on its lower back.

We were, in that present, an annoyance. Now, this gust of cold, North Sea.

We are the twelve year-old boy, living in the cave and painting
the pleasure of an erection.

We have been his mother’s rolling eyes.

IMG_20150701_171839I was listening to a Radiolab podcast, and a scientist was explaining that there is no such thing as the present.

He compares time to the shoreline. The past is the sand, the future is the sea water.

There is no line that is the present.

In art class they kept telling us there are no lines in nature. So that part makes sense. As long as I keep making my associations in leaps forward.

But the scientist explains that there is no arrow of time: no forward, no backward.

This is all sort of screwing up my daily meditation.