Here a history of a human is written one word at a time. These are
my paintings on the caves in the walls. We each have our own. Each is
so fleeting. So unique.
I came here to school in winter 1999. I didn’t much know anything.
The same situation still exists now, even though the idea of progress
in this civilization can sometimes trick me into thinking that I know.
But… I think I know because I’m always busy. A theme I’ve noticed in
other people’s blogs that I’ve (finally) been reading. We’re all busy
and somehow making it through. Managing and juggling. So this much we
know.
This not to say anything about learning. I have learned a lot. I
will never stop learning. I learn something new everyday. Yet, what
sort of annoys me is that I’ve spent so many times thinking “This is
it,” “This is everything.” When there’s always more. It will never
stop, it will spiral and spin and circumambulate forever. Considering
the theories of people like Einstein (warped through my
pseudo-scientific mind), all there is is that forever. All there is is
that now, that eternal now. Everything is infinitely occurring, and the
past and the present are mere perspective. Depending on where you are
relative to the speed of light, that will equal your perspective. Maybe
this just sounds like flighty prose, but time is one more illusion of
progress. I buy into it, because I have to, and maybe… I want to? And
of course, light keeps things mostly constant, on the surface anyway.
But I need to remember that I make the choice, and I can slow down, and
remember that each moment doesn’t replace the next, they all just grow
into each other. Remember that I will always be here typing. Or always
be finished. Or always be starting.
Back in that winter of 1999, I spent a lot of time by myself,
walking around campus and finding places where nobody else would be. I
was 17 at the time. I’d occasionally walk over to the high school and
bother people, because, at the time, that’s where all my friends were.
I left Oregon, moved to California, then came back. I was on my own. I
would find places on campus and make rituals by setting aside the
moments to be there. One place was the library, third floor, by the
desks hidden in the corner with all the books on film and plays.
Another, the cemetery, looking at the gravestones, seeing these great
spans of people’s lives. One lasts 13 days. One lived 92 years. One
lived and died on my birthday. I tried to remember their names (still).
Then there were the benches by trees that have since been cut down. And
Willamette Hall, third floor, where I could feel the space of the
building, and see all those wonderful indoor street lamps, the same
ones they have outdoors. (Last year, spring of 2002 probably, I went to
get coffee at the hole in the wall place there. There was this beam of
light shooting right at me, right where I was standing in line. I told
the person working, who reminded me of Ani DiFranco, that if you wanted
to, you could probably light stuff on fire using a magnifying glass and
that one, tiny beam.)
Campus was huge and scary and monolithic to me back then. Now,
much like this town, I have learned so many details, that I think I
know them all. But there are so many places left to explore. My teacher
told me about these writing exercises where you’re just supposed to
write about something so small, like a square foot of ground, and keep
writing about it. And this makes me want to stay here longer. And keep
writing, keep writing, keep writing, keep…
I realize this in what will supposedly be my last year of school.
I’m right on track, supposedly, to graduate. The train of academia will
arrive at its final destination in June 2003. But somehow, it feels
like
it’s only just begin. And it has. But where will it keep going?