the following is all being produced under the loose rubric of a tripartite autobiography. I have no idea whom to sell it to. these bits are from what will be Part Two.
first an excerpt of earlier writing to make a later reference make at least some sense:
i mean that said who would even want to talk of boys and girls. someone somewhere is always ascribing to the difference between boys and girls that of the ur-difference that founds the whole frigging dialectic but I am here to tell you that that is not the case.
oh it's already been shown. there is no need to show it again. (fair is fair as far as it goes.)
see the problem is that the greatest of differences has been attributed to exist between one and two and this leaves out about a million or more. but not only that but that the difference between one and two ignores the difference between without either the one or the two.
don't even get me started about the one and the many. we are talking of girls and boys here not god and the manifold. although there is the slight possibility they are the same thing.
in any case I can't say that I knew what I was from the very beginning except in a way I did or at least I had the genre pegged by age seven. that I think was the year I went as a hippie for halloween. as though at age seven I had some sort of presentiment of incongruity.
well at age seven it was no longer a presentiment.
then what I wrote last week, which won't appear immediately after but rather some time after what I excerpted above:
so it occurs to me that the desire to tell the story vastly outweighs any sense of what the story is or was or is to be. the result as should be obvious by now might be said to be a sizeable surplus of telling and a glaring paucity of story. I am quite certain that either way all of the important details will be left out while only the inconsequential ephemera surrounding those details will make it into any story or telling. the point is to repeatedly miss the point and although I could claim to do this stubbornly or even militantly or at least voluntarily I suspect that I could not do otherwise even if I tried very very hard. this could also be a ruse but in all honesty a real story would simply be too painful and so this painful in its own special way but not especially so is what the story will turn out (not) to consist of. that too is not a complete explanation not even if you take into account all that has been said thus far and so in order not to intrude upon any accounting let me just tell you this. tonight I am waiting for the moon to come up so that I may take its photograph. am hoping that glow behind the rocks to my east is a promising sign. anyone of course could say as much.
for example I could describe for you what night in the desert in winter is like and how the coyotes chatter at dusk their yips cavorting over the dusty blue spines of what I would like to be sage but is not and the way the campfire in the next site over smells unusually spicy like cardamom or sassafras not that those two scents are anything alike so it may be that the fire or more properly the smoke from the fire smells like both and I could point out that it is unclear whether the sunlight is lingering on the horizon or if I see just the reflection of every light in Palm Springs many miles to the southwest or how silence sounds strangely like one's own tinnitus and thus there is no telling how it would occur to anyone else or the way voices from other campers who are strangers and to whom I will not speak are comforting in the way they approach each other with no apparent ill will.
I could try to trace a line similar to the infinitesimally thin one that separates the deep black of the hills and spiked yuccas from the fainter black of the sky and I could tell about any of this floridly and with adjectives to make Edward Abbey weep but even if I did so we wouldn't get anywhere as there is no particular where but flashes of a significance so bashful as to snuff itself out immediately and often.
I could describe this one needle-thin and lovely bug with wings of gossamer were it not a cliche so no gossamer but wings of precarious mambrane so thin as to be unmentionable who has visited me my book and my water bottle a number of times and thus we are acquainted and I could even mention the difference between Sunday night and Saturday in the Ryan Campground in January the one you see is boisterous where the other is muted but more congenial for all that and I could make meticulous note of everything that allows itself to be noted which is darned near everything there is which gives me pause as though being born into the note were not a violent thing although something something escapes even that most gentle of incisions upon being cut away.
If I remember correctly we were talking about the difference between boys and girls and the coyotes howl. I was about to say what do coyotes care about boys and girls but for all I know they care deeply although one suspects that what they care most deeply about is what is in that burrow right over there.
and there it ends. not sure what to do about coyotes and gender dichotomies but will think of something.