"But still, what I want to talk about is the rasp of moments that curl my hands. Don't look at me like you don't know, you feel it too. It's the press of your own history, it tightens your fingers together like wet knots.
[...]
But it comes from all the things that collect around you, too, in a table you shared, the notes you keep. The decor you prop about your house. A shirt with a button missing from being pulled open too quickly. It can live on in the whole of a city, it can be so large. There are things everywhere, but it can come from the smallest of them, too. That's what I'm really talking about. Once a thing has been shared, it does not become merely yours, not ever. Shirts and tables. Everything participates in the flowing accumulation of who you are, and nothing ebbs. All of it can be contained in a dish, you know. This dish, and you can break it, you can break it, break it
like this,
and this one too,
and this one,
and this one. You can break them all, okay, alright, but you can't get rid of anything, no matter how much you try to spit it out. This is such a fury, and isn't it funny how you can stand and watch yourself and your tight fists lose it just trying to unleash everything else. But still it all stays so close, and because of that it heightens, frenzied. You can't kick off who you have been. No matter the gloss you spread, who you have been with someone, it is there, in the sheets of your bed, on your walked streets, the films you have watched. It's in your outlook. No matter what, it spirals in and about.
[...]
Yes, that, maybe it is why people throw things away. Sweaters and glittering collections, pictures, letters. But doesn't that ignore the actual moments and the way they persist, the one right now and those ones coming? There is no such thing as forgetting. Not when you try to build your forgetting with such purpose. You can get rid of things, or you can break them, but there will always be your moments. They are always seeping, no matter the wish to refresh.
[...]
It does. It does. But when you learn enough, you learn you can allow it to meet you, because anyway it is coming at you, it's spinning about you, dust kicked up at every step. That's what's in the approach of a moment, you know, the steel of its weight and feel. It's always there, and what it requests--and what I think people recede from--is to allow it, to take it and turn it to warmth. When the moments live in you, you can live with them, and each could be a point of celebration, you know? No thing as forgetting, but there is a choice in the way a moment is recalled. When you have scars, you can think to when they came, or you can brush them over or deride them for what you feel to be a defect. But I love scars, the little ones on hands or as a fleck near someone's eye. They punctuate your skin, they're what give you your body. That's what we can talk about, the way it could be good. Someone said once that the past blooms because our emotions regarding a moment don't arrive until the moment has gone, or like that anyway. And, I think, with the reach of each moment into every other, they bloom and bloom again to become more and more real. Those moments, they are your deepest wealth, and they stay on."
