TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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05.03.06, wednesday evening
Oh why did I go ahead and write about destiny? That last entry troubles me, thanks to my imprecise use of language. In sum, my destiny is amorphous (like me), congealing and uncongealing, never fully formed until perhaps the moment of my death, when all time seems to harden and everyone else sees what I, in death, will never see (hence my fascination with obituaries) . . . and yet I manage to imply an estimable control over my destiny, which is kinda like saying I know when I'll die.
I obviously don't have that kind of control. I am fickle. I change my mind. Others get in the way or will never understand or, worse, understand all too well. The mail is always late or my parents will never call again. My brother will remain stupid till the end of time. The ice caps will completely melt and sweep my house away. None of my stories or novels will never get published. I'll get deported and shipped to Siberia by bureaucratic oversight.
Still I just refuse (stubborn willful black sheep me) to believe in inevitability. Lost causes. Permanent damage. Irrecoverable shipwrecks. Victims since birth. Unsalvageable vintage dresses. An enemy that can't be beat. Inevitability--outside of death--is the complete secession to a hopeless place or story, "the way things/people are", where destinies harden the moment a person is born. Stone hearts, leaden feet. Everything fossilized and brittle inside. The worst thing ever.