loud silence

Reminiscence, I would have to say, is one of my skills. Mad skills, as it were. I do it so it feels like hell / I do it so it feels real. Or something. Though the key is to figure out not _what_, but why. An argument, as I keep telling my many, many, many kids. Who needs to reproduce when one can teach? All of this shit went down 2 1/2 years ago, and is caught up, not in itself, but in the end of my 6+ years in England, the completion of my degree, and as the marker of what it was _not_ - the still bigger ex. It was all a matter of re-learning that I could fall in love (or, even, that I gave a shit about the possibility of doing so) in late 2004. I see Montaigne's peddling trivial banalities on Quote of the Day, "There is as much difference between us and ourselves as between us and others." You don't say. Anyhow, I'll sign off this evening (as grown-up sensible me knows I have to do _all_ of tomorrow's reading tomorrow, plus comments on student paragraphs, plus meet with a prospective grad by 3pm. Which might be close) with a quote from a series of journal-esque things I unearthed this evening. (Actually, that sounds rather grandiose. I'd noticed the notebooks in my desk drawer the other day and made a mental note to see if they were blank, and therefore good for manuscript transcription next month, or in fact were the ones that had writing in them. The latter, apparently.) From the day after the beginning of things with my dinner companion tomorrow, a shamelessly self-involved statement about,well, how it's all about me, "23/8/04. Ah, the delectable, delightful, doleful agitation brought about by myself. By another? Nah." Having no subtle response to my own impossible words, and no desire after this afternoon to ask WWZD, well, I'll quote someone from years before that morning, "If you can't fuck it and it doesn't dance, throw it back."