2.1.12 / 21.1.2
Not that I am at all superstitious or even a believer in the symbolism of the Universe. I take no stock in the importance of natural occurrences of symmetry. I do not believe that cosmic forces are communicating with puny humans individually. But I do think that it is interesting that other people do.
I am much more a devotee of the gamble, the randomness, the unpredictability and chance that throws icons and hints against the walls. I appreciate the ingenious obstacles that seem infinitely circumspect. And I am, personally, more prone to embrace the black guards who blend into the shadows of damp alleys or block the stairways into smoke-filled basements, than the bright spaces monitored by CCTVs panning across the red carpets and polisehed gold bannisters lining the pit of nickel slot machines.
Where the overgrown weeds have died and all the grease-smeared windows have been broken by rock throwing kids. These are the places – abandoned and caked in dust and mildew and weird standing puddles of never evaporating/absorbing fluid – these are the places where Chance hides, unlimited.
But with all religious organizing systems; all ideological belief structures; all participatory celebrations recorded between well worn leather of the onion paper hymnals, I have always skirted the edges. Never staying very long. Never anything but a tourist. An observer with a shoulder bag and a heavily penned journal. Never occupying or even staying overnight.
I am content recording from a distance, understanding and organizing with a sleight of hand arrogance. Nodding like an initiate. Intimately aware of the subtle in-joke of the Enlightened, privy to the exclusiveness. Always the Historian. The Witness. The Stenographer.
What is the point of this endless audience? Aside from satiating my own endless nosiness, I am not sure. Curiosity of what we do in secret; what we believe we can manipulate; what makes us exclusive to the secrets and arrangements of the Universe, fascinates me. What I do with all this misunderstanding is still not clear.
Anyway. Happy 2.1.12 Day!
(Thanks to Noelle Powell for setting me straight on my numerical dyslexia!)