This is a weird moment in life. Nothing is settled; nothing is even clear; nothing will be here tomorrow. I am living on dollars that don’t exist traveling to a place I’ve never been to study a field I just got into. My girlfriend is leaving weeks before that, without knowing about her visa status or whether she’ll be able to return.
Nothing here is real; it is all ephemeral; it is all liminality; it is all insersection, interspersion, internacular, interdiction. Everything is what it is not rather than what it is. It is not where we live, it is not where we lived, it is not an easy moment, it is not class as usual, it is not the building we’ll be in next year, it is not easy to afford New York, it is not yet time to really live together, it is not a mutual departure, it is not an equal arrival, it is not a familiar place to me, it is not the usual trip-taken-alone, it is not yet next semester, it is not trivial to disagree, it is not an easy moment, we are not fully awake.
I remember what it was like to be a kid and to have no clue that adulthood lay in wait for me. Adults were adults and kids were kids and there was no point of conjunction nor spatiospectra between the two. What I think I don’t truly remember is anything else about what it was like to be a kid.
I remember the images, the events, the names (well, some of them). What I don’t remember is the sensationof childhood, apart from the considerations of adulthood. I suppose it’s the sort of conception that inheres—whose very ontology comprises—the lack of adulthood’s presence. Once you are an adult, you can never again “remember” what it is to be a kid. You can only remember the places you went, the clothes you wore, the fits you threw. You can’t remember the being.
You can’t remember being, period—only what you sensed in being.
That is the essence of death, I suppose.
It’s 9.47pm on Thursday, June 7th, 2007. If this was my German I class a million years ago in high school I would have begun the day at 8.00 in the morning by saying:
“Heute ist Donnerstag, der siebte Juni, zwei Tausend und sieben.”
Of course this is nowhere near my German I class a million years ago.
No, this is the 31-year-old me, that by the calculator has as of tonight lived 11,421 nights. Birth is a strange and obtusely prophetic event that guarantees nothing but that there will at some future point be unfathomable signs and wonders upon which to reflect.
It is as Benjamin says.
“There is a secret agreement between past generations and the present one. Our coming was expected on Earth.”