If I had chemo, she says
or I think she says and could rewind these years
then I realize she's said Tivo I'd be a different girl, a prophet:
the numbers fall out and she's zero, again.
To me the last line is the number of years of her life, and when she dies those years are back to zero. I suppose this poem would fit most nicely with the idea of reincarnation.
It is extraordinarily interesting. I read it over like 10 times and kept seeing new things every time I read it, which is crazy since it's so short.
Thoughts on the final line? I was in two minds about the comma, but I like it now. As for interpretations...I almost saw the 'numbers falling out' as being a failure at the attempt or idea of rewinding. I mean, you're rewinding and you're watching all the numbers going backwards, but what if they got loose? And as a result of trying to rewind your life ends up like coiled tape all over the floor with equations mixed in? And because you spent so long watching your life run backwards, you can't remember how to make it run forwards again?
Or even...what if she rewound too far? What if she rewound so far that she lost who she was?
It reminds me of some things I've read about Satanists, actually. Or rather my reaction to them. It seems that they think they can fix their problems by tapping into darker forces, by using them to manipulate reality. But it doesn't seem to really get them anywhere. They might feel a little better about living and dying, but problems are still there. The voids are still there.
Although I suppose this could apply to just about any religious practice. It depends on the individual.
--
"It has always saddened me that the art form that chose me as its mistress did not make people cry. Music does. Books do. And bad movies do it even better. But not paintings." Marlene Dumas' Sweet Nothings.
True, it does depend. But feeling a little better about living and dying can do some remarkable things for a person, even if the voids persist. It's not enough to make me become a satanist (or any other -ist, or -ian, hopefully), but people are drawn to the things that give them comfort and a sense of importance.
You're right they do. And as long as it doesn't hurt me or other people, I don't care what people choose to believe. Whatever helps them sleep at night.
--
"It has always saddened me that the art form that chose me as its mistress did not make people cry. Music does. Books do. And bad movies do it even better. But not paintings." Marlene Dumas' Sweet Nothings.
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Comments
It is extraordinarily interesting. I read it over like 10 times and kept seeing new things every time I read it, which is crazy since it's so short.
--
Hope it's right when you die: old and boney.
Dawn breaks like a bull through the hall!
Peace & Love,
C
--
Your humbleness is showing:
--
Hope it's right when you die: old and boney.
Thoughts on the final line? I was in two minds about the comma, but I like it now. As for interpretations...I almost saw the 'numbers falling out' as being a failure at the attempt or idea of rewinding. I mean, you're rewinding and you're watching all the numbers going backwards, but what if they got loose? And as a result of trying to rewind your life ends up like coiled tape all over the floor with equations mixed in? And because you spent so long watching your life run backwards, you can't remember how to make it run forwards again?
Or even...what if she rewound too far? What if she rewound so far that she lost who she was?
Curious stuff.
Curious indeed; I like the way you think.
--
Your humbleness is showing:
Although I suppose this could apply to just about any religious practice. It depends on the individual.
--
"It has always saddened me that the art form that chose me as its mistress did not make people cry. Music does. Books do. And bad movies do it even better. But not paintings."
Marlene Dumas' Sweet Nothings.
--
Your humbleness is showing:
--
"It has always saddened me that the art form that chose me as its mistress did not make people cry. Music does. Books do. And bad movies do it even better. But not paintings."
Marlene Dumas' Sweet Nothings.
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