And when he comes to the end he often has the sensation that he hasn’t gotten very far.
As if he’d just begun
or that it seemed quite near to where he’d started from
that foreign felt familiar and a bit of vice-versa
Where had he gotten? And where had he set out from? And when? What had moved him from place to place, situation through situation and so on?
Max Frisch came to mind. He’d once said or written that “a man has been through an experience, now he is looking for the story to go with it – you can’t live with an experience that remains without a story…”
which brought to mind everything he knew about the world and everything he’d ever read or seen and everything he didn’t know but may have heard of, and everyone he’d ever met or fathered, loved or hated, felt indifferent or mildly agitated by, animals, trees, chemical theories, in short, whatever remained, at this point, in his memory, mind, consciousness and/or body, however one might denote such a thing,
and he wondered if there was a story to go with it, or a thousand stories, or layers upon layers of inextricable stories, or if he hadn’t got any? Who would author the narrative? Any narrative?
He must be at the end of it. Something has assuredly happened, yes, he could swear he has “gone through an experience” (while remaining quite unsure of what that entails or might mean, or how to go about verifying or evaluating it). Yet he’s quite sure that things have occurred, including, quite plausibly (it seems to him) maybe even himself as well as the myriad characters and events that are flooding his mind. Continue reading “He(II)”