Fugue # 62

Ana reading Joan Didion...

She’s easy, she writes like she talks and reads that way, too. She never says much - at least not for pages. Then you get something like this, from The White Album:

"I was supposed to have a script and had mislaid it. I was supposed to hear cues, and I no longer did. I was meant to know the plot, but all I knew was what I saw: flash pictures in variable sequence, images with no ‘meaning’ beyond their temporary arrangement, not a movie but a cutting room experience."

Ana thinks, she looks out the front window of her apartment. Her mind wanders: And there she is, there’s Little Ana. Sitting on the floor in her parent’s bedroom, surrounded by snapshots, playing. She sings, "This after that, that before that, and this between those." Look? See? She does. Things begin to unravel. The warp and the weft of the now and the then get confused, and dissolve into each other - disappear, reappear different...poof.

The rules are gone. Gone for good. We are everywhere, all at once. We are together, we are apart, and together again. The past is now, it lives with us inside us, just like we are now who we will become in the future. Our faces will change, maybe our ideas, too. But we won’t. Look, see?