Travis James Gasper

Looking for seams near the fringes.

Memories lie slumbering within us for months and years, quietly proliferating, until they are woken by some trifle and in some strange way blind us to life.

—W.G. Sebald, The Rings of Saturn (via mythologyofblue)

Reboot

A truth to begin: Life is a slippery, malleable, tricky little bastard.  Impossible to capture visually, linguistically, theologically, psychologically, (etc. etc.) we are left to the little handholds that cut into the cliff face.  These are often all that remain of those who went before us, although their worn contours usually offer no clues as to the fate of previous travellers.

And so I can retrace my path through life with these handholds as a guide.  They are usually artistic in nature, although they change in shape and form (despite, or in spite of, any original intentions) based on what I bring to the table.  They could be a punk rock song, a 90’s action movie, a line from a book, a cup of coffee, a remembered bit of dialogue, and so on.

I’ve always been fascinated by memory and nostalgia and the ways they attach themselves to physical objects.  Everyone can relate to that special type of vertigo, pleasant or unpleasant, when some chance encounter with a song, visual, object, or scent drags up a forgotten memory.  These objects have a different history for each of us, but our histories will often intersect if we zoom out far enough. 

So this will be my attempt to document my memories—my personal historical consciousness.  I will not attempt absolute truth—it’s impossible.  The only way to truly experience something is first hand, in the moment.  As soon as anything happens, our brain is working hard to forget, making room for what’s new.  

Instead, I will try to get at some essence, some vertiginous core of each object/handhold/cultural artifact.  If you have your own memory, please share it with me.  Let’s find some intersections.

Enjoy.

Incredible Article about Humanity in the Face of Certain Death

She believes that sometimes, when the spirit overflows, people can speak in a language they themselves do not understand, the same language that angels speak.

She believes that the one-dollar boxes of Little Debbie cakes she buys most Sundays at this Fastrip are the best deal in town.

She believes that the Joplin Full Gospel Church, which departed the physical world approximately two minutes ago, is as much her home as her thirty-year-old Solitaire trailer.

She believes that the roar that fills the Fastrip as soon as the windows explode is one of the worst sounds she’s heard in all of her sixty years.

She believes that the sound of the screams of the two little boys next to her is even worse.

She believes that Ruben, though she can’t hear his shouts very well above the screaming and the roaring, is commanding them all to pass through a silver doorway by the potato-chip rack.

She believes that God has already chosen the time and place of your death before you are born.

Donna Barnes enters the cooler on her hands and knees.”

"If I finally lose my sanity

Will your ghosts stop visiting my dreams?

Will the hungry beast finally be set free?

Will the thoughts of the end bother me?

Will the grace I need finally come and visit me?”

fsgbooks:

muscovite:

from Nick Cave’s Handwritten Dictionary of Words, 1984

We should all do this.

fsgbooks:

muscovite:

from Nick Cave’s Handwritten Dictionary of Words, 1984

We should all do this.

Is the Great American Novel Dead?

At the end of the Phaedrus, Plato has Socrates tell the story of the god Theuth, who, legend has it, invented the art of writing. When Theuth presented his new invention to the king of Egypt, he promised the king that it would make his people “wiser and improve their memories.” But the king disagreed, claiming that the habit of writing, far from improving memories, would “implant forgetfulness” by encouraging people to rely on external marks rather than “the living speech graven in the soul.” I think of Schopenhauer’s observation about the perils of excessive reading: Just as he who always rides gradually forgets how to walk, so he who reads constantly without pausing to reflect “gradually loses the capacity for thinking.”

“Such is the case,” said Schopenhauer, “with many scholars; they have read themselves stupid.”

-Roger Kimball

One Reason Why Murakami Interests Me

INTERVIEWER

Your first book was published, you won a prize and were more or less on your way. Did you begin to meet other writers?

MURAKAMI

No, not at all.

INTERVIEWER

You had no friends who were writers at that time?

MURAKAMI

None.

INTERVIEWER

And over time did you meet anyone who became a friend or a colleague?

MURAKAMI

No, not at all.

INTERVIEWER

To this day, you have no friends who are writers?

MURAKAMI

No. I don’t think so.

INTERVIEWER

Is there no one you show your work to when it’s in progress?

MURAKAMI

Never.

INTERVIEWER

How about your wife?

MURAKAMI

Well, I showed the first manuscript of my first novel but she claims she never read it! So she got no impression at all, I guess.

INTERVIEWER

She wasn’t impressed.

MURAKAMI

No. But that was the first draft and it was terrible. I rewrote and rewrote.

Stumblesome

—This Shit's Called Daisy

Deserves to be bumped til the end of time.

postprime:

This Shit’s Called Daisy _________ ::stumblesome::

(Source: wctank)