Sunday, recovering and denying our tomorrow selves of well rested dignity. Mimosas pour through the cigarette clouds that stretch through the brown filter of noon. There is no morning before this, pajama PBRs resting on the leaning tables of last night’s unstable songs replayed in strange contexts. The royal residence of golden couches and their weary threads, presiding over the forgotten dominions of the church commuters all sincere and full of passionate irresponsibility. Sunday. The bones of trees make morbid crosses and pagan gods of a leafless hour, scratching the windows of our dreams while cars spill seminal psalms into the blushing virginity of dawn. How could anything be so pink and distorted as your innocent denial of widely accepted bullshit? The collapsing apocalypse of beer cans scatters language into the thousand tongued mouth of humanity and pianos. I understood but couldn’t explain. I articulated what I couldn’t accept. I played the music I could never make. I have read the books I would never write. I have sealed the fate of prose with unwavering punctuation, abandoned page after page of potential and begged hormonally for forgiveness. I have rendered myself incapable of operating the heavy machinery of God. I have set about the business of jamming gears and salting the rim of my evenings. Those with sober convictions can carry their exalted texts and test pilot confidence. It was never my job to drive this damn thing, just to chronicle the moments leading up to the crash. Maybe someday, pulled from the wreckage, archaeologists unemployed and bored will set in permanence the narration of uncertainty to which I have bowed my fingers slightly in the blue light of false technology, and revise their histories accordingly. It’s Sunday, and Christ can’t pry my hands from free will and fate, or the crushing can of my own divination.
About Me
- S. Preston Duncan
- I'm a 25 year old writer and artist living in RVA. Admittedly, this blog is kinda defunct. I started writing a book and this has kinda taken a back seat, but if you want to read what's here, start from part 1. This is a semi-autobiographical fiction...which is to say it's not factual, but it's mostly true. It's a kind of experiment on the effects the blogsphere has on the editorial and writing processes. Feel free to leave comments and criticisms, I'm a big fan of collective editing and fairly hard to offend (in regard to literary criticism, not character defamation.)
Hmmm, impenetrable sentagraph, but full of wonderful thoughts. There's some narrative coherence here, but it's hard to pick out without more paragraph structure.
ReplyDeleteI just found this, and then find nothing since January. Come on, you just gonna let Richmond kick your ass? Stop thinking and write, son.
ReplyDeleteAnyway, good to hear there's still scooters and punks in Richmond, although I hope they've thought up a few new things since I was with them oh, a few years before you were born. Good also to see the listerature in the first couple of posts, the smack-back at baptist west end culture (some of which has apparently moved into gentrified condos?)
As an employed (but easily distracted and oftly procrastinating) archaeologist it was against my nature to dive into this at episode 1, but so I did. And all that scrolling is a pain in the ass.
Maybe I'm just too old to know the trick to viewing it seamlessly in chronological order, but then again, I am an archaeologist, and there being no end, or plateau, I'm ashamed at not having dug into this from the uppermost layer and working back.