memory/paradise

I try and dwell on memory to succour and save me. Pleasant memories. Moments of delicious pleasure, fierce joy, or fresh hope engendered. I'd like to have a machine to stop time, or view like Scrooge unseen familiar moments, over and again, till I tired of them, satiated, glutted with beauty and satisfaction. So I try and do this via memory, corrupted and unreliable as it is, vain and forgetful as I am, rash and embarrassed, foolish, naive, pathetic, I appear to myself in real moments to be all these things, in the pain of real life, the sudden realization.

What I want above all is to preserve some corner of the earth, or at least of my world, as a kind of paradise, red-blazing, vivid, meaningful, receptacle of my passion, and midnight-blue too, peaceable, dreamy, like the streaky seas of Neptune. Pinsharp shall my paradise be, absolutely personal, seen from every angle, subjective-objective.

Say farewell to Art as a concept. Think with the whole heart, like a good closet romantic. A predicament-ridden modern man, fated to sell. The backbook blurb. Any sophistication, folly, or artifice can be merely sold. Cheat the advert, then. Plaincover. Your worst reviews are your best reviews (Warhol). These tangles are not enough, as conclusions. Not enough even as a pose. I must go so much farther in questioning what needs to be questioned. I myself am hardly free from the shopping-impulse, the buying-frenzy,a little petted capitalist-american baby. From one angle I am certainly that. I will be the Picasso of thought, for the mind, like the eye, does not operate on one plane. It is the convenience of narrative novels that events are coherent, that the mind is poised and accurate and consistent, all a pose and an artificial scene, like non-existent perspective avenues in renaissance paintings.