Sunday, March 28, 2004
Link: Perverted Justice
Saturday, March 27, 2004
It seems that the more atavistic the sense that invokes a recollection, the more complete one's immersion in the memory will be, as though maps of our animal awareness can be drawn from our bodies and stored whole, waiting. If I see a photo or read a once-familiar line, I can consciously send my mind's eye to the past and revisit the minutes of that vanished day; but sometimes I'll hear a snatch of sound, or catch a scent, and without warning my whole being is transported---often I do not even consciously know what history of mine I am re-experiencing, but I feel it throughout me, and for a moment my sense of location, time, and spatial awareness inform my brain that I am there. Only when the possession, as it were, has subsided can I turn the programmatic parts of my mind to scouring the sheaves of memory to find what it was that I just felt. On occasion I feel a sense of lost time, for it is as though I woke up from a dream to find that years and years have passed, and the day is gone.
One of the propitious aspects of aging is the richness that the world acquires from the populous vault of connections and interconnections held in one's memory, a depth that those too young to remember much can feel. Having known for oneself the history of a place, even if not consciously pondered, makes that place more intimate. When I walk around my neighborhood on Long Island, it has a presence for me larger than its superficial representation would suggest, because it exists in my mind as a montage of the ways I've known it throughout the changes that accrued in the years since I was a wee lad. The little junior-high kids that I pass cannot have such a knowledge of time, and indeed my own historical vantage is shallow compared with the old-timers who remember when the streets were pasty little things passing through the farming communities that lay here in bygone decades. But all of you, my classmates who may be reading this, you who have strayed far from Boston: when the years grow long and you come back perchance to visit, even the steps of Stratton will seem to be more than they are, resonating with all the times you sat there with a Tosci's ice-cream as summer drew near. Tosci's has been gone for a number of years now, and can those fledgling engineers who eat at the crêperie which has ousted it, appreciate the place quite so much, never having known what came before?
My body is telling me that if I don't want my varied years to end now, I'd better go to sleep; so with that I bid you all a good night.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Jesse Nov.1, 1985and yet another piece titled "My Family", enclosed in a nice folder that I made for art class:
November is a month with thaksgiving, eleksion day and another one, I fergot what it is. November is a nice month. It's starting to get cold and people are starting to were heveare clothing. the kids were long sleevs and long pants. People are starting to think of holidays and other things. The leves are falling from the trees.
My FamilyMy family has three people in it. My name is Jesse Nickolas Pavel. I am seven and a half. My birthday is March eighteenth My mother is thirty nine years old. My father is thirty three years old. My mothers name is Tina. My father's is an engineer. My Mother doesn't have a job yet. I don't have a pet now. I had a pet. His name was Puff. He ran away. He was a dog.
My house is white I have alot of trees at my house. My family isn't big at all. It only has three people in it. My house is big. I have many friends at school. I like my family very much. My father is an engineer. He likes the job. My mother wants to be a computer programer. She has to study very hard. She even goes to school two days a week. She has to send me to my grandma's.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Thursday, March 18, 2004
In a book today I read a fragmant of Tennyson's "Tithonus", in which a man who does not die, but yet grows older each year, grieves of his fate:
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
a white-haired shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
One driving incident that continually gives me chortles when I think about it, was the time that some guy through a clod of dirt at my car. Unlike New Yorkers, Bostonites (particularly Cambridgians) seem to feel that pedestrians own the road, and that if some pedestrian a mile down the sidewalk is even thinking about crossing the street, all drivers should stop and wait while he strolls peacefully across the lane. Anyway, I'm rolling down Windsor St. towards Mass Ave, and some trendy, scrawny twenty-something art-head, with black-rimmed glasses, disheveled hair, tight red and white T-shirt, and Converse high tops below pants that are too short for him; this guy is walking down the sidewalk pondering his navel, and I just fly right past him and hook a right on Mass Ave. He apparently took such umbrage at having a car come within ten feet of his shoes, his dander was so raised, that he picked up a ball of dirt from the street and flung it at my passing trunk. To his credit, he did make contact. Maybe now, with so many people playing Grand Theft Auto III, he would think twice before entering the Man vs. Car Challenge.
Tuesday, March 9, 2004
Wednesday, March 3, 2004
Here's a 40 oz. (steak) for you, dog.
September 8, 1989 ---
February 28, 2004