…intoeducting

January 22, 2010

  Next to me behind  shared walls on each side nestle families with their busy lives. Some of these lives happen behind the wall where the TV is mounted so its lives acted out in front of lives acting out. For a block we each share two families some of us share a family and a street. I can never figure out which is safer. Row upon row of shared walls that amount to the same as being in an elevator with someone. Almost as if the knowledge of a continually shared proximity compensates by shielding us with partial blind spots that filter what we see and hear. I remember a friend of mine once described infinite regression during a smoke. For the next week all he talked about was a painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture. To tell you the truth after a little while with that I grew bored and didn’t relish those smoke breaks so much. Then a funny thing happened on the way to school, turns out this friend lost his life. One of those sudden tragedies that occurs a couple of times in every school year. Casualties of something, those acquaintances that just blink out of your network and our lost to the void. Growth is such a massive contradiction of fumbled emotions and Arthurian belief. Teenage years being the worst time of the affliction at no other time does it feel like the weight of your world is crushing on you more. Perspective forces anyone 10 years older or more to see you as overly dramatic and somewhat boring, unless of course your hot. Never offering any support or comfort they usually end up making you feel unstable and heavy in a very impersonal way.

A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture. I couldn’t get it out of my mind for weeks after he was gone. A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture. I kept imagining the way he described it with every detail and inflection. A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture. I poured over my head for days trying to piece together the most complete picture I could manage. The more I tried the less complete the picture became lost within the cells of my stunted brain. This lack of memory made the feeling of fate seem like a viable reality. Somewhere within his last moments was a communication I needed to pay attention to. A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture. Almost as if this kids whole life, his whole purpose on earth was so I could learn the painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture or worse yet maybe it had gotten stuck in his head the same way it was now stuck in mind. But wait a second, actually more like a number of years because now that I look back I feel callous and cold. A friend that I spent time with, a guy I had known and related too dies at a very young age and I was so egotistical I turned it into a personal message to me.  What the heck was I thinking?

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