The world’s loneliest cephalopod, Henry The Hexapus, is in captivity, studied for being the only octopus born with six tentacles.
I part with all things all the time. I turn off televisions like an athlete tears tendons.
I know what it’s like, this life.
I’ve got experience.
I’ve felt sadness in all the places I’ve been.
I’ve seen Swiss Alps from above and ridden horses through Arizona deserts and hiked alone through Colorado’s red mountains and all the while felt hostile, like I’m missing something beautiful, like there’s a color to nature I’m blind to or a language embedded that I can’t speak, that the world is a sculpture too modern for me to appreciate and too historic to feel nostalgia for.
And I’ve tried to remove constructs and fictions, I’ve tried to see like a child, I’ve tried but you can never remove yourself from your perception, and I’m looking for forgiveness.
And I know that everyone is capable of doing to me the injury of differences between people.
And I know that all pain leads to the same primal fear and insecurity that there’s no fun at all, there’s no relief, there’s no decision to be made, there’s only this, which has been given to you instead of everything you wish life was, and that behind it all is only a pitch darkness, emptier than the space we forget we float in.
What can I say, I’m a sucker for abandoned stuff, misplaced stuff, forgotten stuff, any old stuff which despite the light of the progress and all that, still vanishes every day like the shadows at noon, goings unheralded, passings unmourned, well, you get the drift.
As a counselor once told me — a Counselor for Disaffected Youth, I might add: “You like that crap because it reminds you of you.” Couldn’t have said it better or put it more bluntly.
”—Danielewski, Mark Z. House of Leaves. 2nd Edition. NY: Pantheon Books, 2000, p 21. (via zeddified)