I made this

I am writing an essay with the possibility of returning to graduate school. I am not sure if I should return to graduate school or not. I do not think it is wise to say in the essay of admission that I am not sure if I should be seeking admission. In fact, I think it is highly unlikely that I should include the fact that I’m not sure about the whole admission process. This reminds me of the summer in college when I wound up working at JC Penny’s. During the interview, when asked how long I’d like to stay at my summer job, I said, “I’d like to be managing this department store one day!” I did not say that. The man interviewing me was named, Bruce. He had a mustache that made him look like a walrus, or maybe he just looked like a walrus, or maybe walruses looked like him. It’s not really my place to say.

The score in the OKC vs. Grizzlies game is still 87-81. Sometimes, I’ll click over to make sure that the final score was 87-81 and has remained 87-81. I don’t know why I keep looking. It is unlikely, given our current experience of time that the score of the game will ever be anything but 87-81. I think I’m not looking for a tear in the space time continuum. I might be though. Who’s to say?

I am editing an essay that I’ve written about trains, wedding trains, trains traveling through Europe, the train that Einstein used to prove his special theory of relativity. I think that the editing is almost done and then I am reading some old comments from a professor, reminding me about compression and then I am sure that I am not done, but that I might still be close to done, and I think about the space time continuum and the kind of compression that went on at the point of the Big Bang, and I decide that I will never be done compressing this essay as much as it could be. This essay is unlikely to create space and time, though it’s likely to move through them.

It is now 8:25 P.M. Time moves on like the obscenity it is.

I’m working on an essay that is supposed to lead me into the future. Though, at present, not much is going on. It’s strange, yes, to write down one’s personal and professional goals? It’s the sort of exercise that we expect to take on in a workshop. It is my goal to figure out the meaning of life, to stamp out poverty and nationalism and find a renewable source of energy. It’s hard to get that all down in 1200 words. The geo-political implication and things that would need to change would take sixteen hundred words at least.

Observation after seeing pictures of people I haven’t seen in ten years. The internet is a weird place man. Aside: Perhaps I should consider a bottle of wine before continuing if the observations are going to be so incredibly incisive.

The Pacers now have a 32-22 lead on the New York Knicks. This game is still taking place in the present time. The score will not, barring some catastrophe, remain as 32-22 for an indefinite period of time. It is extremely unlikely, though not impossible, that neither time will score another basket.

In the bathroom mirror, I am doubled, and the ghostly shape of a spider slides down from the ceiling. And now we are both doubled, looking, I’d imagine, not at one another, but at reflections of ourselves, the reverse of the way we actually appear. It is disorienting, I know, so I wipe him away with a Kleenex, this contingent arachnid, as if I am not also a contingent creature, capable of being wiped clean against the mirror of time.

I explain this all to arachnid as I walk back upstairs, how the mere fact that I’m able to consider myself in the mirror, and things like the Big Bang, compression, the feeling of silk, soft as that passing rain. He is no longer listening though, and possibly never was.

As we sit in certain postures, amidst the smell of wet asphalt from a passing rain, I say to you that I’d like to compress all of these moments down into a single paragraph, a single sentence, a single word, a single letter, I’d like to tell you everything that I’ve been thinking and trying to say without having to say anything at all. I want the quiet compression of things before there was any space at all, before there was any time, only these billions and billions of moments, unborn.