We, Silas:
Posted: 07 Sep 2016, 16:18
A sense of history is imperative to knowing what was before.
I know. My skin said so.
You must know past actions in order to predict future actions. Myself-outside-of-me tells me so in my remembering place.
I do not remember much before.
It's one of those things that I know that I know that I know: You must know past actions in order to predict future actions.
My skin knows this from a place called college, a class called statistical analysis.
It's one of those natural conclusions a man may draw from crunching numbers and sorting people into neat, little equations and exact algorithms.
I know these words and I do not know these words. I am sometimes okay when my skin talks. I am sometimes not okay when my skin talks. I am not a hush I am not a sh. I know I am not a quiet one but I am a hunger and I know this, because I have read these certain, 'exact' definitions. I know beyond my skin. My skin does tell me things, sometimes, but I must know things outside my skin, too, to re-member them.
Knowing with my skin is one of those very, very important things that I won't have to be re-taught.
My skin and I both know some things. Sometimes, we know different things, together.
This is something that we both know: You must know where you've been in order to predict future actions.
My mind functions just okay.
It functions very exact thoughts. I like the word 'exact'. It is a good word. I am not a good word. I looked up 'mess' from the note to Mr. Parkman. I am 'this mess'. This is an exact thing. Mess is a word that is also exact. Exact. I like things that are exact. I am working to be exact.
I am finding my ailment is mostly physical.
One of these things that I know, that I know meaning that I don't have to be re-taught, like how to use a fork, or how to use my hands, or how to make my tongue go -- one of these things that I know is that history is important. Imperative. Impetuous. I've been reading the dictionary.
My Maker has given it to me. My instructions are to read this book. I am to read this book and make my mouth make the noises the book says: His-store-ree.
I try it in the mirror.
I look like the parabola's ***. The paraphilia. The piranah. I look like the proverbial ***. Prov-er-bee-awl. A-a-a-a-a-ssssss. Ahss. Awss. Aeowowowss.
Personal history tells you who you were and what you were and when you were. It tells you where you were before. I would like to know where I was before.
I know college, because I remember some of it inside my skin, which makes pictures in my throat that flash to the roof of my mouth and films in my head and you-can-also-have but no-that's-not-right.
I don't remember all of it, because it isn't my college I remember.
The college I remember is not for me: I am not an analytics major. The college of analytics majors was for Saul before. Now, I am Silas after.
And we are Silas together.
I am sorry that We are Silas, now, and that I am not Just Silas Alone from before.
My late history -- from before -- is what I now refer to as the Old Testament.
This is my New Testament history and it is very short.
The history that I know with complete solidarity is very short and it's a history of violence.
Like most babies, the world is lost on me.
That is just okay.
I am told that, sometimes. 'The world is lost on you.' I do not know what it means, but I know it's what babies do, and I'm reading the definitions for things like 'lost' and 'you' and 'babies'. I know what they are with my skin. But I have to re-learn them, sometimes.
If the world is lost on me, what is found on me? I wonder if that means I am found on myself. What does it mean to be found on yourself?
But I do read my dictionary I have been given and I practice my words in the mirror.
I know with my brain, but my mouth and my tongue are kites' beaks. I read that in a poem by John Crowe Ransom. I like John Crowe Ransom's poem about Captain Carpenter, because I am torn apart, too.
I practice John Crowe Ransom in my mirror.
I practice Captain Carpenter.
I practice Winter Remembered.
I like Winter Remembered but I don't remember winter the way I think I ought. I might ought to remember winter with my skin.
My skin does not remember, so well, about winter. It quiet-tells me that, I don't give a **** about winter, Silas. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. and it clenches my body and hurts my bones.
My skin knows about what cold is, though, and it knows about long-ness and loath-ing and monstrous evils and absences. My skin knows what wood is from trees and about wind that goes through. My skin tires of my questions. It says I am like a baby.
So, that is why I like Winter Remembered, but not because I remember winter, like I think I might ought.
I practice, "Oo emose mofuf evah wuh apaw," and my tongue refuses to make the sounds my brain makes.
It hurts in my throat and stings in my eyes. I am frustrated. I know frustrated. I know frustrated because my skin shrieks and shrieks and shrieks and it gets tight in some places but not in other places. We have two skins: We, Silas.
One of those things I've lost is how to talk. I am all slurs and hungry whines, like a needing dog. My skin told me so. I sound like a dumb animal.
And I know that I sound this way, and it does bring me shame, but I know I can re-train my tongue.
I know this how I know things. I know this from a re-membering of re-learning French when my skin was not so big and I was so small, like a baby.
I am a re-membering, too. I know I am, because my arms and legs have been re-membered. I am done-again, together: We, Silas.
A sense of his-story. His-story is written by men for men: I know this, because I know it in my skin.
I know it in a voice that isn't mine and is not my skin's. I know it in a voice that belongs to a woman with orange hair. I know that this voice that isn't mine is called a 'memory' and that it has to do with re-membering. Re-membering is when you stitch together pieces of things so you can have a whole image, a God's image, a Silas Together.
I know. My skin said so.
You must know past actions in order to predict future actions. Myself-outside-of-me tells me so in my remembering place.
I do not remember much before.
It's one of those things that I know that I know that I know: You must know past actions in order to predict future actions.
My skin knows this from a place called college, a class called statistical analysis.
It's one of those natural conclusions a man may draw from crunching numbers and sorting people into neat, little equations and exact algorithms.
I know these words and I do not know these words. I am sometimes okay when my skin talks. I am sometimes not okay when my skin talks. I am not a hush I am not a sh. I know I am not a quiet one but I am a hunger and I know this, because I have read these certain, 'exact' definitions. I know beyond my skin. My skin does tell me things, sometimes, but I must know things outside my skin, too, to re-member them.
Knowing with my skin is one of those very, very important things that I won't have to be re-taught.
My skin and I both know some things. Sometimes, we know different things, together.
This is something that we both know: You must know where you've been in order to predict future actions.
My mind functions just okay.
It functions very exact thoughts. I like the word 'exact'. It is a good word. I am not a good word. I looked up 'mess' from the note to Mr. Parkman. I am 'this mess'. This is an exact thing. Mess is a word that is also exact. Exact. I like things that are exact. I am working to be exact.
I am finding my ailment is mostly physical.
One of these things that I know, that I know meaning that I don't have to be re-taught, like how to use a fork, or how to use my hands, or how to make my tongue go -- one of these things that I know is that history is important. Imperative. Impetuous. I've been reading the dictionary.
My Maker has given it to me. My instructions are to read this book. I am to read this book and make my mouth make the noises the book says: His-store-ree.
I try it in the mirror.
I look like the parabola's ***. The paraphilia. The piranah. I look like the proverbial ***. Prov-er-bee-awl. A-a-a-a-a-ssssss. Ahss. Awss. Aeowowowss.
Personal history tells you who you were and what you were and when you were. It tells you where you were before. I would like to know where I was before.
I know college, because I remember some of it inside my skin, which makes pictures in my throat that flash to the roof of my mouth and films in my head and you-can-also-have but no-that's-not-right.
I don't remember all of it, because it isn't my college I remember.
The college I remember is not for me: I am not an analytics major. The college of analytics majors was for Saul before. Now, I am Silas after.
And we are Silas together.
I am sorry that We are Silas, now, and that I am not Just Silas Alone from before.
My late history -- from before -- is what I now refer to as the Old Testament.
This is my New Testament history and it is very short.
The history that I know with complete solidarity is very short and it's a history of violence.
Like most babies, the world is lost on me.
That is just okay.
I am told that, sometimes. 'The world is lost on you.' I do not know what it means, but I know it's what babies do, and I'm reading the definitions for things like 'lost' and 'you' and 'babies'. I know what they are with my skin. But I have to re-learn them, sometimes.
If the world is lost on me, what is found on me? I wonder if that means I am found on myself. What does it mean to be found on yourself?
But I do read my dictionary I have been given and I practice my words in the mirror.
I know with my brain, but my mouth and my tongue are kites' beaks. I read that in a poem by John Crowe Ransom. I like John Crowe Ransom's poem about Captain Carpenter, because I am torn apart, too.
I practice John Crowe Ransom in my mirror.
I practice Captain Carpenter.
I practice Winter Remembered.
I like Winter Remembered but I don't remember winter the way I think I ought. I might ought to remember winter with my skin.
My skin does not remember, so well, about winter. It quiet-tells me that, I don't give a **** about winter, Silas. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. and it clenches my body and hurts my bones.
My skin knows about what cold is, though, and it knows about long-ness and loath-ing and monstrous evils and absences. My skin knows what wood is from trees and about wind that goes through. My skin tires of my questions. It says I am like a baby.
So, that is why I like Winter Remembered, but not because I remember winter, like I think I might ought.
I practice, "Oo emose mofuf evah wuh apaw," and my tongue refuses to make the sounds my brain makes.
It hurts in my throat and stings in my eyes. I am frustrated. I know frustrated. I know frustrated because my skin shrieks and shrieks and shrieks and it gets tight in some places but not in other places. We have two skins: We, Silas.
One of those things I've lost is how to talk. I am all slurs and hungry whines, like a needing dog. My skin told me so. I sound like a dumb animal.
And I know that I sound this way, and it does bring me shame, but I know I can re-train my tongue.
I know this how I know things. I know this from a re-membering of re-learning French when my skin was not so big and I was so small, like a baby.
I am a re-membering, too. I know I am, because my arms and legs have been re-membered. I am done-again, together: We, Silas.
A sense of his-story. His-story is written by men for men: I know this, because I know it in my skin.
I know it in a voice that isn't mine and is not my skin's. I know it in a voice that belongs to a woman with orange hair. I know that this voice that isn't mine is called a 'memory' and that it has to do with re-membering. Re-membering is when you stitch together pieces of things so you can have a whole image, a God's image, a Silas Together.