To write a diary
To write a diary is to put on makeup in the morning. To write a diary is to have cake for lunch.
To write a diary is to portray reality as it unfolds in present memory. In true colors, in a postmodern fashion, in surrealistic ways: as you please. To write a diary is to describe real events in words that compromise the real events they describe.
Where does that place the person who writes - the writer of a diary, herself?
Does the course of events change when they are being recorded, in the same way photons behave differently when being observed? Can reality feel your presence? In what ways does the behaviour of a person, the writer of a diary, change by the act of self-observing?
To write a diary is to put on makeup in the morning. To write a diary is to have cake for lunch. To write a diary is to stare at arranged objects in a display window, through the blurry reflection of the surroundings and your own, ghostlike figure.
There are drinks and music at the poolside bar, come on over. Someone is dancing on a table, it's anticipation in the air and the air is humid. A coat in blue velvet with dust in the seams is laid out on the ground as a cloth, there are cherries and ants and candles. It's a hot day. Everything that's soft is turning into bones and diamonds, the dirt is getting swept away.
To write a diary is to collect thoughts and events and reflections. To simultaneously make sense and make sense of. And even if it's impossible to lie completely in a language you speak, reality isn't really present in the words on the pages of a diary. New memories materializes in front and inside of the writer, the writer of a diary, as she observes.