SO MANY MOONS

Here is a story: Best Friend used to skate behind the Station.

One day he is there and his friend shows up and the sister is there with him, too.

That is the first time ever that Best Friend meets her. And they skate and smoke and listen to music from a wow boombox that they have there. Later on, she asks politely if she can put on a tape she likes, from her backpack.

(Best Friend will remember quite sharply the request being politely posed.)

The answer is of course she can so she does.

Best Friend recalls being instantly struck by the tones and asking about them, but she would not know, that is a tape she has got from a girlfriend of hers and there are really no titles or text or inscriptions whatsoever on the case well actually only drawings that’s a tape I like and just this much.

She                                      breathes out.

(Her nostrils stretch wide and this Wideness is an additional item that Best Friend will recall sharply, for no particular reason.)

So well they start dating they spend time, slide together from school into summer indolence. Go to the movies.

Play the records sit on the couch sleep on the floor – close the eyes sometimes, being pleasantly gone and landing pleasantly back on themselves, next to each other on the edge of an anonymous sidewalk on a certain day of September, 1997.

 

Their heads turn at once and they cautiously kiss.

(The settings crumbling into slow horizontal storms.)

 

And then oh, so many moons.

As of the current moment of now, Best Friend is a grown-up and these are the last weekend hours of the Whatamanager that he has become in the meanwhile. Perhaps he is ironing shirts, streaming music but suddenly that sounds harder / softer, like sidewalks and couches, and that subtly evolves into a smile, which promptly involves into a subtle drop.

These must be the same tunes from that tape when I met you.

Did you ever find out?

We did.

Can you open a bottle with a lighter?

Do I even remember you properly – how horrible, humiliating would that be if I ever accept that you are blurry?, your hips lips chin shade they were everything / where are you happy we were so

overwhelmingly there, is it

happy what we       are?

Best Friend is lost and so is the Author,

whoever the latter might ever be.

 


 

Idle reasoning, stories were once meant against disappearance i.e. death: Iliad, Edda, One Thousand and One Nights, Decameron, the likes ~ the story of something is told, so that this something and best case scenario also the storyteller survive, ad libitum or at least for as long as the story goes.

And then somewhere later, stories started behaving the opposite, somehow stealing / claiming lives of the own Authors in the one or the other way (God knows if we like a good bunch of those, Yesenin Dorris Salgari Curtis Woolf Yngve Ohlin Deren Proust Pavese Kane Foster Wallace etc).

Provided that the Author is the most efficient weapon for flattening stories – for centuries now – this latter course of events really feels a bit like revenge.

Think about it: When is it, that something is a story? When somebody (its Author) has finished with it. Or else, if THIS is a story, and perhaps we can agree that this is one: How to interpret it?

Well, who is the Author?

This you need to know before you start making assumptions.

 


 

Needing Authors, so badly, for the words and sounds themselves, might have something political to it.

An Author being the responsibility for an idea, this is basically accountability. But of course, that also serves the purposes of the pre-comprehension of stories, which is a sad cage with two entrances, one of which for the Author: That because you know, you liked what she did before, you will get the new one as well ~ you know what to expect. Or else, maybe you dislike the Author, and all of a sudden the story itself just ceases to exist.

This also works the other way round btw, maybe you are lucky enough and someone you know will write or sing you a story, anonymously. But how naïve is that! You can guess it out ~ you recognize the style.

And if not the style, perhaps it is the coherence among different stories that is pointing to a common Author, that is saying, the absence of internal inconsistencies, in a fashion that always prepones the existence of the Author vs the existence of the stories. So that it would totally matter if one certain Author originates from a specific place or family, has sexual preferences or a given name instead of the other one.

In a sense, attributing Authorship might then well be like a genus of the species Building on Experience, the latter being what people usually do for survival.

Still, there is always an invisible turning point, the sense of an overriding comprehension when stories suddenly become memorable, i.e. all stories and at least for somebody. And sure, such stories might be bundled under Forenames and Surnames, so that their memorability might translate on the Authors and die and rot on them along historical research. But the stories themselves stay memorable, no matter what and at least this portion of Memorability includes the Author as a part of them, independently of her contribution.

And most likely, this is Salvation.

Most likely, this is what Salvation is, beyond Authors and Composers and Storytellers and their Given Names: Salvation is the only real eternal bundle, which is among us and what happened.

What matter who’s talking?

, homebrewed tapes and the love letters! The dust shapes around your bed. Our images and sounds and words, and the Worlds, that perfect moment that we are able to perfectly stick to each other and everything else ignites and the smoke is blown                   so far away.

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