I think the world is mostly made of fiction. People talk a lot about how they only like REAL things, but what are these real things? Atoms flying around the sun? Leaves green in springtime? These things are all rooted in theories of the world that started as a fiction of sorts.
Pure, fantastical fiction is the solution that the real world of a crystal grows in. On the edge of this growth is where we all live. We conjure and place narrative like legos hidden on identical colored carpet. We wince in pain at our missteps in these fabrications: reorder and reassess. But it’s a play between these supposed real things and fiction that create our story. To believe in one side alone is to isolate oneself from failure, but also hide from a certain truth.
I’ve caught myself thinking a lot about this divide recently. Between Real and Fiction or what could probably be more easily categorized in this day and age as what we argue about and what we discuss. My head has felt so swarmed with what is the supposed Real — the constant influx of news and statements from others — that the wonder of the world has become less visible in the surfaces of the environment around me.
The problem is that at this boundary an unknown is felt as very present. Since moving to LA my car, Nemo, has been the brunt of a lot of violence: catalytic converter stolen, window smashes, both locks broken, antenna ripped off (this was my own fault during a backup involving an unseen tree limb). Nemo was given to me by my father and at times when life isn’t feeling like it’s going the most optimal direction it’s hard not to see the failure of a son in the misgivings that the passed on car has endured. Failures in this context usually mean a sensation of wishing I have achieved more in some way; it’s a moment when I can see myself about 10 years ago and having my dad tell me that he’s worried that I want something very big in the world and what will happen if I don’t achieve it.
This moment with Nemo becomes a weird stick balanced on a word that exists in a story told of something real and something that is fiction.
I’ve tried to be more thoughtful in my approach to the world in order not to let strong flash floods pull these words down dark storm drains. During a period of time when we seem to always be in constant conversation with each other, it feels a bit like we are skimming the cream off our experience before the fat content can really reach a good percentage. I’ve been trying to bask in a moment a bit longer and absorb it before being seen.
I guess I’ve just been trying to get back to seeing more fiction in the world