Another day, white skies, showers, how is it possible?, I ask myself. How, again, another day? Some insect swarming over the fields. Flying insects stick to my face, to my hair. Another day: I cleared up the flat earlier, to be braced against it. Changed the lightbulbs and the sheets. Thought: I should try and preserve some details of this day, somehow. Should try to capture it, so it doesn’t disappear, day among days.
Thought: but nothing much is happening. Then: not enough is enough; narrate: tell the blog what happened. Thought: I can only tell what did not occur. Nor even that. Can only substitute the occurrence of tiny events for the non-occurrence of the day. Because it did not happen, the day. Or it happened by not happening, by purging itself of events. And isn’t that what the blog is about? To bring narrative to the edge of what it cannot narrate?
The story of the day is dead. There is no story. Only the non-story, the ‘there is’ of the day. The day that says itself in great dull waves. The day that says ‘I am’ only as it pulls me slowly apart. But by the blog, I have caught you out, day. By the category, ‘Today’, have I caught you out. Did you think I could not speak of you? Did you think I could not lift you from forgetting?
Fragment, day, I know you are alive only as you separate yourself from narrative, from narration. Fragment, I know you live by your separation from the whole. Nothing about you adds up to anything consequential; you leave nothing behind, no hostages, nothing in which your image might be caught. This is why I dream of a blog that is a day-catcher, the trap of the non-event.
I will not sum you up. I will not let the negligible substitute itself for you. I will make you speak. Speak, then, across these words. Speak, like the wind that bows the head of the crops in the scene in Mirror. The wind comes: all these words bow their heads. Day, fragment, you are that wind. Day, fragment, these words, bowing, speak of you.
Lars Iyer's Blog 