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but if the story is of "your life" and you imagined it--its just as much part of your "life" as eating an egg. where's the distinction? how does it work? seems arbitrary to me. doesn't it seem arbitrary to you? that what you think or imagine or make up is less part of your life than hitting a rock as you walk down the street, that your inner world is worth less than the most tiresome incident involving something external to yourself? well, an object--the category of rock is your plaything. well, a collective plaything that you take over--o but there's another problem, this silly boundary between collective and private when you start thinking about this language business...and then it just starts getting worse....
nb: can i just say that seeing ghandi staring down at my sentences like that freaks me out?
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a gramophone its corrugated trumpet silver handle
spinning dog. such faithfulness it hear
it make you sick.
-kamau brathwaite
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