involuntary memory cont. 2

For a while there I lost myself. I must admit I let the content of that last memory deconstruct itself, its remains fleeing rapidly towards an already lost future, eclipsing the splendour of my supernova now a mere shadow in a pair of star struck eyes. Not all is lost though, there are things to be got, times to be had, inspecting the shimmering becoming of a future in the future. This time dilation is of a completely different magnitude than returning to the past to pluck the fruits of the sturdy aegis of ancient memory trees. Contrarily we're no longer swimming up the current, or unwinding the clock, we're dealing with a memory from the future - essentially we see before us the structure of a promise or its other; a hope. Oh right, forgot to tell you, I never found eternity: in the blue velvety silence of the night I swam towards the mingling of the 2 Gods but never arrived. So now I find myself soaked in the treacherous, Elysian waters of Rome. Obviously not only all roads lead here but every tide does as well. As it turns out the cobblestoned neighbourhood of Trastevere, bathing in sweet rays of the unconquered Sol provide fertile ground for sprouts of the aphrodisiac flower from the future. Now, the elusiveness of this flora makes it a bitch to pluck. So bitchy and elusive in fact that your only hope of a glimpse is in the eluding of the elusive itself. The best primer for a capable slate of mind for this experience is to get absolutely lost. I take my start wandering past Da Enzo and barely notice the scene of a family gathered under the yellow restaurant lights, you know that special glow the cinema reel gives off when it has been sped down? The pale father figure in the middle of the table is harpooned by the wife's words; or rather, her joke, 'cause he throws his head back laughing like a maniac while the five kids are flying around the waiters. I blink as I realize I'm now staring directly into a wall of graffiti, no restaurant nor family to speak of on this deserted street. Although, I am hit by an ominous re-collective blast of familiarity when I see the writing on the wall: "Isola and Theodor". All explanations that start to form in my mind dry up before their ripening, but the breeze tunnelling down the street into this déjà vu reminds me that the fine fabric of the elusive is woven in the surging wind of meaning itself. Kinda like MacBeth whose fortune bears the stamp of being 'swarmed upon by the multiplying villainies of nature' - anyway I brush this emergence and collapse of meaning off as an espresso-induced contingency and get on with it. I regain consciousness inside the Basilica of Trastevere as I'm confronted by the mosaic of the Annunciation - you know, the whole thing about a guy in feathers revealing the coming of the saviour to the unknowing virgin mother? - well the clouds disperse in an instant as I realize that the logic of a promise inheres in this marvel: heaven descending to earth - the eternal future predicting the already lived past. Do you see? A promise is never in the first instance a reflection of a demand, but is in its revelation 'begotten' with a spirit of hope. In this way, the future can be held accountable for the suffering in the present even though it may itself already have fled to the past. Anyway, I'm spacing out in reverence as this novel melancholy enters into full force, I try to convince myself that the future could just as well give birth to joy, that beautiful spark of Gods, but it just doesn't seep in. The strength of a hope lies in its constancy; in its total surrender to the promise from which it followed and the promise hinges on the return of this hope as its concrete assurance of itself. Fuck, I can feel I'm on the trails of the flower, the future being installed equally in the promise and the hope, but the transience of my now decays into a reminiscence that obscures the coming to be. My feet seem a blur as I pick up the pace to a full out sprint, everything is breaking down around me, the millennial buildings turn into theatrical props, the 'buona seras' draw out to a long howl of indignation. My trail is blazing and my feet are burning as the air knits together, popping and sparkling electrically to materialize a female figure in the horizon walking into a gelateria; grinning demonically I fucking fly forwards trying to sink my claws into the bitch...