Everything's Impossible, Till It Ain't. (Perhaps I've Made It So)

Today was a day on the roof. I ran around, danced, stretched, did gymnastics, took some photographs. The beatnick barber bought us champagne. The sky changed and shifted. The day dimmed and darkened. We've watched Carnivale and it too darkened, unfolded. I sat and wondered. I sat and watched. She's the omega. She's the end. It must be Lodes. Appalonia threw the record. How long has she known? They all know the pieces. We don't know what he knows.

I'm covered in roof dirt, my knees and elbows and the soles of my feet. I have to wake up early tomorrow, to wander about and dance and hand things off to others, things they barely want but pretend to. Geoff wondered if I'd been reading his blog, The Great Hall. I laughed. Of course, I have. Endlessly. Searching. Wondering how mine is different. If I am who I am or if I am someone else. Wondering if, perhaps, I ought to be someone else. Or if I should be who I am. But, why would I be someone else, when the point of this whole endeavor is to understand, based on my own words, who I am. It's strange when Copper Top tells me what to say and what not to say. As if his song is not saying something. As if the fact of it being written is not saying directly that it is for knowing. As if there's such a large difference if I make a vague reference.
He says I've said his name before. Like anyone knows what this is. Like anyone pays attention.

Carnivale is so entirely Twin Peaks. Or what Twin Peaks could have been. Or Carnivale is almost what Twin Peaks just nearly was. Management is a prophet. Scutter is a prophet. They're all avitars. He and Ben are the same thing. Ben's the prince and he's the Usher. It's from a made up Apocrapha.

There used to be a slew of secrets I'd hold inside me. I keep them there still. Wondering who might wish for the answers. Wondering when they might fall from their roofs, when they might plummet from their unthinkable heights. Is this a journal I keep or is it a joke? Am I myself or I am another? Am I another version of myself or do I just make up all the versions of myself to suit the sky in the show I'm watching. The sky is the same I saw this evening through the lens of my camera, my face is the same I saw through the lens of my camera.

My roof, the sky, the trees. I shall wander the words which ring through the Great Hall. I shall let them ring in my ears. Ricardo Reis. Fernando Pessoa. One and the same. I shall separate them in my dreams. They are such distinct people.

The past is the past. Just like a bad dream.