Friday, July 10, 2009
MARRIAGE AND GUANO
This sentence is the inverse of all of the other sentences that I did not write. It begins this story which itself is the inverse of all of the stories that I also did not write. What about them was so compelling to me that I chose them over all the others? On the day that I was married, just as the photographer was about to take a picture of me, my wife-to-be, and all of our family including the dogs, a bird shat on my shoulder, a large white globule which dripped down the shoulder of my black tuxedo. “Its good luck,” everyone said, but I wondered why I was chosen and how many other grooms at that moment, from Africa to Siberia had either no birds flying over them, or birds with clenched cloacae arcing across the sky without thought to matrimony, wedlock, or the ritual and legal realization of relationships. And I’ve chosen to fly over this story, chosen to drop some words, attention, indeed intention onto its shoulder, to solemnize my relationship with it. I’m writing this story and not any other. I’m asking you to read this sentence, this story, and not any other, though in truth what exactly constitutes this story may not be clear. There may be more than one story depending on the reader, depending on the time of reading, depending on how many birds or the inverse of birds are flying over or through the reader’s mind. What is the inverse of a story? This sentence is the inverse of all of the other sentences that I did not write. It ends this story which itself is the inverse of all of the stories that I also did not write. It is also not true.