I have always had a strange and inexplicable fascination with the phrase, "Backwards and forwards." I picked it up from a novel in high school and it struck a nerve in me. Maybe it hit upon an unnatural repression that grew from the more visually hurtful things of my early years, maybe it just hit upon my artistic vein. Part of me thinks that this obsession is the basis of most of my art and that I have somehow transmuted the phrase into, "Moving backwards in order to go forward."

Backwards and forwards. Always and again and never.

I read this quote from a review of The Constant Gardener from my always favorite Stephanie Zacharek:

Occasionally, Quayle looks at Tessa with a kind of helplessness -- not weakness, but simply an inability to reconcile what's so wondrous about her with the clear-cut, organized world he so deeply believes in. In the end, he realizes that there's no reconciliation between the two. She's his tragedy, his salvation and his perfect partner: He does everything she does, only backward, and in oxfords.

...


I seem to have struck a nerve with a previous post and thank you all that posted. I get lost in the headspace of this writing world and the public-ness of my words (and subsequently my other inner workings) that I talk to this journal, this blog as if it were a living entity. Thank you to those who posted. I was just reminded that the world is here. A kind of plucking out of head space into Thank you.