". . . But the past does not exist independently from the present. Indeed, the past is only past because there is a present, just as I can point to something over there only because I am here. But nothing is inherently over there or here. In that sense, the past has no content. The past -- or more accurately, pastness -- is a position. Thus, in no way can we identify the past as past." p. 15

". . . But we may want to keep in mind that deeds and words are not as distinguishable as often we presume. History does not belong only to its narrators, professional or amateur. While some of us debate what history is or was, others take it into their own hands." p. 153

Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (1995) by Michel-Rolph Trouillot

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Beastly Saturday

Not the weather, which is gorgeous, and promises to stay so through el V's performance on Tuesday at Roulette (and the CDs of Kiss You Down South have arrived already too!). Computers and the modem link. Or something. Troubles increasing throughout the week. El V poo-pooing until it hit him too today.
We messed and screwed around with it and called Time Warner, blahblahblah.
Finally we did what I'd been trying to get him to do all week -- reset the modem (I didn't do it myself because it involved a great deal of bending and it remains just out of my reach, since, tadah! Ned picked where to put it and it's convenient for his significantly longer reach ....). It's evidently true -- one's modem does need to be reset fairly frequently or else problems. Why can't I remember that until the problems actually manifest? We spent most of today on this. We had other things we need to do.Everything's fine now. But he got the blue screen of death. And recovered ....

Now there's Windows 8 -- which by all accounts is as much a merde as was Windows Vista, and probably even more so. Have I mentioned how much I HATE touchscreens?

One good thing came out this latest digital stall out. While I waited and waited for my back up to run I removed about the equivalent of two cotton balls of lint from inside my keyboard.

Maybe tomorrow we can some things accomplished. Next week's nights are mostly busy, including among other events, watching the last debate in Harlem with the Treme crew, el V's performance at Roulette, having dinner with the foremost linguist-scholar of Haitian Kreyole, a salsa night in the Bronx.

Nevertheless, all day in the background, niggling at my mind was a phrase which deals with music and improvisation I've read in a novel, which, in context of the paragraph and anything to do with music, is meaningless.  Why do fiction writers do that?

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