Triad X

Compulsory Opening Statements:

I took some comfort in discovering, after first grimacing, then punching minortriad.blogspot.com into the address bar and scrolling all the way down to look at the first post, that it'd taken us  until the day before Eric's twentieth birthday to open this weird and patchy record of the decade now nearly elapsed. I don't know why I felt so excited by the thought I might have missed that auspicious date. I don't even know why I've gone ahead with this thing you're reading now. Something about the ticking by of ten's places makes my head ring, and I'd better not exorcise that feeling anywhere but here.

What have we done?
What eerie treasure have we buried here?
What has become of this decade?
What has become of this project?
What has become of the triad?

When I think about the mutations accruing in my own personality it is tremendously clear to me that they have been myriad, but I am unable to maintain a fixed opinion as to whether I am more or less like the self whose writing I read from this remove. I suppose I'm satisfied with that tension, leaping from a sort of perfect remembered continuity to moments of unidentifiable disgust, usually at the naivety, but sometimes with the style, the voice. Did I really think that? Was I playing? How creepy.


Fuck that bullshit:

I don't want to answer any of those questions. I really don't give a rat fuck about the answers to those questions. Those are questions born of the hyperbolic bloated discourse against which this hallowed blog was explicitly consecrated. Those are questions whose answers at least defy modeling and simulation through singular imagination. I'll not waste our time.

Requisite Commemoration:

What I really want to talk about, now that I've written those other things first, is an experiential shift in our more recent, typically dyadic, brief encounters. It occurs to me that we have, to a certain extent, shed a considerable register of our collective remembrances. What I'm trying to get at is though we maintain our respective abilities to access and recant relatively profound, narrativized scenarios in which we three once participated, we have sloughed nearly all of baroque in-speak. And in the wake of this purge we are faced with a genuinely novel terrain, a time never theorized in our sparse plan to 1. Leave town; 2. Do something with our lives; 3. Remain friends; 4. Sit together on a park bench laughing at one another's jokes as our corpses inevitably wind down.

I look at this list and 1 is done and 2 looks ugly, hairy, scary for me, still. I don't know how gym class is progressing, haven't heard it yet from the horse's mouth, but I'd almost put money on the applicability of those adjectives in describing that emergent plane wherein Rico becomes Rotta. And then I look at 3 and my face cheeses up a little bit, because out of all the ever-churning things I can claim to know or be in this world, whenever we make the time to regard one another I can always feel precisely that spirit which drew us together and know that whenever the right season does arrive the igloo can be re-stacked, the pieces reset, the game played anew; probably better.

Denouement:
Anyway, 29 has been an altogether profoundly lousy year on my end, though not my time spent with either of you fellas. Put glibly for the sake of time: I've been beating myself beyond silly with a mallet I forged from the difference between the world in which I daily find myself and the one I hope to help render from it. In spite of these regular beatings, I have failed to destroy the mallet using my head.
A truly dire predicament?
Perhaps. A few months ago I would have agreed half-heartedly and then concentrated on banishing the topic from my mind and getting my guts back in order. But gentlemen, GENTLEMEN! There is something else emerging from this murky period, something I apparently had to pry from the banks of the Winnebago. It's a sudden glimmer of mad hope, a blossom from some arcane bulb. Here's to the next ten! Here's to that bench!