Just reaching that point in Knausgaard's latest tome where he kind of skips the usual, everyday detail and summaries larger periods of time, like a song coda, and hurries you along to the end. I wonder if I'm picking over the skeleton of some other book yet to be fleshed out and one day all the details, coffee grinding, rainstorms and pub encounters will be revealed. That's how looking back on life is, huge chunks of lifetime events jostle for position in the mind as if in some memory driven Grand Prix.
You never know what trivial matter will come speeding out and overtake something profound and important, or that's the point, everything is equally important just because it actually happened. However short or long or deep or shallow, that death, that sandwich, that job interview, that encounter, that daydream, that one too many, that holiday, that moment before fully waking up, that TV show, that song, that book, that best friend, that stranger, those people at the bus stop, the vegetables you bought, the weather last week, the ragged fingernail, the illness and the fitness, this family, this love, all mean something. You can never really sift it all and sort it out, the vital from the travelogue because it's all you, all your experience, all your ghostly photos, imprinted and impaired but real enough for it all to matter.
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