couldn't not open the wine as if the liquid could transport us back. it does. there is gentle insertion, there is summer air and summer agendas and arcs of years. the wine is from 7 years ago but we drink it as if it was made today. nobody notices you go away. there is no promise of belonging here. i feel contained. it's good. it's dreamy but stable (solid dreaming). it seems i may need to count. i would like to note two currents of thought:
else the visions for france expanded...sense of home, sense of agency, thinking/feeling space. good kind of slowness. attachment. laughter. stories floating in the air. poetic space.
the city placed a phone in her hand. she kept looking. something heavy. something heavy inside. was this roundness something to worry? like a phone call. eternally postponed. like language. foreign in the mouth. muscles slow to move, making worlds anew, making her visible and not. maybe what she was after was indeed confrontation. this continuously delayed space of open conversation or speech where mouths would swallow each other and finally she could seize to dream.
resisting narrative. post-Lucy, pre Cody-Rose (perhaps). short form and desire for play and sun-induced delay. unable to dress, able to eat a lot. sitting on the floor fits. matcha in cakes fits. new sunglasses and shop policies. can the awe for sun ever expire? could we celebrate forever? still not going to parties.
this feeling mobilizes all matter you feel your fucking blood pump through, it's a conversation too, like the becoming of a chair and a pen and a tree. one could dissolve, one could, perhaps that's it a melting there shouldn't be a word for this
channel channel one erase return, be here, itchy eyes, sun beams pouring in, short breaths, gazes, the dance of moving to sides, i remember looking up last night, to the night heavy on my shoulders, pressing down, music pumping, trying to catch up to the blood
I need to walk the dog but I'm feeling constipated both on the level of thought and action. I wanted open space and so I have it and so I'm spinning, making turns in the air or on the floor, watching the ceiling and napping. I love doing nothing. The milk is really sweet. On days like this sociality feels absurd, or silly to the least and so I am a fish watching the world pass by behind a glass wall. I wonder about the correlation between middle class and social isolation. I liked what I read today in Anarchy—in a manner of speaking (109) about how middleclassness is not an economic category but a moral one - I enjoyed reading that statement, it made sense to me, comforted me perhaps. It's comforting to consider classes as phenomena not only tied to capital or perhaps pertaining to more depth than numbers. Middleclassness has a lot to do with entitlement, a sense of deserving, an expectation to be treated a certain way. The bourgeoisie can move beyond entitlement and simply top everything and everyone, because they (can) own everything and everyone. The middle class has always seemed to me terribly unattractive precisely because of this entitlement, which is essentially stemming from uncertainty, from fear of the fall. The upper classes can be far more dramatic which is entertaining, and are far more removed from society which makes society dream of them, the dreams fuelled by all kinds of media images (=mirrors). I need good sleep to even me out. The blog doesn't exist yet because I'm having a hard time learning, and also letting go and also getting things done. Like I said I love doing nothing. The shoes arrived today but they aren't mine, they are an intruder to my day, a cut into a vision I've been cultivating the last days. The self exists between a yes and a no. I'm desiring longer texts for the self. Drop słów has been nourishing but also felt like snacking a lot (see reflection here). There's is only so much in a format to explore until comfort takes hold and one simply gets used to it. Oh how much one gets used to things. I find opposition immensely motivating. The whole 'grass is always greener on the other side' could be tattooed on my body. Btw I found something else that could be tattooed today: 'Beneath my smooth forehead and silken hair move strong and manly thoughts.' (from "Life is Everywhere", p.13 but actually from "Mademoiselle de Maupin" by Théophile Gautier) An obsession has taken hold. I've been reading Lucy Ives, which means reading, rereading, listening to her talk, looking at her face on the video move as she speaks, exploring the different kinds of haircuts she had prior to her short cut. She's really strange and nerdy which are two characteristics of the kind of writing and the kind of people I enjoy. She begins writing on the inside, with her fingers deep inside things, feelings, observations. She witnesses life in a way that makes it clear she felt distanced from it at some point or maybe forever, it's a new love or a newly reworked obsession. She works a lot, that one is clear. There is a focus her writing that's not all that common. The conviction, which is so vastly different from Rennee's in method but still similar in affect. Joint workers of the written word.