and I am sitting at my desk surrounded by many new things.
the Critique of the Perfect Figures in Childhood after childhood has passed.
Judgment of one’s Youth.
Statements of Selfish beings.
disorganization as a catalyst for great ideas. (forcing oneself to run into unexpected items/ideas since there is little room to walk; one must Navigate, traverse, construct a path, pay attention).
First, there is a large television, just next to my glass of brandy, and turned off because it has begun to seriously distract me. I do not have cable, so it isn’t the content on the screen, it’s the incessant glow and feeling of death spraying on me. I have three different glasses alarmingly close to my computer. I’m drinking tea, water and some old brandy, listening through electronic music from the 70s.
Perpetual confrontation with this battle of writing, and today was severe, actual, work and no play, but at the cafe, with potential for more, but i played it as Hemingway used to - stop when you’ve got more to go so you’ll have a place to start tomorrow.
i become more acutely aware of myself each day, in these awkward social positions in which i have no feeling or sympathy where one ordinarily might, or should. I spoke recently with Taymoor about this and I had almost exactly the same words as Ben on the matter. A monster is peaking around the corner…
And certainly there must be a great deal of this which is Selfish. There must be time to do the things we want to do, and indeed there will be a time, and indeed there will be a time… As we fall in and out of balance, so the next time we stand on our own feet we will tower above the others. Miscount your steps, but continue to push forward with some tenacity, some vigorous push towards the episodes of your youth. Pastel memories of adventures and dirt underneath your fingernails. Now I’m talking to myself, and telling myself something, trying to get to the heart of it, but really it’s just You You You, which does nobody any good, since i am telling YOU, as a reader, about something you know nothing about, and placing you in the position of feeling as though you do, or should. some strange writing tactic one falls into on occasion. i wish to escape all of this, even the words to some extent. This happened earlier on the piano, when the words became crusty, like unscrewing an old bottle of wine from the cellar with your half eaten dinner fork.
It occurred to me today that content is….The more interesting aspect to the world is the movement of the body from one space to another, and how bodies are categorized, understood, used, seen, heard, touched. Do we return to our bodies with Yoga and exercise, massages, gyms, greater desires for other bodies? How much do we inhabit our own bodies and to what extent do they escape us, getting lost in the Shuffle, just like we lose our own minds over coffee in the morning as we read the paper, or a blog, or sit for hours at a desk and mindlessly observe flashing changes on screens and call it work and get paid for it.
Aside from a few long walks today there was a bike ride through the park to pick up Giovanni’s Room. I like the idea of tearing through the city, and also traveling by different means - a walk to the cafe in the morning, jogging back to the apartment to grab my bike, zip over to haight street, then back, then hop a cab to valencia, and walk back through puddles of the inky night, sucking down cold air like i remember with cigarettes. and why i quit? absolutely something to be missed in the solitude of a smoke by the window with billie or sinatra on a cloudy evening. but having quit and started so many times, it doesn’t really seem worth it to start again. i’m tired of quitting and i’m tired of starting again.