Not really sure what's going on, what convolution of public and private is about to twist itself loose. I want to share with the world insofar as making something is always a meeting of internality and externality. (This is not to say that I want tobe physically present with other people.) (Except when I do.) I play with the idea that I myself am enough, that pleasing myself is enough, that the song and dance put on for others is ultimately empty.
And also I think... what you want is what you are. There's no line, no becoming. I'd like to adopt a lighter touch, skip from moment to moment like a stone.
RIP summer hat.
The biggest transition this year might be my adoption of the square format.
Cracker Barrel someplace.
Listened to a lot of mysteries this fall.
I've been living in Massachusetts.
Plenty of cats hanging around.
The way back from the grocery store.
My big thought right now is that love is a universal currency, self-love not in opposition to love for others, but one and the same. If you're fostering self-hatred, you're slighting the universe synecdochically. We cannot pretend to own ourselves, after all. We are a part of a bigger thing. We flourish together or we die together. There's the tricky problem of predator and prey... is everyone flourishing there? But if all must go... we can't be afraid of death, and indeed, death is correct and beautiful in its turn and truly the ground from which life can spring again.
I'm reluctant to embrace sensation over creation, although some part of my heart knows this is where I ought to go. I also crave legacy, definition, something solid for grasping, to say this is it. But what is it (is it?) is the ongoing sensory moment, which at the top of my game I could observe for the rest of my life.
When people disappear from the internet I suspect they've mastered it, that they're out there living instead of thinking and documenting the living. But then again documentation is an act like any other. As we look around our gaze can come to rest on ourselves, as much a part of the world as anything else.
I've felt the force of time lately pressing me back, making it hard to catch my breath. The documents are how I find my bearings in the stream of everything.
These days I get caught in a fantasy-hallucination wherein the mouth that I'm kissing decomposes, teeth loosening from their sockets, tongue slumped into pulp, the amputation of life into smooth, inhuman bone.
Spinning things out to their ends, however inevitable, is a disconnection from experience that I want to stop. If I could just quiet that part of myself, the part floating in neuronal hyperspace outside physical space or time, what could I be? A hot little animal, always reacting, never thinking. And why not?
I recognize that I'm saying the same thing over and over. How am I conflicted about consciousness? Let me count the ways...