January 8, 2018 § Leave a comment
DIFFERENT FORMS OF MEDITATIONS. I needed to run because that is a kind of weeping. You can feel so ashamed of yourself that you cease to communicate with your friends, even communicate trivial things, or only trivial things, and neglect to mention what is more important. I lost a book deal that in reality I never had, and my disappointment has grown, shiny and perfected, ever since, eclipsed and buried. And I haven’t talked about it with anyone—not with H, not in depth, not with S and L, perhaps only with F and N. Perhaps only with F and N and briefly with others—such as S. I’m trying to remember who else. Maybe nobody. C knows but only accidentally. Only incidentally, which is how she knows anything, because it’s not safe for me to count her as a friend. It feels good to run and to get out of the house—but I still feel lonely, without relief, a place I have not allowed myself to inhabit in a long time, and place that if inhabited too eagerly can cause the subject to break down in their interpersonal relationships. I also feel discouraged because I have lost some of the language I only ever knew slimly and which I have not practiced since the beginning of December. Of course I was going to lose some of that language. Perhaps it is insane to think or imagine it would be otherwise—but that’s what I did imagine.
RUNNING IS A FORM OF WEEPING. How did I know that I needed to weep? I’ve begun to say so many careless things, I have begun to view my projections as reality, to allow myself to bend and distort with my minor disappointments. To ignore the boundaries that come before speech and to slip messily into the way of other human beings. I am unguarded and there is little difference between me and the world outside. I was a brat with H on Saturday, and though my feelings were justified there was a more dignified and trusting way to share them. There was a way that respected the difference between us. It was childish to act as I did. I am not used to being able to trust my partner. To trust that tension. I can know that in part my response was the kind I would have had with C, but still I don’t know where it came from.
January 4, 2018 § Leave a comment
“She isn’t sure if she’s going to go back to school and get her PhD, because she already found her dream job.” The man and woman laugh knowingly. To abide in this crystal death. That level of confidence is terrifying. It’s a fever shaking. When the man in the cafe laughs it is a guitar cut with distortion. A bat swooping low and threatening. Both the man and woman laugh, but the only person that makes the man laugh is the man.
January 2, 2018 § Leave a comment
On the first of January H asks me in which ways I am like my parents, what have I taken from them, good or bad, and I don’t quite know how to answer. It’s true that I haven’t had to think of that so explicitly in a long time. But it is oddly consoling to realize I am not responsible for everything that has entered into me. My coping mechanisms are not necessarily my own, even though I have been made to feel shame for them—I come from a man and a family that chooses oblivion in the face of difficulty. I have been made to feel shame for that mechanism from the very persons who gifted it to me. It is a freedom to think of it in this way, as something that is part of me but not my own, to walk up the frozen streets from Parkdale and feel the shame lifting, like someone else (not my parents) is taking it on their shoulders.
December 28, 2017 § Leave a comment
In the gallery the young woman is having a crisis: “I don’t feel as if I can make new aquisitions, because I am not sure where I will be.” What challenges our interiority is our ability to graft on the new: I mean, when it is frustrated we are forced to recognize that I have an interiority at all. “If I were to have kids, it would only be because I want to pass on my book collection…” In that future that mark of authority will either be desperate and urgent or totally redundant. To imagine the canon as a mark of taste. To believe that a personality could be fashioned by great literature. Like you, like Gower, I believe that too, which is why we got along. But in the moment I am consumed by the emptiness which I treat like the limbs of an apple tree.
December 24, 2017 § Leave a comment
I’ve built a very small home. Looking out from where I’m standing… I don’t see much on the horizon. My shoulders and knees are bruised, my neck bent at a painful angle. When I get home I evaporate. I try to look at myself in the mirror. A friend asks: “I saw you post all of those tweets. Are you alright?” I say, “I was scraping something off.” When I board the train I decide to read the book again. I get most of the way through the first chapter before tears start coming on.
A book as a technology of the self. A mood to write out of: when you feel as if you have to pull yourself out of the water. “I was reaching so far down, scrambling to get my hands under his arms.” The lyric is a technology—it allows us to distinguish ourselves from the outside world. Perhaps I shouldn’t say allows.
If I have been avoiding anything it is anything that could aggressively consitute an expression of my own interiority. They say he was never the same.
December 22, 2017 § Leave a comment
Read about love. Read about characters moving through the world like trains careening through turns… Motivated by love of self, love of the other, desire to become what they are not. “I wanted to know her because she was outside myself.” (Of Sophie Calle.) What is the self but a collection of things we have come to know. “The self is disturbed through feeling for another—eros is the melter of limbs.” (Anne Carson.)
December 20, 2017 § Leave a comment
What is desired is always outside the self. Desire seeks to close the gap between the inside and outside. This gap cannot be bridged except imaginatively. Only what is ultimate can reach outside our being. We desire what we want to be—to desire is to assemble a self paradoxically through our lack. It is the lot of human beings to be faced with the irritation of unending desire, to exist apart from the world and from other human beings, no matter how close we imagine ourselves…