Something terrible is happening, has happened, which is, sans an unsuitable object it seems I have nothing to write for. How did this happen? I didn't know I was so lyric. I feel depressed. Not at the lack of, but at the apparent fact of. It can't be true. My eros is bored, is sleepy. I'm bored. I'm so busy I can't think, and I'm calling it bored? I like my mind, it must be that which I miss---my not-too-distant, not-too-available mind has vanished in the crush of ridiculous detail. I can't think, therefore I can't love, therefore I can't write, therefore I can't love! not inappropriately, or excessively, or abusively, or goodly, or crushingly, covertly, overtly, wonderfully, fully, adverbially, slowly, embarrassedly, endlessly. I'm fucked. I'm status quo'd. I'm dead.
Kiss me, wake me
4 comments:
"It seems that literature consists of trying to speak at the moment when speaking becomes most difficult, turning toward those moments when confusion excludes all language and consequently necessitates a recourse to a language that is the most precise, the most aware, the furthest removed from vagueness and confusion--"
"This is the mystery: I am unhappy, so I sit down at my table and write, "I am unhappy." How is this possible? This possibility is strange and scandalous to a degree."
i'm reading blanchot. a lot. so this is the only kind of kiss i have in my pocket right now.
at least it is french?
thanks kate. that's a good first kiss: foreign tongue but the text is familiar.
maybe it's the reading I miss.
you definitely i miss.
I had similar thoughts on BART this morning.
This used to be my life. I still feel this way sometimes, but it usually passes fairly quickly.
How nice it would be to be able to wake someone from that.
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