I keep thinking — oh, I should stop at the cafe that is on my way to school to record the ambiance there; oh, I should make portraits of my house mate and his frequent guests; oh, I should get out of town to see some of the hinterlands and make images and audio recordings; oh, I should make portraits around the University; oh, shit, I don’t have the presence to do so. The absence of be-ing that the writing process entails is deeply disturbing. To the point that I believe I will be an Other person when I am done. I note that communicative connections have dropped off precipitously since I began the thesis project here in Oz. It seems unless I push life-energy outwards, initiating communicative events, not much happens — that is, I only receive (very) occasional spontaneous communications from others. Even people known for years. The apparent imbalance in this seems to say that those connections have no value when they require effort on the Other’s part.
It may simply be that immediate life is in everyone’s face(book), brutally or seductively, and all else is secondary.
That and my spine is making ominous crackling sounds all too often. I can’t tell whether this is merely an effect of the intensive swimming (hit 91 km today), or whether something is coming loose. I see a day when it fails. And since the major spinal prosthetic surgery is considered an untouchable pre-existing condition even with the Australian medical system not to mention the US system, I’ll simply be out of luck, a paraplegic, or with a whole heap of luck, dead.