the next day. shopping, late wake up, well, 0800, which is relatively late. shopping makes me feel terrible, or maybe it is being in Helsinki, looking at every face in the passing crowd to see: will I recognize it. and if I do, what will she do, what will I do? it’s a hollow way of going, a temporary one.
packing bags, reading old texts, finding that I could not be productive at all in the office, just putzing around, time dribbling along, no stopping the flow. and this evening a party at KuvaTaide Akademie. going to an art students’ party seems something retro. but Sólveig called and invited me, so, to see her I’ll definitely go. something about ports and storms, nah, she’s a very charming gal.
completely behind in email. a hundred more-or-less urgent messages stacked up, and I just don’t have the energy to deal with it. perhaps it’s only the time of year, but it seems that crisis dogs my steps too much of the time. the Lightness in my being drains parallel to time, cutting a groove in the rock of being. weathered. and leaving no thing in its wake, but the groove. danceable? perhaps, but maybe not. shuffle. all is still possible, but it seems so difficult. and I also realize that if I can’t crank up the intensity and tone of this work, it is destined to crash and fall silent very soon. it is bereft of images, no audio, and the texts are listless and flat. I don’t want them to be tawdry, too revealing. so, the form needs shifting as they are definitely too boring. like there needs to be a alter ego interface. the Other Self, the Real Self.
The unfortunate image of a “road” to which the human mind has become accustomed (life as a kind of road) is a stupid illusion; we are not going anywhere, we are sitting at home. The other world surrounds us always and is not at all at the end of some pilgrimage. — Vladimir Nabokov