at Fabrica de Pensule on Monday evening. So much of what's been on my
mind. So much of what's always on my mind. How to be in this world?
Trembling lips mine,1 on the verge of tears for most of the
performance. The mirror as an obstacle. You standing in your own way. The
incapability of an encounter with your self. Which is also: the
incapability of an encounter with the Other. The Other also being Love. Band-aids. Not enough band-aids in the world for our wounds. The wounds
we inflict on our selves and on each other. Thinking again of Adam Phillips's lecture "Against Self-Criticism." The "I drink..." bit
after I had been listening to Kendrick Lamar's Swimming Pools on a loop
in the morning. Loving this line from the extended version: "All I have
in life is my new appetite for failure." Also: "Okay, now open your
mind up and listen to me, Kendrick / I am your conscience, if you do not
hear me, then you will be history, Kendrick" - similar to the
beginning of this performance ("I'm the voice in your head"). The gay
man in love with his homophobic best friend. And his incapability of
love. Of allowing himself to love another man. The last thing I read
from Yasmina Reza's Heureux les heureux / Happy are the Happy while waiting to go in was from
Philip Chemla's entry:
a collage I made for M, on the occasion of the release of his book in CJ. (even before having read the book, I could already guess what elements I had to play with: bears, the gender binary, and sexuality)
M's book became a scrapbook. Marginalia, train tickets, movie tickets, chopstick wrappers from Nobori.
Reading his book: I got angry, I laughed (both with him and at him), I
got sad. And I got nostalgic. Elements in one of his stories reminded me
of our early emails. Things he'd mentioned in those emails ended up in
this story. To Be or Not To Be, which he sent me. A National Geographic
documentary caught late at night. It's nice to know I've been the
witness - one of the witnesses - to his planting the seeds of this story,
but at the same time, it's bittersweet.
is already the second time this year that smth has sent me to our early
emails. In my email drafts (aka the repository for my WORD VOMIT), after
having read all of our emails, I wrote: "gosh, i miss you so much. but you know that means: i miss your self circa 2009."
this last week, reading about I'm Very Into You has brought to surface
so many insecurities. About that time, about now. Back then, I never
wrote you a rushed email, felt so self-aware and yet they were still
incredibly awkward and dull. I wanted to rise to your level so badly.
(From "Blood and Guts in Emails:" Haley: "In some ways I do want to seduce you, I promise!! Seduce you
intellectually. Seduce you as a friend.") But of course that wasn't /
Emma: "I think this is a really easy book to project a lot of
your own internal biz onto." Also: how easy it is to project stuff on sm
when most of your communication is written. And I have been doing that, on and off. And it's not fair. Not to you, not to myself. (Haley: "Like: the person
who emailed me, for example, is very much alive and not
a ghost, but there's no way they could know or really understand what
kind of emotional impact their words would have on me.")
of those Cluj days when you wear no mascara because you anticipate the
possibility of crying in public. on trains, or on your way to the train station when
the darkness of the night can easily hide your tears.
(1) the influence of Eimear McBride's GIRL, which I still haven't finished.
P.S. How to know when "fragmentary" becomes... "messy?" It worries me that this is the only way I can write, that my writing will only get worse instead of getting better.