he told me he was an ascetic priest
It's been chamomile tea with honey at all hours, these days.
Modernism continually strikes too close to home. Waking up is the biggest risk of the day, says Kafka. And falling asleep too, the other end of the equation. It's such an easy solution but sometimes when I'm staring at the insides of my eyelids at 8 am on a tuesday morning I can't figure out where I am. Absolutely no orientation. I try and picture the room around me and it takes a few seconds to make the mental picture match up to what I find when I open my eyes. Naps are dangerous because sometimes you wake up feverish, hallucinating in the midafternoon light pouring through the window with no curtains. It doesn't make sense any more, what's actually happened and what you just thought happened, what you want in waking life and whether or not you have good enough reasons for wanting it.
Last night I sat transfixed by a weird hybrid of middle eastern and jewish music. Two aging men dressed all in white, fingers flying on tambourine (I didn't know the tambourine could speak like that) and strings. It was mournful and wandering, a good thing to occupy my head with when all the imaginary half-started conversations with the boy next to me went nowhere. Afterwards we took a walk through dark streets, cold nights. Things aren't as easily said when you're no longer in the middle of them, when it's not 3 o'clock in the morning anymore and each statement has an echo of dangerous potential.
Modernism continually strikes too close to home. Waking up is the biggest risk of the day, says Kafka. And falling asleep too, the other end of the equation. It's such an easy solution but sometimes when I'm staring at the insides of my eyelids at 8 am on a tuesday morning I can't figure out where I am. Absolutely no orientation. I try and picture the room around me and it takes a few seconds to make the mental picture match up to what I find when I open my eyes. Naps are dangerous because sometimes you wake up feverish, hallucinating in the midafternoon light pouring through the window with no curtains. It doesn't make sense any more, what's actually happened and what you just thought happened, what you want in waking life and whether or not you have good enough reasons for wanting it.
Last night I sat transfixed by a weird hybrid of middle eastern and jewish music. Two aging men dressed all in white, fingers flying on tambourine (I didn't know the tambourine could speak like that) and strings. It was mournful and wandering, a good thing to occupy my head with when all the imaginary half-started conversations with the boy next to me went nowhere. Afterwards we took a walk through dark streets, cold nights. Things aren't as easily said when you're no longer in the middle of them, when it's not 3 o'clock in the morning anymore and each statement has an echo of dangerous potential.