Sometimes we are asked to prove who we are.
Just this morning at the library I had to open
my passport & ask a stranger to vouch for me
so that I could take home a book. If you live
long enough, you realise that you are not
the person you were. Here in this kitchen –
a kitchen I might in conversation call mine –
I own exactly one sharp knife & the wooden spoon
I use to stir the sauce. A greasy tin kettle, pulled
from the back of a cabinet, soaks in warm water.
The days are like no days I have ever known.
Would I like things to be better? Yes.
But what does it matter? Intent seems so small
a part. And will. I have come a long way
to stand before this window in a harsh light
above a tap of undrinkable water. I pass daily
through the town’s old gardens to see the peacock
in its cage. In the cold, it turns its back
to the opening. It holds its magnificence close
to its sides. And whatever this resembles –
shyness or restraint, a greediness even – it is not.
— Slavoj Žižek, How To Read Lacan (via aminaabramovic)
I am haunted by all the editions of books that are prettier than the ones I already own.
i just read a fb posted article about how it is not enough to think highly of your friends, or think of them often, or whatever. this is something i struggle with big time, thinking vs. doing. it’s the most basic way to get out of your head, is to remind someone of a memory or tell them something you thought of them. why not? living in space type stuff, see your affective power in real time
make those phone calls and go out for coffees or walks is what i am saying for death will soon be upon us
was digging in backpack earlier and thought some of the weight at the bottom was infinite jest but remembered no
i finished infinite jest yesterday and then at work today i thought about how excited i was to go home and read infinite jest and that made me so sad
— Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood