I read somewhere that one day the sun will die. The whole world and all of being seem so delicately violent now. All I feel is gratitude and grace for days spent under blossoming sunlight. But there are so many flowers and I don’t know their names. I dream of fireflies and slip. Please, let the birds sunbathe by the lavender river. I bruised myself on fresh paper but someone made me a cup of tea and everything is alright.
Books to complete reading in 2017:
Middlemarch George Elliot
The Hidden Life of Trees Peter Wohlebben
The Black Swan Nassim Nicholas Taleb
Black Hole Blues and Other Songs from Outer Space Janna Levin
Time Travel: A History James Gleick
Gravity & Grace Simone Weil
Always — Jenny Holzer: “It is in Your Self-Interest to Find a Way to Be Very Tender”
it’s the witching hour, i whisper, as i turn to look at you. as we collapse, i notice this: our feet, webbed.
my best friend is the rescued dog and that’s the summer that i meet you. you know everything about astrophysics and i sometimes cry into my tea while thinking about fairies. we are sitting on the porch and you are suspended in cigarette smoke, your mouth forming words about quantum entanglements that would never reach my ears. timothy licks my hand and i look into his eyes with love. he isn’t the cat but i might actually love him more.
later: you take me in your arms and tell me that i am almost gold
later: we are on the mountain and when everything dissolves i notice that we are cloven-hoofed children.
the fireflies tremble and blur my vision
he is at his desk and i fall to my feet with veneration. a devotee, in love.
i am collecting cashew apples and i forget that summer always comes to an end. your grandmother is my favorite person and i sing her songs in my mother’s tongue.
you think i am ridiculous and you
summer ends and i
Finally made it to the art show. Always wanted to live inside a Wes Anderson movie and this seems like the closest I’d ever get.
I’ve always been strangely obsessed by the concept of opportunity cost but here’s the way it runs in my brain these days: a finite spectrum of time with a finite capability of productivity. It’s less about the “fig tree” now. It’s less about the future and the choices that define the future. It’s more about now, this moment, this hour spent reading David Brooks’ wonderful pieces, not once but multiple times, with a gluttony later regretted because there’s a perpetual to-do list of studying and work to be accomplished and skills to be acquired and a ceaseless desire for productivity.
There’s been a Wes Anderson art show on LES since 2nd November and I have been adding and taking it off my calendar since 2nd November because that’s how busy school has kept me. Tomorrow, however, I intend to readjust all my priorities and go visit this thing. Weekend arrives with such delights and while nothing gold can stay the next two days are infinite in their offer of promises.
Nights spent reading Keats, wondering if there’s a way to eat figs that isn’t so messy, summer dissolving behind my eyes. May, June, July, August, September. There’s less languorous evenings now and in the future my feet aren’t bare. I want to dream of hemlock and hawthorn but when I wake up at 3.00 am it’s from a nightmare featuring suits and people telling me to eat more.
I stopped believing in God. I lost my way. Maybe there is no causal relation here.
I tell myself this: Most rational lives require no lucid theology.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy. Someday there’ll be warm diagonal light across a table, honey and saffron mixed with milk and served in a glass that would never shatter, family, home, work, swaying trees carrying the lingering scent of night jasmine, a child gently playing the harmonium while I fall asleep and grow back into myself.
What Zizek said: What makes us happy is not to get what we want. But to dream about it.
What Zizek said, shorty after: If you want to remain happy, just remain stupid.