4/3/2023 0 Comments Cyber shadow vs the messengerTime, in the background, becomes friendly. Maybe it’s karma for how I recklessly spent money in my youth… Has anyone read her novels? Where should I start?!!!) I become Sandra Cisneros dreaming of one day having a house of her own, I become Octavia Butler making plans in her journal for 1,000,000 in savings (BTW, I read The Spectacular Life of Octavia Butler this morning and cried. I think of the things I want right now: Lorenzo Pazzaglia Sex-Sea extrait de parfum, Ganni Green Scrunchie Ballerina Flats, Bialetti Moka Express Tricolore (to replace my silver one), Nikon COOLPIX A300 …Īnd maybe it’s OK for not having it all right now. I paint my nails blackberry purple on the living room floor and I don’t leave the shower until the water runs cold and the mist has transformed the bathroom into an unexplored dark tropic, sleepy and foreign. I listen to the jewels from my psylocibin trip: Yves Tumor, Theophilus London, nature instrumentals, rain in the jungle, Howl’s flower field. I play music in the language of my lover: Pino Daniele and Enzo Avitabile. Espresso senza zucchero and a chocolate cornetto. Today I kill time only in the most delicious of ways. I reject the cold black whip of stress that beats me daily into inertia or drunkenness. From the here or from the now I decide all of my tomorrows. In its mystery I am free to question and itch and wonder. Its mystery is all I have, its mystery is endlessly gifting. Just for today I am nostalgic for my future, happy to play in the mysterious muck of the present. Usually Time believes in me, and I, not it. The most selfless lover, it asks nothing of me! I screw our relationship up with the nagging guilt of all of my errors. Today I will thank time for showing up again, asking for nothing. Just for today, the only thought I give to time is that I am thankful for more of it. I can’t remember the names of the strangers that stopped being strangers for those quaint pastry hours, those fabulous strumming evenings. I don’t know the names of the streets I stood on. The dizziness of boredom, the opposite of stillness, strange internal operations that have urged me out to sit on shadow-washed city streets at night, drinking Belgian beer, smoking cannabis with guys from Senegal, girls from Spain. It will act up, in an attempt to wake us up, if our minds give in to falsity.” Discomfort, dissatisfaction. I reread Fiona Duncan’s Exquisite Mariposa and am calmed down when she writes: “Lucky for us, the body is wise, a messenger. Unable to break the walls down and enter Lucidity. The worst part of dreaming is sometimes you don’t realize you’re doing it: dreaming badly. It is possible I have never been anywhere at all, always caught up in my head’s version of it, the swampy lane between reality and dream. Roma, Venezia, Paris: I think about all of these places that I have gone but still feel I’ve never been. I will even excavate the glittering pile of time that has seemed to slip through my grasping fingers already I will kiss everything, however small, that it has given me. Today I will forgive myself for not knowing what to do with all this time. Today I will notice the flowers instead of the time. Usually I start the day by noticing my lack of finances, my lack of desire to sort out my confusion about career, my lack of ability to articulate a thought or live out an action. O’Hara’s bright hot banks of violets the prickly ivy flowering on the southern Italian balconies in winter. Pearl-white orchids, lady’s slippers, chocolate cosmos. Just for today, I will notice the flowers. Cyber Diary is a weekly publication of digital diary entries.
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