A day of strange feelings. Not mental but physical. Not seeing thiings right iin front of me, not noticing the car keys in my hand as I use the keychain flashliight to look for the keys, similar moments in which something seems to stab at my attentions with invisible importunity.
I made the mistake of re-reading things I have recently and not so recently written. I do not recognize myself in my words. I sound like a yawling adolescent through most of the pages I find, a person of no depth and continuous self-amusement. This might account for why I never edit or try to improve upon what I start with. That used to be my routine but somehow the routine faded.
At the suggestion of a hot-minded correspondent I played through Sibelius’ Valse Triste tonight.
It was strange to be with someone for whom sex is normal. Not that she was easy, but someone for whom sex is not a complicated dilemma, a byzantine maze of scrutiny, and not the core of her identity. Just something to do, then something else to do comes next.
Is sexasthecenterofidentity an American thing? (this is a prudish country all around, this city I live in notwithstanding)
Sex in my America feels like a lab experiment, or a clinical procedure, and a judgment call.
Hokay, that is just something I felt like saying. No context, no substance is to be inferred.
I am inducing cramps in my left leg, thinking that induced cramps will set me apart from people who suffer from unexpected leg cramps and are statistically likely to experience sudden death. Man, sudden death would be a real drag. Who would care? Who would have time to cart away my earthly excrement? People have jobs, responsiblities, places to go, people to see, hearts to break. None would have time to sweep up my affairs except for the garbage.
