His feet are filthy, dirt in various shades of brown coating the soles in a mottled patchwork, the nails longish and jagged. I want to touch them.
I’m eager to impress and aware of it. I watch myself, amused, as I try to sound smart, to act nonchalant, to rein in my eagerness and play it cool. Is it working? I can’t tell.
I feel obvious, foolish. I want to break free of the game, of the need to put on a show, and instead be completely genuine.
Ah, but where’s the fun in that?
Perhaps it would open a realm more worthwhile than mere “fun.” I can hear K telling me as much.
People fetishize the concept of “life.” I see it manifest in a couple of ways:
1. The idea of life as interesting and noteworthy in of itself, i.e., life on Mars (microbial, whatever).
2. The idea of [human] life as somehow “sacred,” imbued with divine essence.
These views seem to be often at odds. I’m thinking at the moment of environmental degradation, the cataclysmic changes that are occurring as the result of human activity on the planet.
It seems like those who believe the earth was created to be our pleasure garden should want to preserve it in a state as close to original creation as possible, whereas those who believe that all life, simply because it is alive, incredibly, through a confluence of circumstances far from inevitable, would shrug and say, “life persists.”
But in practice it’s often the opposite.
I was thinking about astrology a minute ago, the idea of planetary phenomena causing (or, depending on your school of thought, merely predicting/correlating with) outcomes in human affairs. I think it arises out of a desire to feel connected, at home in the universe. To know oneself, not as pathetic and arbitrary and alienated, but as an integral player in the world, no matter how small the role.
I like the concept of fractals. Echoes of the big in the small, the minute in the vast. The way clouds mimic fossilized swirls of primordial mud. I believe that this phenomenon extends into the realm of ideas and feelings. From the individual all the way up to the cultural, and eventually, the collective unconscious, the Noosphere: The struggles and misapphrehensions and surges of insight and passion and madness that occur on the individual level also happen at the group level.
I want to believe he’s watching me, even though he’s not. It’s a titillating fiction, to think of him gazing out the window upon me unfolded on this rickety lounge chair, writing in my little notebook. The thought of being desired by someone you desire is catnip for the ego.
Running my fingertips over my thigh, I feel how it is both soft and rough. Soft to someone else, maybe, who’s used to the coarse bristles and tough skin of their own masculine leg. Rough to me, because I know each scuff and burl, each little eczema patch and inflamed hair follicle.
Its okay that I’m not all that good at drawing. It’s okay that I take off my shirt to sun my belly, wanting to not give a fuck, then think about putting it back on, giving a fuck after all.
Life’s like a lucid dream: We wake up when we die, and none of this will matter.
I don’t much like your tattoos, but I do like the warm rankness of your flesh, the raw grassy smell of your sweat.
Breaks in the clouds like veins through marble.
Sometimes you just gotta make out with a tree.
The fact that there is injustice in the world doesn’t absolve you from exercising common sense.