"When are you gonna start?"
What time's the show. Do you know when you're going on? Is this part of the act? I guess I've already begun. I have some notes from when I was here last. You know, breadcrumb trails and all. Sense memory.
I realize that I've stopped reading my horoscope. It occurred to me this morning as I was eating my oatmeal that I had no idea what was supposed to happen to me astrologically. I don't really care. My fortune doesn't concern me, and I'm not quite sure it should. Do normal people think about their destinies? Is there such a thing as normal people, or destiny for that matter.
I remember in college taking the train into New York from Westchester and seeing a huge portait of Lumidee on the side of a building in the Bronx.
Been mostly not flipping coins either. Weather-checked religiously but out of necessity. It doesn't really matter what I wear or where I go or who I am.
Shopping. Shop instead.
Practice choosing. Make a practice out of decision=making. make taste make you. make what you love define you, your world, your objects and your desires. Make art environmental. Philosophy is climate. Change your dosage.
It feels as though I have open wounds. As if my veins terminate in waterfalls. I'm just wasting, spending, endlessly emptying out. That pseudo-factoid I remember from childhood; that the human heart processes enough blood each day that it could fill a swimming pool. To not matter. To be a vessel, machinery. To be broken, to be fixable. To be fixed. To be made of part. To change states; to go from solid to liquid to gas and back. To multiply.
I feel so keenly the sensation of letting go and I imagine that this is the emptiness I've been trying to cultivate. But it's excruciating. There is nothing there, nothing left.