It was definitely a well-scripted play.
Setting, surprise, suspense, culmination, resolution, aftermath, reverberations.
A good portion of drama, directed by the echoes of the past, the fruitfulness and irritability of the moment, and a certain aesthetic sensitivity. Philharmonic sensitivity. When to increase the tension and volume, when to let it abate.
The fallout was and wasn’t bad.
A day and above all night of replays — expected. Good it’s not longer, although who knows.
Complete blockage of anything remotely reminiscent. Washing all clothes and disinfecting all devices.
Ideally a few weeks abroad.
Hearing a different language, complaints about a different level of misery, a different type of misunderstanding. Let those muscles relax, exercise others.
She had the chutzpah to ask me why I didn’t scrap up my other passport.
My idealism doesn’t go that far.
I want the illusion of social security in theory, if I ever could cope with accessing it. My social security is lovers, family. Perhaps friends. It’s demanding. Do we even remember how to do this?
Seeking for security in roots.
The roots of trees. The invisible roots of human beings, the inner root that has the information on how to grow, how to take shape as human, how to expand in directions, shift, transform, adapt.
Adaptive responses beyond rational understanding.
Forced to learn them because the complexity outgrows thinking, realising how stupid they’ve encouraged me to become – millions of years of instinct and knowledge; are they applicable to mass society, media, communication in writing, pollution, food in plastic, most things from plastic, noise, distraction, fantasies.
Adaptive responses beyond rational understanding – do I find my ground in being a particle of nature, even in this. Perhaps I’d need more second world eclecticism and ease in the face of nonsense and mortality to balance the sharp focus, desire, will.