days pass quickly


recently a little bit despairing. can’t digest anything, easily barf and reached “new low” bmi of 15.9 it says

hair all falls out. さっき倒れちゃった, cut hand badly, hard to type, a lot of blood.. どうしたらいいのかわからない

strong feelings of mortality cause a certain perspective is detached. writing about a bit, started an essay collection, one essay about war and the ways people respond, “black humour” and detachment or a heightened feeling, want to get a hold of rose macaulay’s post-war book, the world my wilderness. and from stella benson’s diary, 1921:

Often it touches me in some very tender and inarticulate place to think of the ‘me’s’ of all creatures. Of everyone trying his best to be inoffensive and pleasing, of everyone puzzled to think—how can they hurt me so—this me which is my only me, the only aspect I have to present to the world, my only asset. . . .

When Shaemas talks about his me, it makes me want to cry, there is something so childlike and groping about the core of everyone’s personality, once you begin imagining it—Shaemas behind his darling little anxious eyeglass trying to be a normal and valuable member of the community is so adorably pathetic, somehow.

so many people confused and frustrated these past few years, all lashing out and trying to pin things down, consolidate a model of a world and figure out just who to blame…

reading those diary things because going to publish a couple of her books, coming into public domain next year and forever out of print. want them to be read. just need to survive that long

wherever and whoever you are, please take a moment to breathe

song of the day:

Patrick Wolf - Pigeon Song