i am not as dead as i thought. i am not collected. i think i prefer communicating when uncollected. sometimes i have to wait for uncollection to happen and i fall into a debt of words with people. i owe a number of emails. i feel guilty. still in a cycle of reading and absorbing. currently obsessed with canada, bergman, oulipo, jungian theory, cinnamon, and not being a writer. lately i feel more like a painter, a vagabond and a terrorist.
instead of going to the doctor i remember my dreams. i fell asleep in the middle of wild strawberries and dreamed i was a mile offshore and treading wine. a piece of cork shaped like the moon floated past. i saw twins. i think vincent van gogh was there. i was pregnant. i couldn't decide whether to keep or abort the baby myself. there was blood. i ate a pomegranate.
on the note of hatching yolk, i used to have this on VHS. i remember a rhinoceros head, a naked cherub parade, sawing the leg off a piano full of cats. maybe everyone should be born on their own terms. maybe everyone should have a piano full of cats.
which reminds me of something entirely unrelated. lying poets, extroverted intuition and bjork deconstructing television.
i will be in LA this weekend. i will pack my gas mask. my clock is blinking but i prefer it that way. everything seems more urgent.