it has been a month, yet i feel the same as before.
trying to remember barcelona is like a dream, a long dreamscape of light, shadow, music, colours, people, the sun the beach the long crawl back to the bed, jews dancing in the dark and in k-holes, people dazed and confused drugged or not drugged or probably just euphoric. we are all rushing towards something – did tyler the creater delivered his last sermon on top of that staged hill? is julian casablancas still feverishly hot? did karen o tamed her voice, (or found beauty) in that mid-point scream/lament? is thom york continually reinventing himself under different names only to discover that it all balls and merges into his own symphony in the end? can i hide in a slowdive song, or can i stay in this purple light while jesus & mary chain sow seeds of joy that could help elevate anything, any mood or feelings that must be felt?
i have discovered, in my longing to speak, there is no one to speak to, no one to express to. i feel as if the landscape needs to shift – to wipe out the ordinary existence of jetzt, but to what?
called Nata yesterday, and at the end of our 40-min once in a year or two call, she says what she misses the most about Flensburg was our afternoon tea sessions. Just sitting and talking while the water boils looking at the gloomy sky (as per today), nothing to worry about except insignificant assignments, lamenting people and life and parts of lemongrass used (the stalk – us for cooking, the leaves – them for tea).
climbed the zugspitze over the weekend. a triumph of the self, ascent and whatnot. while climbing i thought of all the transcendence/immanent theories and wonder if this physical journey is not man trying to prove his bodily worth over the natural realm. one might as well slip and die rolling into the gorge, but the desire to be dramatic is not there. finally continued the Long Live the Post Horn! book, whose beginning i read perhaps a year ago. it is meant to be finished, i suppose, reading over the Eibsee with S and T swimming into the pristine blue lake and F really trying to solidify his being in this world. will i one day, travel to the far ends of the earth to listen to postman living his tales of searching to deliver a letter without an address? it reads as if the end of Bell Jar, Plath walking into the light after being called by the doctor, a moment of suspension – will this end on a positive note? a hopeful prayer, will it, please?
perkaraperkara 