I feel sick of myself, the movie Patrick saw but I never did in the end, and tentative in language, especially in this brief jaunt back to the "United States", which is kind of a painful place, and as I said over text, nauseated by the wind beating down on the family mast, wind I knew was coming...wind I even tweeted about, and my father sent me a "sad but true" message and now here I am. I am trying to be calm, in integrity, sovereign, collected, not ill. but instead I am increasingly nervous, in the studio of all places I am nervous, about validation, my "career", my work, where is it moving...how does it entangle with recent "events", maybe not at all, and likewise about the knowledge gaps, about the time not had to sit and be with words, to edify, to "learn" even as I am learning...even as I have created, carved out this wedge of time for myself. how quickly the cake melts. On the seemingly endless plane ride, the first of two this week so I am already mobilized in anticipation, not even trying to undo the jetlag—I thought about many things, subtleties, goals on which I can't seem to get a grasp, at least when I don't have some stationary container (ritual: shall I pick back up the morning pages?) and about love, what it is I really "want".
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