|
2002-07-15 Flotsam feelings resting just below what is language in thought, and not quite emerging for now. Writing hasn't kicked its spurs in far enough. I'm still not sure--that's why. School is winding down but the beginning of one class. Everything's about to change but everything's alright now too. We've been living together for a month now. It's good. And still waiting so I'm not this squatted form of an adult almost but not yet the headrooms and overwhelming false similitudes. I gave my computer to someone. I've taken up minorly collecting antiques. The 1930s resemblance I come back to home welcomed with waterfall drawers and comfort in wood and ivy and linen. And small things like velvet boxes of playing cards and wooden chess sets strike fancy. Something that may have been in someone's hand like my great-grandmother's while fiddling with the phone or between cigarettes. Tangible playful history. And a prize in metal and leather roller skates that attach to the bottom of someone's shoes. A raggedy bookmark for now until classes wrap up and Foucault leaves in the probability of it all. Little sadness. Littlesadness. PS. Thanks everyone. |