I am not to be trusted. Last night I heard music. A guitar was played with lots of dissonants. A hesitant violin. This was the world. This was me. Nothing more needed. Stop.
We were traveling by car and the rest of the world was skybound. I thought of paint and painting and how I need other people’s works to feel a whole person, to be able to paint and not give a goddamn whatever of how it will end. This is what I need to say every quarter of the hour, and keep on moving. Last night I was reading The Lonely City written by Olivia Laing. It occurs to her that loneliness is not like hell because its like living within an ice cube. It is not a book to be used as a central heating to warm your back. I actually never do that with a book.
There is a long distance artist friend I ran into at an art fair last summer. We decided to work together. It's December now and I still need to send her a ‘something’ work. A minute ago I texted her that I am working on it, that I am very slow ( or thoughtful, which is nicer ) these days. So now I can postpone the work a little further.
About the wash softener, I think I bought the wrong kind again. I am very sensitive to smells, probably like most people, and after spending half of an hour putting my nose into the bottles of wash softener on the washing products section of the supermarket, my nose seemed not sensitive enough.
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