sun. 13 march
[a dream] ...then we were standing at a hill that was so steep we had to climb by sticking our hands and feet intovthe crumbl[ing] red soil. I was so close to this hill wall that I had to keep my head turned to the side, my cheek pressing against the cool earth. When we reached the top, the dream disappeared.
[a dream] ...then we were standing at a hill that was so steep we had to climb by sticking our hands and feet intovthe crumbl[ing] red soil. I was so close to this hill wall that I had to keep my head turned to the side, my cheek pressing against the cool earth. When we reached the top, the dream disappeared.
sun. 20 march
Tossed and turned all night. Woke up and made camomile tea kl 04.30.
Tossed and turned all night. Woke up and made camomile tea kl 04.30.
[that evening] 8 glasses later and everyone was quite drunk... I got involved in a long and passionate discussion about the state of UK politics.
tues. 29 march
Heavy with tiredness that seems to sink into my skin. The whiteness of the clouds send blue and green glowing against my eyelids... I feel displaced out of time, place, person.
Heavy with tiredness that seems to sink into my skin. The whiteness of the clouds send blue and green glowing against my eyelids... I feel displaced out of time, place, person.
fri. 1 april
"I have begun to wonder what actually happens in our brains when we return to half-remembered places. What is memory's perspective? Does the man sense the boy's view or is the imprint relatively static, a vestige of what was once intimately known?"
- What I Loved, Siri Hustvedt
"I have begun to wonder what actually happens in our brains when we return to half-remembered places. What is memory's perspective? Does the man sense the boy's view or is the imprint relatively static, a vestige of what was once intimately known?"
- What I Loved, Siri Hustvedt
sat. 2 april
I mourn [the loss of a dear correspondent] not because I wouldn't ever find someone who loves et in arcadia ego, but rather because I felt in a way that it was the ~our~ time of the same thing - lying in the sun, reading, "And I, Tyresias, have foresuffered all...", the letters, the rose-tinted exuberance of youth... as summer approaches, the flush of youth, and poetry, and love blooms up again - it feels like losing a part of one's self, or having it locked away and not being able to find the key to draw it out again.
I mourn [the loss of a dear correspondent] not because I wouldn't ever find someone who loves et in arcadia ego, but rather because I felt in a way that it was the ~our~ time of the same thing - lying in the sun, reading, "And I, Tyresias, have foresuffered all...", the letters, the rose-tinted exuberance of youth... as summer approaches, the flush of youth, and poetry, and love blooms up again - it feels like losing a part of one's self, or having it locked away and not being able to find the key to draw it out again.
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