It’s like I forgot how to do things. I keep waiting for somebody to roll a cigarette so I can ask if I can roll one, but it doesn’t look like anyone here is smoking right now. Lots of people are reading their screens or papers or writing or studying. I wonder what this woman to my left is writing – she looks serious and true-trying.
Writing is so empowering. There we are, stories and words, and it doesn’t take a license or good idea or anything. Just, putting. I guess I’ll do my homework or work on the logo. None of this seems meaningful. It is, but it isn’t. Everything has floated away. This place is stunning. I will step outside.
Next door there is an art gallery. An artist, a woman from Connecticut, made a lot of films and here are her film notebooks and writings and photographs and embroideries. It’s beautiful, to be so fluid and prolific, to make exhibitable things so people can come in and see these things and think maybe they know what you meant and mean. What do we mean? How can we say it?
And what am I trying to do? And how?
What we know and do not know are all so toppled in from every side of these clanky coins, which are tossed among too few hands,, and the woman to my right has a sticker on her notebook reading YOUTH WASTE but I wouldn’t go that far, because I love this all sweetly.
I can write for myself and people like me but suddenly this doesn’t seem right. Living in bushwick makes me feel guilty. Seeing our invasion. What do we have? What makes us?
It is beautiful but sad if we cannot talk to each other. We need to work together, feed each other.
This chocolate is so strong and grainy and delicious. I’m trying to reclaim something always. It’s a matter of not knowing – knowing this at least and being here and trying.