|Tags||gender, genre, gestalt documentary, autofiction|
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B: How can you watch a bunch of Girls episodes and then feel embarrassed about your gchat rants? This is life.
:// Let the person who wants a vision hang himself by his neck. When his face turns purple, take him down and have him describe what he’s seen.
:// Pothos (Greek: Πόθος “yearning”): one of Aphrodite’s erotes and brother to Himeros and Eros. In some versions of myth, Pothos is the son of Eros, or is portrayed as an independent aspect of him. He was part of Aphrodite’s retinue, and carried a vine, indicating a connection to wine or the god Dionysus. Pothos represents longing or yearning.
“Somewhere along the way I lost my nerve” I said at one point, “and only now am I wondering if I can recover it.”
Pothos, it merely takes believing to believe. In the bar, actors traumatized by the business of professional vulnerability, worn thin inside from keeping double books, the private/public ledgers.// Romantic relationships that require turning parts of your brain off.// I was having one of my fantasies — I forget specifically which; one of those daydreams endemic to the under-30, these being fantasies of death, fantasies of consummation, fantasies of power.
Lou Reed’s vision of a city as machine of transformation, not unlike the old immigrant ceremony where fresh-off-the-boat’ers lined up in Old World dress, climbed into a literal & symbolic pewter pot 20 feet wide, were ceremonially smelted emerging reborn in New World garb.
Drink: a 1:2 ratio the Goldilocks zone for a gin and tonic// Ep. notes at home: the thrill of the Chuck-Blaire pairing-off == the thrill of raw (social) power in play, pulling out stops, pursuing ends. Prohibition never stood a chance next to exhibition.// um, like… I would just describe the writing style as taking that blaknwhite 70s New York style and just dunking it in lavender techno synths? and I grinned.
The second century’s Aulus Gellius: «It is said that Demosthenes in his dress and other personal habits was excessively spruce, elegant and studied. It was for that reason that he was taunted by his rivals and opponents with his “exquisite, pretty mantles” and “soft, pretty tunics”;25 for that reason, too, that they did not refrain from applying to him foul and shameful epithets, alleging that he was no man and was even guilty of unnatural vice.»
When I tried to sleep I thought of Beckett’s Endgame. I thought about putting the lids on the garbage cans and shutting out light. I thought about waiting it out until the endtime.
Maybe I perked up, hungry for a second. Maybe I thought about this hunger, weighed it against the costs of getting out of bed. Breaking a state. Undergoing change. Having to readjust the self. Getting up; settling back in. Again... Settle back again... Again I settled back again.
Perhaps I laid down on sweaty sheets and stretched my shoulders, gave into all the tugging things, the longings and desires. Perhaps I turned to the dark side of the room. The lavender turns deeper violet in the corner where the early light can’t reach.