Inspiration: fleeting. Last night I went to a screening of a rarely released Saint Etienne film, What Have You Done Today, Mervyn Day. It was lovely and full of lush sunshine and meadows and worn down abandoned things. My heart ached for London. It was dreadful then, but now it seems wonderful, full of English charm, memories I barely considered at the time, but which haunt me now, filled with nostalgia. I walked to First Avenue and the M15 bus to visit Joey at the hospital, as I had for the past few days. That timeless space of healing and pain and death, where conversations occur with stifled joy, where machines and measurements and repetition take over the colors of life. Only the nurses, ever changing yet always familiar, with their enthusiasm and friendly comments a change. The windows safely prohibiting the outside world from seeping in. The bed, the curtains. The voices from the television on the other side of the room.
It became late and I said my goodnight for the walk that still frightens me down First Avenue alone. The last few days it was pouring when I left, and I could justify the cost of a cab. But not then. I didn't know which side of the street seemed safer: the coroner, the hospitals, the homeless men, or the lonely, looming shadows of the project housing on the other side. Stopped in for a too salty hot dog before a long wait for the subway home.
Today, though it is like summer outside, and the burst of fresh green leaves on the trees was a shocking sight, I stayed mostly in bed, in my perpetually cold room. Empty thoughts and empty gestures. A to-do list that I half heartedly checked off, put off. Clicking through websites with nothing in mind. Not even a faint twinge of desire. A vague shadowy guilt that manifests itself in a reiteration of this nothing. I am thinking of Francisco Pessoa's Book of Disquiet, his bleak, beautiful journal entries of a life lived in boredom, in his tortured head. Someone I had gone on a few dates with and slept with, someone who lived in a dreadful, mostly empty apartment, who always wore black and was so uncertain, whose mattress had made my back uncomfortable had recommended it.
Perhaps I just like too much the way these words sound in my head. I am crippling myself, forcing inertia, stability, this slow, spreading dread. It sounds much worse than it is. It is not glamorous and glorified artisanship but pathetic actually, despicable and pathetic. Uncertainty is my disease, stasis its symptom. I am prone of exaggeration, to being in love with the sounds of my pretty, petty words. Maybe it's just a role I play, easily solved with a walk in the sun, a smile exchanged. For now I stay in this dim light, under the forcefully cheerful duvets, staring fixedly at the window, and the light outside.