There is a strength in weakness. Fortitude, in allowing yourself vulnerability. We are weak when we lean, but in this fashion a peak is made – two sides leaning, weak, and make something strong. That’s why relationships can be hard, people don’t like to make themselves vulnerable – and then if one side disappears, you’re left with a leaning line, who may have forgotten how to stand up straight. For some reason, illness makes me feel strong. I feel a surge of vigor when I experience my own frail humanity. This structure I live in may topple and fall – though no time soon, I think – there is something inside that is not collapsible, that will not break. It’s as if when the outside material wears thin, I can see through it, ponder the gears and pulleys, the drive-shafts of my mind and the hamster-wheel of my soul.
Can someone explain to me inertia? Can someone tell me the differences between vigilance and paranoia, decadence and excess? What about language and expression? Sometimes, I think I could draw something interesting, if I only had a bigger piece of paper. I could be an artist, if somehow all the right materials were placed in front of me. The days of feeling like a child genius have passed. Left behind is a fragile body, housing a mind still guilty over past megalomanias and a spirit that alternates its weekends between pure selfishness and pure charity. After everything, I’m still not sure if I believe in an unselfish act. Not even that!
Rimbaud channeled devils, demons, angels – innocence and madness! I would be content to channel Rimbaud. But no, I would not want his life, nor his agony. Self-crucifiction is the pinnacle of vanity.
On the loud-speaker: Clem Snide, Iron & Wine, and Death Cab for Cutie. Emily today called it “music to slit your wrists by”. Somehow, I don’t know what could be more uplifting. I’d rather live in Sartre’s plays then Chernyschevsky’s utopias. Strange fact: I’ve never attended a funeral.
I don’t remember now why I started this. Emily is gone for days (though so far, only hours) and there’s an emptiness already. Looking at it, I actually only feel happy – I’m lucky, because this emptiness is temporary, a ghost. There is a fullness that takes its place. Not completion – I am not incomplete alone. A sense that the world is so much more beautiful when it can be shared. Camus talks about art, and the multiplication of experience. It’s the banal part of his essay, where he sells out absurdity. Not that I don’t agree with him. But I can’t think of a better way of multiplying experience than by sharing: the world, ideas, perspectives –
– a mirror, a blanket, affirmation and warmth and the voice of reason in madness and the voice of passion against reason.
Thank you so much for all these things.