Spending the morning at Dunvagen with a giant portfolio of Lucinda’s original choreographic notations for Interior Drama. The sketches are surprisingly mathematical, little pastel creations she did back in the Seventies with Philip and Chuck Close and even a vague proximity to all that creativity makes me giddy. The view of downtown is a perfect accompaniment to fall and I can count eight water towers sprouting up amidst the rooftops.
Took myself to breakfast this morning, trying to read but mostly just snooping on the gestures and conversations and attitudes of the people around me. The oatmeal tasted like wet cardboard but the waiter called me sweetheart and made my coffee extra hot.
Peacock girls with pursed lips and bored expressions make me despondent towards females in general. They seem to define the whole genre as opposed to unfavorably distinguishing themselves from it.
There’s an old-fashioned globe that lives on one of the long stretches of black counter space in my office. The different parts of the world are colored like elementary school pictures- pink, blue, mint green, the ocean a deep navy. It creaks when it spins and is tilted on a peculiar axis. The first thing K does, as he walks to his desk each morning, is to stop at the globe, spin it half-heartedly and let his finger stop on a specific location. I’ve often wondered how many times he lands in the middle of the ocean.
Today the office was quiet and empty, the giant windows leaking in morning light and muted noise. I went over to the globe and let it spin, eyes closed as my fingers traced over the little bumps and crevices replicating mountains and valleys. When I opened my eyes, my finger had just barely made it past the ocean and was resting on Eureka, California.
Today was a mood that would have blended seamlessly with California. I felt loopy, sleeping and eating in odd, erratic patterns- a benevolent and well-intentioned mental laziness. My skin was prickly for a bit of sun and my lips constantly chapped.
That talk I went to a few weeks ago? The other thing that has remained lodged in my brain is something John said about the state of the conscious mind when the unconscious is harvesting something significant (an idea, a realization, etc). Much like when you injure one specific part of your body and all energy and sensations seem to flood to that area, the same is true of the mind’s duality. When one layer is working in overdrive to give breath to something previously unexamined, the other layers often become tired, formless and flabby.
Regardless of accuracy, it’s a nice sentiment for these days when my brain has reduced itself to immobility where it was previously turning somersaults.
“How you feel about a city is like how you feel about kissing someone,” Will said. ”I hear all the same sentiments- about all the same cities.”
He touched his hands to his stomach and said something about it being an intuitive reaction. Larry made a snide comment about the West coast, Trevor laughed amiably, and Will remained intensely serious. ”Do you like the way a city touches you?” he finally said. ”That’s really all that matters.”
We drove over the bridge and everything was wet and bright and slick and geometric. We sat in fat open windows looking out over Delancey and the rain dripped in and the noise pooled out. I slid in to DJ, feeling the floor pull away from my feet under the weight and movement of so many bodies, and studied a couple holding court from the corner.
Fall feels a bit like it has slipped right past me- my brain already in next year, my emotions still laying out to dry in the summer heat. There’s a strange sort of pleasure in feeling like an entire season has zipped by. But no, it’s more particular than that- the transition, maybe? I can’t remember shutting my windows or turning up the heat or unfolding thick pleats of sweaters. I can’t remember pulling out boots and hats or shaking out extra blankets. I can’t remember rubbing off August’s orange nail polish or when I bought these books or wrote these pages. One part of me decided to move along while the other part was still stretching out for a tan.
And yet here I am, wrapped tight in the mustard-colored scarf my grandfather gave me before I moved to Boston. I’m walking through the morning over slick, wet leaves and not even really noticing the chill.
— Eurydice, Sarah Ruhl
