Germinal

Despite or because of the fact I've moved across a bridge, most of my activity in the past month has been in slow-sprouting mental events, studied attempts not to parse per se, but, perhaps, to bridge certain spatio-temporal, socio-economic, textual-contextual zones. After musing how the strange hot classicism of the Stanford campus put me in (mind of) a di Chirico painting, I listened to a professor of psychoanalytic hermeneutics describe the feeling one gets from a di Chirico painting, how something has just happened, or is about to happen, one doesn't know which; is such an uncanny description of the uncanny itself uncanny, or rather perfectly canny? It made me miss Leah. Everyone at Stanford spoke of being "diastolic," or quoted from that plodding Celan poem. For synchrony, I kept track of my supplies and arrangements, but only provisionally. I kept wondering if repetition was poetic or pathological.

I felt like filling in calendars, making time graphic. I took signs for what they were. I wondered if the difference between myself and others was qualitative or quantitative, and if that was still a distinction I could make. I decided that because errancy suits me, I should err from that, and become more orthodox. Yesterday, I spilled kombucha on Amalia's floor; I hope nothing grows there.