the forceps to the stone

6:48am, Swanston St, I dropped my shopping on the floor

Coffee here this morning, just like every workday morning. The word I find that I have for this interlude is 'reassuring'. I suppose this is because it would be highly unreassuring to pull up outside the Arts Centre one morning and find nothing there but the blurry greyness of a hole in reality. One day soon when I am feeling more myself I will write you 4000 words about what I have found out about Melbourne over the course of the eighteen months of ten minutes five times a week, between 7 and 7:25am, which I have invested in looking at this place. Oh, it will blow the top of your skull right off, you will see.

Comfort food for lunch: thinly sliced raw vegetables, tofu, vegan mayonnaise, walnuts and a serious fucking shitload of kimchi

I snapped this then rode across the intersection and on the other side I encountered two very dear people. It was very, very great to see them! I am intrigued that they are not actually in this picture and I hope the fact that they are not isn't proof that I hallucinated them, although the details I remember of the quest that they said, in conspiratorial tones, they were about to embark upon, being to find and buy the last 450g of rye flour in the northern suburbs, possess a reality-effect which I recognise as being very much beyond my powers of invention. 

After saying goodbye I got back on my bike but had to get off again almost immediately to photograph this glove. Two riders behind me crashed inelegantly into each other when I stopped, and you know what, they deserved all the crashing and more because they were both attempting to pass me on the left at the time. FOOLS. The two men sitting on the planter are playing soccer games on their phones but when the crashing occurred they had a good old laugh. I myself did not have the presence of mind to laugh then & there but I was so pleased and grateful that they did.

I once had a pair of black satin gloves with fake fur trim, I made them myself. Because of Doctor Zhivago. 

This man has been videoing a small group of bunches of flowers which people have placed in Princes Park today, near where a different man had left the body of a young woman whom he had murdered. I read in the news this evening that her name was Eurydice Dixon and she was twenty-two years old.

No words.

Second bad flat inside of a month. I know why. It's the fucking unpicturesque heritage bluestones infesting the streets

Shudder

right now, right here in bed, no filter, no makeup, no masks - just - whatever this is, this 'person'. I will never understand it. It's only this body I live in; I take it everywhere I go, I waste immensities of time on placating it, I have to whether I wish to or not! I see all the things, I try to make some sort of connections between and therefore sense of them, but all of that sensemaking is the purest and most arbitrary effort of will. Nothing links anything but the accident that the mind lives inside a bag of skin and bones and has to be toted about in this undignified carapace from one time & place to the next. I failed first year philosophy by the way. But it deserved to be failed at.