Still in July

At 6:27am I look at the alarm clock. Continue to sleep. Sleep. Sleep for one night. Not waking up. Once, twice, three times I woke up. Dream. About flying in mountains and hoping that the automatic control redirects before I race into the gray, bare wall. About strange reformers, their strange names, which I have already forgotten. About a map of their countries, which surprisingly had a French Canadian title. Something like Papineau — but it wasn’t. In both dreams there was me as the one who is experiencing and who is acting as a first-person narrator in parallel. Something happens to me and at the same time I report on it.

What can I write? How do I open up to let out what is inside me. Without thinking. Just feeling. Without a brain. Just belly. Abdomen with scar. And with the certainty that they will come back, the adhesions, the pain, the operations. I want to get used to the fact that this is a part of me. The adhesions, knots — that’s me. The intestine — that’s me. I want to get to know myself better. I want to understand me better. I want to take care of myself. I want to love myself. I want to be free to want what is good for me. And for that I have to… For that I can deal with myself. With my gut, with my fear. With my transformation. With my colors, fears, my will, my love. With my relationship to the world, to people, to birds, to trees, to the wind. Feel the connections and from it… …create a sound, a vibration, a freedom, a movement, a language of love and connection.

And keep writing. And read on. And live on. And transform myself. Writing transformation. Writing the transform in time. Is this a perpetuation? Something that has begun and that will end? Something linear, with youth, development, and age? Or isn’t it something that has no direction, no goal. Is it something from which ideas and duties can be derived? Something that lasts. Lasts forever? Is that conceivable? No beginning, no end. A substance that changes its state, that takes on different forms, different manifestations. But that always consists of the same substance, the same elements, the same energy. The shapes are new. The things are old. Time is an idea to give direction to the directionless. To construct causalities and conditions. To somehow try to make an impact.

And that’s good. Without that, I wouldn’t have gotten the second Covid-19 vaccination yesterday. Without that, I would be dead now. Died of glued intestine with resulting passage disorder. Without time, this text would not exist. There would be no text. That would also be okay. That wouldn’t be okay. Because then I wouldn’t be sitting here now. But where is the line to be drawn? When is it still OK — the causal, the direction. When not anymore? And who decides that?

Continued writing. Don’t think. But move the hand, put ink on the paper. Turn the inside into ink on paper, into text. I’m free the day I write in the morning and don’t sit at the table with my legs intuitively crossed. In a curved posture, with fear of freedom and fear of morning chill. I’m sitting here as if I better not be here. As if I were gone. Dead. Absent. Why don’t I dare to live? The chill, to turn it into heat. Then release the heat back to the world — and absorb the coolness again. And so on. I don’t believe in myself. I do not trust myself that I can survive in this exchange with the environment. That’s why I writhe, expose myself as little as possible to my surroundings. Warm myself. Best would be in a cave. So that I am invisible.

Write so much more. Three pages. Just a little more than half is done. Maybe after the long break I have to learn how to do it again. Learn the movement from the inside out. Learn the words, learn to listen, learn to write. Learning to be, learning to become free. Place the feet next to each other on the beautiful wooden floor. Lift me up. Feel myself sitting in the chair. Feel the cushion under my butt. Feel that there is something solid under the cushion that resists — so that I do not fall. Breathe. Not superficially, but consciously. Deep. Detach the tongue from the palate. Become relieved. Free. Relax. And keep writing. It’s like going out. Across the road, then turn right. Or left. And just go. Just write. Don’t write “about” anything. But write myself. Write the breathing, the moving. The movement of the pelvis, the straightening, the work of liberation. And that it only works, … I can only do it together with other people. With you, with the children, with the parents — even if I can’t really imagine it yet. With friends. — I have almost no friends. Who are my friends? Who do I trust, who trusts me? I used to have a lot of friends. But I didn’t trust them or myself. It was pure decorum. No. That is unfair, wrong. There were friends in Stanford. There was a large circle of acquaintances and some friends. Later, the friends took a back seat and the acquaintances came to the fore. Especially in the years in Warren. Later, in 63rd Street, there were only acquaintances. Many of them. Es was a huge show about how great we all are, how smart, how significant, how urban, how cultivated. How pointless. Like dead. How non-free. At least for me. I wasn’t friends with myself. How could I have been friends with others. A miracle, since my family endured it. In the end, I myself could not stand it and almost carried myself from life to death. By giving my appendix time to become ruptured. And then still did not go to the doctor. I wanted to die rather than take care of myself. Than to get me help. Than talking to other people. Than to trust someone. Than to entrust me to someone else. Than to make myself part of life. I was part of life. But I didn’t know what that meant. How much power that gives and how much freedom. I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t know life. I didn’t realize anything, I didn’t realize that I could trust.