51 km this week. Almost 700m up. Rather slow. Enjoyable. Sweat and vigor. Running is good.
Yesterday I listened to Timothy Spall talking about his character portraying JMW Turner. They never mentioned his role in Intimacy. For me, that’s what I usually associate with his acting career. That talk he had with Mark Rylance’s character in Intimacy is something I still feel today. I cannot remember any of the words they said but I can remember perfectly how they must have felt, face to face. I think I wan to watch that movie again. Perhaps even re-read the book. I remember blushing in the dark cinema, feeling the air getting hotter, the heart pumping, swallowing every ten seconds. Patrice Chereau knew how to tell a story. Make a loud bang at the beginning, tear your heart out and make you look at it, bloody but pulsing, then slowly, proceed to explain this action. Now that I think about it Intimacy receives yet another dimension. It seems to represent not only the relationship between the man and the woman, but also the relationship the man has with himself, the excruciating loneliness he goes through, or tries to go through.
“Grunt!”, as Spall’s Turner would have said/done.
There is very little time left for anything else. I cannot see where I should find place for translating or writing something else, beside this. The only way is to stay up as long as it’s done and just try to do a good job while I am at it. The trouble is I am mostly tired and the head does not respond as it should. But, hey!, apparently this is how it should be. This way the brain gets pushed into making connections it would otherwise not bother to make. Why change the system? Being tired might have the same effect as having a glass of wine or a beer (both of which, by the way, I did not have in quite a while). And since I mentioned alcohol… Train of thought : the bar in Fresno - the shooting - Mark Arax - the mighty almond (protein rich) - the water drain - Resnick’s of Paramount Farms. Every little produce has its own mogul.
Anne Sexton - Suicide is, after all, the opposite of a poem.
Thinking about it. Suicide takes away everything, irrevocably. Usually (ha!) there is no joy involved. It reduces all possibilities to naught. It implodes the world, it collapses any hope there might have been. A poem, on the other hand, is a snapshot of the world, is always open and available. One only needs to read it and one already has gain a private access to this world.
Alan Garner - Story does not instruct. It shows an open palm, not a pointing finger.
That is, sharing again. Not teaching but sharing. Oh, and perhaps it could very nicely tie in with Louis CK’s idea that finding the self, the I in the midst of life, of working and learning and aspiring and even meditating or reflecting, is usually a vain enterprise leading to nothing in particular, nothing that would make any difference. The I is an illusion. What you can do is try to channel the energy you put into it towards helping someone else grow, reach maturity in their chosen field, professionally or personally. In other words, share and support. Share and support. After he became a parent he wanted to show to himself that he kept his independence and psychological strength by not giving up his Monday evening poker round with friends. He kept going and playing and enjoying their company. Suddenly, however, he found himself asking - what am I doing here, in a smoky badly lit room, playing cards with a bunch of guys when, instead, I could be home playing with my girls, spending time with my family. And that was that!
Tao Linn - Ancestors in both directions.
A nice way of putting it. Oneself not as origin, not as beginning, but also not as endpoint, not as telos. One’s life pulling from both direction and also pushing back slowly. Caught between earth and sky, between here/now and there/then, forked towards the past and the future. One is never alone.
For tomorrow, perhaps:
“We’re waiting for a glance or a word, some acknowledgement that we are here.” ― Jeet Thayil
Good night! and Good luck!