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A reminder, pinned to the wall of my colleague's office.
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“If it is a human thing to do to put something you want, because it’s useful, edible, or beautiful, into a bag, or a basket, or a bit of rolled bark or leaf, or a net woven of your own hair, or what have you, and then take it home with you, home being another, larger kind of pouch or bag, a container for people, and then later on you take it out and eat it or share it or store it up for winter in a solider container or put it in the medicine bundle or the shrine or the museum, the holy place, the area that contains what is sacred, and then next day you probably do much the same again — if to do that is human, if that’s what it takes, then I am a human being after all. Fully, freely, gladly, for the first time.”
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“So, when I came to write science-fiction novels, I came lugging this great heavy sack of stuff, my carrier bag full of wimps and klutzes, and tiny grains of things smaller than a mustard seed, and intricately woven nets which when laboriously unknotted are seen to contain one blue pebble, an imperturbably functioning chronometer telling the time on another world, and a mouse’s skull; full of beginnings without ends, of initiations, of losses, of transformations and translations, and far more tricks than conflicts, far fewer triumphs than snares and delusions; full of space ships that get stuck, missions that fail, and people who don’t understand. I said it was hard to make a gripping tale of how we wrested the wild oats from their husks, I didn’t say it was impossible. Who ever said writing a novel was easy?”
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Back to teaching in person after a year and a half. But I’ve been allocated a room without a blackboard or whiteboard. And yes it’s old fashioned and I’m sure it never helped the students much, but I really miss scribbling incoherently on a wall.
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This isn’t work. This is swimming laps. Which is ultimately a part of work, but ... sort of not really? Because my brain is insistent, and fixates on things, I have to have something to do in the pool with that internal monologue. So I memorise poems, by taping them to my water bottle. The longer it takes to memorise, the less legible they become.
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Laying out Brotes, by Alexandra Delano Alonso. I’ll never be able to really see a book on screen. It has to be a large inconvenient spatial takeover. A pet is a good inconvenience in the editing process.
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I work in bed. I always have. Having moved house 45-ish times, and lived in many chaotic share situations, I just got used to the idea that my bed was the only space that belonged to me. It isn’t ideal. But it’s what I do. I fantasize that one day I’ll have a big rustic beautiful long table and I’ll be a proper writer and I’ll sleep –– really sleep –– somewhere pure and serene. But not yet.
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The light table is sort of fetishistic. Everything looks good on it. I can pretend I’m working on a magazine layout in 1971, or looking at slides. Really I don’t know if I’m even writing anymore. I’m just collaging words.
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I go in and out of actually using my schedule. And sometimes I pretend that colour coding will make me more organised.
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Working board, Memory is a tough place. (2017) It went from a list of works, to a group of images pinned to a board, to a sketchy floor plan with the images (roughly) scaled, to works in a gallery.
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Notebook technique. Put it all in one place. The book goes everywhere with me, and periodically I go through and tab sections. These become like Dada poetry, catalogues of my brain.
Disciplinarity Death
Sleep in London
To do, godammit
Attendance 1st Nov.
BLM Platform
Muse work
Text messaging Marxist
Queerness, feminization of the workforce
Caveats
Husbandry
Wave analogy - fatigue
Conference, Corridor, Sun
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