im thinking about chevengur again. im thinking about what it means to be a child of history. as in someone born in the right time in the right place and able to affect all of the future. i imagine Platonov as one of them. sasha in chevengur definitely is one.
may 19th
thinking about chevengur again. i found and old note i wrote as a lay out for a zine i had planned. it is to be about dairy. it is called the dairy zine. these are my notes:
dairy zine
knowing domestication went both ways
knowing cows are a recent addition
knowing the black and white cows are almost genetically identically and prone to illness
knowing the black and white cows produce sickening amounts of milk
knowing that veal is inseparable from dairy production
knowing its impossible to separate the benefits of something from its inevitable results
if i could only have 5 food liquids for the rest of my life whole milk would be one of them
unhappy, crossed out, alone, confused
this is all i had. i think i wrote this all in a single sitting. if you dont do it in a single sitting it isn't a note it's notes.
(night) when i see trees from the correct angle, from the proper angle and distance, with the proper amount of foliage and green, i experience something akin to visual snow. as far as i understand visual snow to be. the leaves they all align, all of my vision aligns with the leaves and the small changes and my vision blurs in the perfect way. it hurts to look at. i only started experiencing this a few years ago when i first decided to freak out and obsess over trees.
(izzy interlude)
This happens to me when I look at tile floors. I used to sit on the toilet in my childhood home for hours looking at the tiles in my bathroom until I wasn't quite sure if they dipped inward toward the floor beneath or puckered outward, or all cascaded toward one point like step pyramids. I guess it's easiest to find the time for an exercise like that while you're shitting. I haven't had the time to do even that in years. The last I recall zoning out on the tile floor is when I was on Tyler's toilet after he'd trimmed his toenails too short and bled all over the floor, and Eric Whitacre music was droning out from an antique radio perched on the medicine cabinet mirror. And I sat frozen, using the arrays and quivering squares as a backdrop, thinking about what we fill up the spaces with, what we know, how things are oriented, where they're facing. Which cascades of tile actually drop into the floor? Who's waiting for you in the bed behind the wall?
I think watching the bathroom walls come apart, can remind you that trying to "know" someone is a corageous act verging on stupidity.
I'd like to think that Adam's leaves have a more comforting kind of permeation to them when the shapes and patterns come out. I've done psychadelics to the point where I take their position for granted, the trees. I think maybe it says something that people made the tiles, and the trees were there long before us.