Sunset: 4:35pm. Tonight the moon is full. “When you do something, you should burn yourself completely, like a good bonfire, leaving no trace of yourself.”
I was heaving and hauling myself across 85th Street when something clicked.
Sunset: 4:44pm. Last night the clocks fell back an hour, and it’s my favorite moment of the year because we create more night.
Sunset: 5:47pm. There’s a new supermoon tonight. Embrace speed. Groove on distraction. Let everything get garbled and weird.
Along the way, I began to think of my book as a monster.
There’s that principle that we burn up all available time to complete a task—and this gets scary when measured in years.
To erase the “I” and stand outside of time, writing like a ghost.
The body remembers slowly and forgets very quickly.
Lately my dreams have been all garble and grime without symbolism or plot.
It doesn’t matter if the nail is in the exact right place, so long as it’s holding together two pieces of wood.
There’s a strange dynamic to this nightly journal, this sensation of writing against time. Or more precisely: writing for myself in the future.
Lately I’ve been torn between the possibilities of fiction versus my compulsion to record each day’s events in this nightly journal.
