I may as yet be a very indeterminate person. I am comfortable with the contradiction and contingency that materialize me. "Sensation refers only to its material." To hold that the heart and mind talk to each other requires the presupposition that each individually exists—the space between them a legible distance upon which marks may alight. Land is some thing upon which we stand. I am my material, unfortunately.
I think the desire called mine to transcend myself is juvenile in the sense that I had this desire when I was younger than I am now. Read me all you want; you'll never see exactly what I see. I have these fantasies of being a bizarre, brilliant outsider, notorious for being exactly what she is; and of being chosen. When someone chooses me it's like some light streams into myself. I hate myself the least.
Three showerflies (an invented term I won't explain) made avant-garde compositions on the wall to my left. I noticed each time I looked at them and doubly noticed my analyst's probing eyes follow my darting ones. I sat in the chair again today. What did they hear? "I need to remember how to act, and be in public." There is an image of myself, and a decidedly not-image of myself. I am meant to uphold both. Ann won't tell me how to prepare—only I can do that.
Drowsily she regards you. Everything throbbing with sleep and its availability. "What are your fantasies?" He may as well have asked you. I want to be someone who cooks dinner for others. I fell asleep for a moment there.
Yeast turf
Your gem
I fell asleep in the face of my own life again.
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