„Who are the men?“ they ask, hawkishly.
„It’s okay – they’re reliable,“ Furiosa assures them. What a wonderful choice for a word: reliable. No finer point of praise under these circunstances and many others. I am a fan of Kelly Sue DeConnick’s Bitch Planet comic book series, and have been happy and inspired to see many female fans of that series getting that story’s symbol for „non-compliant“ – a woman who does not agreeably fit the requirements of docility and femininity ascribed to her by the patriarchy – tatooed on their arms. In like kind, I hope to live long and well enough to deserve getting „reliable“ tatooed on mine.
— Matt Brown, All we have are our Bodies on Fury Road, 29
Night air, softly moving
inside and outside
your room after dawn
night air, softly moving
Kyoto wherever you are
Listening to Lawrence’s Birds on the Playground at night, on my bed in Rua da Miraflor. Roof window open, mind/world at ease.
The prevalent emotion in context with the death of a loved one is the brutal and finite realisation that we are the lucky ones, who get to continue to witness the world, that get to continue to watch, to listen, to love, to inscribe ourselves. We get to continue to do the things that – to a certain degree – are possible because of those that came before us. With this comes the urgent realisation that we must not waste a minute, an impetus, a connection. We need to ferociously continue to be ourselves, we owe it to those who had to go.
Imaginary Joy Division, barely audible in the background of Pro Quadratmeter, now in Almstadtstraße, as the empty streets of this particular, unglamourous apocalypse remain wind-swept and rainy. Jackpot. Ich kaufe Miamification von Avanessian, so ein Stream-of-Consciousness-Ding bei Merve. Das scheint mir die einzig mögliche Handlung. (13. März)
In my life, in moments of clarity, in moments of being close to myself, the world has felt abstracted, foreign and incompatible. In these moments, I have felt akin to the patterns of eroded signage paint on tar, to the shapes of the clouds, to insects resting on a sun-basked leaf. I have felt disconnected, yet at home in the cracks and ends, at home inscribed into the patterns, nowhere to be found but somehow. (010717)