After last night's slightly dense blog entry, which seemed to involve working through my feelings about the past year through the plots and changes of a television show: today was spent waiting, rather uselessly, for the electric company to come replace some sort of switch. They had reserved me from 8 am to 8 pm, and around 7:50 pm I phoned them – it turned out that somehow they'd gotten too short notice... all right, we'll try again next week.
The other background circumstances being that I still haven't written a damned thing of any use. Another day spent mentally circling all of the Great Projects... and a strange feeling of involvement (I must make myself do this thing!) simultaneous with utter detachment (it won't matter to any possible history of the world if I do not do this thing). Slightly sharpened because tomorrow is a day of going to Keighley for analysis, for looking at and talking about myself: and yes I've done a bit of active imagination, together with several useful dreams, but not as much (never, never as much) as I could have.
And, after reading some calm, slightly mesmerized Brautigan, a cluster of BBC programs (yes, I know I should say: programmes), better than the stuff that usually goes past on the screen, on Pepys, some comments on Woolf, etc.... they bring up time and memory and recording, the eerie difference between the moment and writing about it, between the breathing self and the record of that self. I have a lucid but ephemeral sense of this set of attitudes frozen in time, a sort of transparent slide of myself and my feelings and all the things that happen and don't happen, which has already turned into a kind of frozen memory: one that, when one looks at it, from whatever distance in time or space, becomes a caught fragment of time, of awareness – not an exceptional moment, not a bad moment, not a good moment: just a multileveled fragment of frozen time that can be added to a long row of them, as though in a box...
waiting, for whose eyes I cannot imagine.
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