Blue lake, no clouds

Something to do with the sun and a Thursday that feels like a Saturday. "Up North" in Michiganian speak meaning a weekend in the upper half of the lower peninsula, on the north-west coast of the state that resembles a mitten. I am currently between Lake Charlevoix and Walloon Lake, the sky more blue than -

The Bear River Writer's Conference. An expectation of silence, noise from words heard only from the page. Sometimes I can't sleep because there are no traffic sounds. Oh, New York!

I am reading "The Bishop's Daugher" by Honor Moore and making to-do lists. So much to do before Russia, before Israel, before Oregon, Nevada, New York. Oxford, England in October and disappearance from the known.

Thoughts

I am thinking too much. Or not thinking enough in the right ways. The ways I want to be thinking. I am writing short sentences and contemplating the rain.

It has been raining all day. Not a fun, thunderstorm downpour, but merely a thin mist as if the water does not know what it is supposed to be doing or where it is going, falling from the sky as it is. The air is cold.

I like Fridays. I like lifting weights and still being sore two days later. I like my spinning class and listening to long remixes of techno songs as I work out. I don't like feeling judged. I like thinking about what I will do next week when I have free time. I like thinking about the return of the sun.

Time, Time, Time

Written words as a substitute for sound, but I can't think of a substitute for time. At the Whitney Biennial, a video by Amie Siegel with a memorable frame: one car driving, a sticker in the bottom left corner of the back window: DDR.

In the video, an interview:
"How was life for you growing up?"
"It was good. I had no existential fears at all. Later, then, I feared for my existence."

A black box. A broken moment of perfection. Time again. Always time (not more of it, nor less, just the word in space).

Two nights ago, after a concert, a woman hitting on me on the uptown 2 train.