In Dreams, I Walked With You
And it increases the self loathing... well, the feeling that mine own body is actually increasingly utterly revolting to me. Too big, too bulbous, fleshy lumps of apendages, it gives me the creeps, especially in this weather where it starts to... leak, to seep, secretions and sweat, ugh! I call my body an "it" because I don't think of it as me.
But then some beardy boy with a guitar messages me about Calabai-Yau Spaces and I start to get my hopes up. (The hope is the worst part, Catty quoted once. I can live with the despair, I just can't live with the hope.)
I find it harder and harder to reach out and communiate with people. Just making the effort to speak is sometimes hard. I hang back, even with my friends, listening, observing when I can, sometimes just locked in my private world of deafness. It's not that I don't have things to say, I just can't be bothered to say them. And then it all builds up into the heap of resentment that no one is listening to me. Must try harder to break through the barriers.
I dreamed of TSM last night. They've been in my thoughts a lot, since I saw their Marfa Machine Music film. It's not just lust... though yes, it's aesthetic kind of lust where it actually hurts to look at someone, they are so beautiful. But a kind of identification. The way they speak to each other without words. The musical communication, of three people locked together by an unspeakable groove, a closeness that is even closer than the closeness of brothers. Benjamin speaks with his hands and the movements of his head, and Brandon adjusts his keyboard riff accordingly.
Josh explaining "I am grateful to have this band, it enables me to express myself..." and Brandon, accusing "but what are you expressing, what are you trying to say?" and Josh, defiant, retorting, stoned but not unintelligent "I am expressing myself!"
I dreamed about Brandon last night. We were in Central Park, sitting on the rocks that I once turned paisley when I was a Psychedelic Chameleon (read: tripping my face off, using chalk to colour the rocks the same paisley as my dress). We were just talking, having one of those interesting, twisting conversations that you have when you're on drugs. And then, abruptly, he tried to kiss me.
And I was actually quite indignant, protesting "what was that about? I thought we were just having a good time!" - I mean, after all, he's the wrong brother. (And a part of me feels guilty, almost unfaithful, which is absurd.)
I'm trying to figure out what it means. Am I annoyed by the invasion of animal intincts like lust and loneliness into my ordered intellectual life? Am I too nit-picky, turning down one of the authors of my favourite music, because he's not quite right, not The One?
Who knows. Who cares. I'm going to do some work and listen to some more Kraftwerk.