I’m still enchanted with Knausgaard’s writings. He writes about being unable to fathom Kristeva, Lacan and Heidegger. And that, when he was younger he took it to mean he was unintelligent. I remember MF telling us in a seminar that when he was studying for his PhD he’d read Lacan a page a day. I was surprised and somewhat heartened that he too struggled with such reading. Both of them. I can stare and stare at it and it doesn’t penetrate. He doesn’t care. He rarely read the originals. He made sense of the ideas for himself. So much obfuscation. Why can it not just be clear, lucid, like water? Do they want to keep us out? I value the honesty though. It is what connects us, the failings more than the successes. She told me she’d often cry when she missed her train home. And that her book had bombed in America. Bombed. The word, an ugly clumsy one, lay heavy in the air, like stodge in the belly. We offer up our failings like gifts. See, we say, I too can fall. Wonderful. She called me wonderful. Full of wonder. That is nice. I was touched. Am I wonderful? I am riddled with errors, I stumble daily. Trying to do what is right, blindly. Is this right? He sounded so weary with it all this morning. I just want to stay at home for a bit, he said. Will they come back to me? Work is work.
I want to do so much and yet I also long to rest. To sleep for days and days. I couldn’t last night. My stomach was empty. You’ve not eaten enough, that’s why, he said, perching on the edge of my bed. It’s all the rushing about. I want to be still. To sit.
I’ve thought about volunteering with them for a long time now. Ever since Dad died really. It’s the sitting. I want to be a sitter. To sit in their grace. Are they the wrong reasons? I don’t want to work in the shop or fundraise. I just want to sit with them. But I worry about being able to commit myself to the time. My work is so unreliable, so unsteady. I do not know when the phone is going to go. And I have to take it when it comes. Guide me.
Two nights now there have been bonfires on the beach. Last night they had fairy lights too. Pretty in the semi-night-becoming-morning-darkness. This morning they were packing up when I walked past. A thumping electronic noise was coming from a ghetto blaster. I wanna lay down, a girl was singing. A lad was piling plastic bags of stuff into a car. Two bikes were still chained to the railing. To sit up all night and watch the morning come. To sit.
Writing today. I must make a start. Work is coming in hard and fast. I asked for it and it came. It will be well. I will get it all done. Then rest. We can both rest. He and I.
The sun shines white against the roof opposite. A good day beckons. Thank you.