Comment faire imaginer, par exemple, une ville sans pigeons, sans arbres et sans jardins, ou lon ne rencontre ni battements dailes ni froissements de feuilles, un lieu neutre pour tout dire? Le changement des saisons ne sy lit que dans le ciel. Le printemps sannonce seulement par la qualit de lair ou par les corbeilles de fleurs que des petits vendeurs ramnent des banlieues ; cest un printemps quon vend sur les marches. Pendant lt, le soleil incendie les maisons trop sches et couvre les murs dun cendre gris ; on ne peut plus vivre alors que dans lombre des volets clos. En Automne, cest au contraire, un dluge de boue. Les beaux jours viennent seulement en hiver.
Albet Camus
I'm in a funny mood today. Back and forth like a yoyo, my chart says im in a time transitions (that is, even n addition to my saturn return). Pluto's transformative power makes me even more unsure. I just want to know where I'm headed and I'm at least six months from knowing that, this city is a weight, slowly killing off the creative parts of us. It's hard to make art un-nurtured. I read something Kurt Vonnogut said a few days ago. Something to the effect of, "I belong to the last generation of American writers to exist within a community of writers, after we are gone it will only be lonely flashes in the dark." [sic] That is, those of us writing today have to compete with television, radio, video games and cinema for our audience, the world doesn't think it needs writers so much anymore, books are for airplanes, after all. Consquently, we must journey alone, and if we succeed it is only because we pulled ourselves up with our bootstraps and got on with it.
I've never been very good at getting on with it.
But it can't go on like this, me a mediochre chef with no passion left (it's the lack of passion that makes me mediochre). If there's ever been a time for my bootstraps to be pulled up, it's now.
Like you said, dad, someday I'll be a man...
As long as you don't actually get sick with whatever I have. It's truly horrible!