quarter-century

writing from the studio, after a particularly bad friday night. let myself into the building, almost at midnight, with my student i.d. card. best to use my position of legitimacy to the fullest while it lasts. stepped out of the lift into a zone of relative ease; i now know these corridors (this corridor) as well as i know the tunnels of my mind. this space is where i do good things. this is where i produce ideas and actions that make my life worthwhile. this is where i win, impress and awe. this is where being lonely doesn't matter to me for this is where i have a purpose, as well as a grim determination to bring my purposes to pass. lefebvre could call this space representational, since i have appropriated the objects and symbols in it into my experience and memory of it.

and this terminal is where someone else will be sitting, in 7 months time, discovering themselves anew, if they're smart, in a rush of ideas and dialogues. my little piece of plastic won't work anymore then. i will be cast out into the greater world, to grab a foothold, a lifesaver, anything to keep me afloat. it won't be about pride and satisfaction anymore. it will be about the meanest, meagerest form of survival.

and at once you can spot the flaw in this discourse. why must my will, resource and confidence be thus confined? i am the body, the actor, the point. i can take the world with me where i go. i don't actually need comfort areas, comfort food, comfort parties anymore. that self-consciousness, the self-voyeuristic psychoanalysis, that constant unsure voice in my head, that unknown guilt and insecure shame is a thing of the past - adolescence is over. it happened, it was painful, it was excruciatingly fun, it was sickeningly comforting in it's wretchedness, but it's gone forever. why can't i just let it go?

it isn't about random or small things anymore.