Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Have somehow associated the idea of taking up only a little bit of the apartment with the idea of Pessoa. Imagine him sleeping at his desk if he could, if he were alone. He'd like to sleep where he worked, wouldn't see the point in occupying another room when everything he wanted to be surrounded by was already collected around him. Still, each room has its function, its obligation, though you'll most likely eat in every room, live in every room.

In Chinese, living room is kètīng, literally "guest room." You'll be a guest in your own place. The gulf between where I'm supposed to do one thing and where I'm supposed to do another. Obligated by the name of a room. How do you occupy so much space?

The smaller the space, the better, but even then you have your definitions. Even then you have to figure out what each room is for. From now until I move, I will do only this here. So rigid. And but you feel guilty doing this other thing in a space clearly not intended for it. Even if they are your intentions and definitions. You're not being loyal to yourself.

That's where it's easy to break down. You see only faintly that you've been the cause of your work, your obsessions. These rooms mean nothing on their own. By extension, then, you fill them with your own dimensions—for example, home can't be special if you're used to it even after two years away.

That's what's scary: home won't be special; it'll be just another thing you're used to. Most of your days have been spent in English, so why should hearing English all day every day come as a shock? Why should being around people you understand be weird? Don't think about home.

Even that last sentence evokes home. Don't think it.

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