Nobody's who I want them to be today. If that makes any sense. I feel like that sounds horrible that way, but I can't figure out a way to explain it.
I'm really trying to finish the first round of Tennyson stuff today. I wish I had been at this point on Monday. I'm trying not to get paralyzed, and I did write for a bit yesterday.
The crisis that The Poet and his wife were having on Monday turned out to be a false alarm, but not so much of one that I've been able to see him since. This bothers me. The fact that it bothers me also means that I care and that in turn bothers me, and that for some reason makes me want to look up in the library and see K, even though I know he's teaching this month and it would be a bad idea anyway.
So I feel like I'm a bit knotted up, I want to see my damn boyfriend, and it's going to be in the 90s this weekend and I still don't have an air conditioner.
About Me
- the other woman
- "She did not know if she did it on purpose, but she lived as a fatality the necessity of destining her pleasure to the absent one, who moreover was not always the same, the other of the other always possibly being an other. This is naturally, and here I have to quote her, a 'surplus' of always available pleasure, and a 'fatal deprivation.' After a silence: the day that I love someone, man or woman, I am certain, or I believe that it will stop, in any event this is how I will recognize love. I have loved a lot, however, without ever abandoning myself to those I loved, presently I mean. And up to the present. Another silence (I had already asked for the bill) and without anything provocative or vulgar, with a kind of confidence which I still like to think of: I have the feeling that with you [vous] it would be different." (Derrida, Envois)
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