Paul Célan: greek God of contradictions. German, maybe French, and I read him in English.

Black coffee: heart-mending tool that may cause heart palpitations.

Reading Paul Célan is good for the heart. My heart is torn.

Take-out cofffee is for later, and when later is now, there will be coffee.

I’ll become a writer in the virtue of heart-mending.

When I write, I am torn between completeness and complete fragility. I swing between sentences in
my head.

What’s torn is the head, what swings is the heart. Afterall, the heart is just an idea that is as real as the organ.

Organs fail, ideas persist.

The heart-idea palpitates stronger than flesh and blood.

Paul Célan wrote about rooms in the heart. I am lost.

The heart-idea has a shadow that persists. You can’t see the shadow, you only read the words.

One day, I’ll write words made of pen shadows. One day I’ll mend my heart.

For now, I am drinking take-out black coffee.

There’s a cemetery outside the airplane’s window, we were descending down to it. There’s no earth, no sky, only a cemetery. The window hangs over it like a daydream.

I read Clarice Lispector; the author. I read the author and the character, outside and inside. And I weep to the inside, no tears. Just salt in my mouth.

Being on a plane, always makes me write. Maybe because I’m so close to death, to falling, and I want to survive

The body does so much to me and so much is done on the body. Binge-reading Paul Célan is bad for the body, it fragments the body and slices the eye, but it’s good for the heart. I’ve been having heart palpitations for the past five hours, something is dancing in my heart. It flutters like a dead bird but I manage to function. Such delicate dancing in the heart.

Imaginary Conversations #4: Week-end 1967 Jean-Luc Godard

This scene is a parody of surrealist narrative.

The way it’s shot; making of her a giant woman sitting before a distanced impersonal man, the analyst. She’s magnified with a lens. He’s silent and she’s talking about a night full of dreams and desires; of a naked woman who sat on her cat’s bowl of milk and of cracked eggs.
She overtakes the frame, yet his presence is the frame.