rant

It's really hot again. Blinds stay down / pulled and the fan is a constant companion, pushing warm air my way with the hopes that it'll relieve me from this heat. My mind starts wandering, again, to places I might go where I might be more comfortable. My thighs stick to my chair. My skin is a new brand of adhesive.

And now my thoughts have run out and I don't even have the feeling that I've worked enough, or well enough. Trying to decide how to work out the abject-ness of narrative, in comparison to sentences and themes. Lianne once told me that I should take full advantage of my time, that I should see this as an opportunity to enter into discussion with two books I much admire. To see writing this thesis like allowing myself to partake of another world. All this I try to remind myself when I sit down and write. The "need" to get it done gets in the way. So does frustration with words. Why does it sometimes take so long for thought to materialize into words, to be put down on paper and that's that? Barthes saying that what is not written in pleasure cannot be read with pleasure. Bleeuurrggg to Barthes!

ostie qui fait chaud.