2.21.22

This kind of desire has a particular violence. I won't meet you there; you will have to catch up. 

Underwater, time moves at its own pace. I knew at the shore looking into the water and then in the water looking at the shore. Right before ____ passed away, I wrote him a poem - I wrote about a wave (and about something else): what once seemed so far is suddenly so near. Two years later then, still I'm thinking of him. Dear ____: It's strange. When the wave comes crashing down on you it's always a surprise even when you know the ocean is made of waves. 

I knew that I couldn't make the writing up and that what I needed to do was to get up and live. 

_______ told me she was moved most when the character in my book took action. So on the train to Shibuya, I ripped up my train ticket in my hands, forgetting I needed it to leave the station. I brought it to the station booth, expecting to be scolded and told to buy a new ticket. I presented the ripped up ticket in my hands (torn three times horizontally and then six times vertically) to the conductor. He started laughing in surprise and let me through the gate for free. His laughter felt better than crying. 

I want to make films like this I thought; no I want to live like this. How? Again I return to Lispector. Moving my hands along the spine of the cactus. Wake up before my stories do. Opening my eyes underwater.