It’s about love, life, and bluegrass music. At least according to the trailer for Broken Circle Breakdown. The ex-wife of my ex-good friend from Belarus emailed me. Said it’s a good Belgian film. She’s Belgian so it makes sense. I don’t know what happened between him and her. She’s written me emails saying it’s not good.
How much more data. Do I need? I can take a year off from alcohol, from sugar. Can I take a year off from data? Imagine the stillness that would grow.
Kate says my Ry why are you obsessed with ultra running and swimming now?
The key is length. Give me an unfathomable distance. Give me something 99% of competitive athletes wouldn’t even attempt.
If you squirt citrus scent into a mouse cage and then shock the rodent with electricity, the next generation offspring of that mouse will excrete stress hormone when you squirt citrus. As if the stress memory got stored in genes.
In this sense, my mom isn’t completely dead.
My dreams are very vivid. Which means I was crying and I felt the tears running down my cheeks, but my face was stone like one of those waterfalls that people with too much money and time put in their yards. When I woke up the tears were gone but my face still felt like stone.
The ultra pain unblurs the blur.
You know applying for jobs is a lot like dating. When do you follow up. Why the fuck isn’t anyone getting back to me? Do I need different skills? Is it my name?
I check my email.
My email tells me that i can calm down by listening to a blue whale’s heart beat, which i click, and learn it’s another false promise to get you to click, because you can’t listen but you can see a heart expand and contract, and by watching this blue heart expand and contract on the screen I learn that a blue whale’s heart beats only six times per minute or once every ten seconds.
Once every ten seconds.
The problem for the artist is that art can’t keep up with data, and therefore can’t keep up with people because we’re sprinting into cyborg orgy, because we’re so thirsty for data it’s like being an alcoholic, one drink is never enough. and art is like saying you only get one drink. do you see that that we’re too hurry hurry hurry that art can’t be enough because we’re all alcoholics. Do you see that we’re all alcoholics?
I keep seeing these calls for writing which is “deeply human.”
The deepest human I know is me when i’m submerged in a pool for two hours and four minutes and thirty seconds and my brain is wish wash chlorine and the water isn’t clear it’s cloudy which I know isn’t a good sign but I stay in there anyway because this is my time to swim and I don’t give a damn what the chlorine levels are because I need these two hours and after swimming and rinsing off in the shower I drive home and sit in the lawn chair that we’re using for kitchen table chairs and there’s so much liquid inside my skin from absorption that i blow my nose for the rest of the night.
This may not sound deep at all, which is true, because I didn’t even go that deep, I stayed on the surface where i could float and swim and move my arms and pee every thirty minutes while not kicking.
Deeply human is a contradiction because we’re a blur, especially with data. I’m dissolving. The chlorine of chaos and ooh text messages and keep on the job applications and hang the diapers and get gas and write a book and eat more vegetables and drink slightly less coffee and try goat’s milk is a solvent and it’s breaking me into pieces.
I tell Kate I’ll be reasonable about my ultra-swimming. I won’t be $1000 to swim around Manhattan. Or $10,000 to charter a boat for the English Channel. I’ll stick to the pool, and plow a wake back and forth, like the swinging pendulum of a grandfather clock.