3 hrs
Fuck you sun. I’ll stay in bed the whole day. I work too
hard, I drink too much. I drink too much and I start
smoking like a chimney. And once I start smoking
like a chimney, I can’t be bothered to get up again and
again for every cigarette, to walk again to the balcony
door. So I put the ashtray on the table. When it comes
to that point, the sun can just fuck off in the morning.
The sun rises from the left hand corner of the
bedroom window and moves up with a faint bend.
The windowsill is one axis and the frame the other;
growth is inevitable, although the curve flattens
slightly as time moves on.
If I stay in bed long enough, the sun returns in the
reflection of the windows on the other side of the
street. Steep and inescapable it shines.
March 27, 2012
Why was your contract not extended? Don’t know,
the numbers below the line said it couldn’t be done.
The numbers have spoken? Yes. Which line? The one
on a bloody Excel sheet. I don’t believe you. Neither
do I. Then why wasn’t the contract extended? Well,
the present period is one of administrative numbers.
I had a brilliant idea. I became the Human Cat. I
would sit on the windowsill enjoying the sun. I would
stretch out on the edge of a soft blanket and then
curl up on that same blanket, into a soft, fluffy ball.
With my limbs spread out I would refuse to be put in
25
a box and I would escape from the balcony. I would
make noises with my throat and put my vowels on
the tip of my tongue. I would change into a glorious
animal. I had a white woolen sweater, a white woolen
blanket, white skin and white hair; I would be a white
cat. I would let them stroke me and in the end I would
crawl away behind the old boxes in the attic. Mon
cerveau se doit reposer, I would say.
text from Miriam Rasch, Shadowbook page 24, 25
image source: https://media.newyorker.com/photos/5e06335ca15be900089fe632/16:9/w_1280,c_limit/Brody-CatsReview.jpg
