see you soon k, stockholm

its the night before my flight back to new york. i just watched blade runner with k except that k was sleeping in my lap. it is a very interesting movie. shoving nails into ones palms to keep oneself alive, that is some rich symbolism.

it woulda been cool if they had made the replicants not follow a heinous replication of world politics, captained by blonde white man, brown haired grunt, female whores. i guess the movie couldnt but have done that, they are the world intensified, but it ends up reaffirming those ugly politics in how convincingly they fulfill those roles.

i am writing because i dont want to sleep. i have this stupid idea that if i manage to stay awake until i get on the plane that itll be better for my jetlag. dubious idea. there is nothing more seductive than sleep, there is no hunger, no sexual desire, no itch more tempting than sleep.

earlier i was thinking about how an itch, the lowly, vulgar itch is the finest, most precise, unreproducible act. no one else can itch your itches as you can your own, they will hurt you or leave you unsatisfied. they can kiss, caress, massage, tickle, these are the universal motions. tenderness is easy. and scratching, which can be mistaken for itching, is also doable by all, though a bit less rose petaly, its just a coarse caress. but the itch, that satiation, thats special shit.

oh my god i am tired. reading about oslo is a excellent way to rouse myself, that shit is a literal eye opener. that is fucking horrible. ill be there in a few hours, i have a stopover there on the way to new york.

k and i had polenta with saffron and mashed up corn that had been canned, which isnt a bad thing because thats always as tasty as anything ive ever known (i once ate an apple, parched and starving, in the country side of southern france that i thought to be the most delicious id ever eaten in my life. the locals i was with found it marked with the taste of industrial production. to them, it was clearly not plucked off a wild tree, which was what they wouldve found delicious, authentic, etc. I write this to explain, i suppose, that perhaps i no longer have, never had a taste for the wild thing anyway, the can is as real as i can handle, enjoy), and this adorable little salad k had spooned, following the suggestions of mark bittmann into fleshy halves of avocado, along with excellent grilled cheese sandwiches of which k said the onion couldve been fried separately.

i won at scrabble.

i have come to stockholm, an international city, and left with a new appreciation for nature. this is an odd place, full of klippadets (rocky beaches?) and actual forests and so many hills. i can feel the dynamite that civilized it. ks paper was just delivered, i thought someone was trying to break in or the shower curtain had collapsed. that was anxious. its 3 48 AM.

now reading about the horribleness in somalia. there is lots to keep you awake if you want it, this shit is incomprehensible, biblical without any of the meaning, any of the god. people have lives and livelihoods and then it doesnt rain for several years and then all their animals die and they walk through the desert for 20 days to a refugee camp that has nearly 400,000 people in it that was built for 90,000. there is every reason to be awake every night, how odd that one has to be awake to realize the reason one should be. so much to be unhappy about.

the birds here are real characters. the seagulls are throatier than usual, theres always some quivering emotion hanging in the air, some bird laughing or crying or buffooning. now 4 16. still very much want to go to bed but it isnt as acute any more. thinking about dadaab makes me think of lars von trier movies, of dogville. hes all i have to go by in imagining my hells on earth. im uncomfortably comfortable in our white supremacist, classist, sexist, capitalist world. this is a long night.

http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/atlarge/2010/10/11/101011crat_atlarge_gourevitch i guess i needed another boost of wakefulness and mr gourevitch really chips in. that is some brutal article. its about how humanitarian aid, without delving into the specifics of its stunting local governance and commerce, really backfires and can end up a really sordid business. there was a wonderful poem quoted about how a person, though doggedly helping you to find your camel doesnt ever want you to find your camel, ever. it is a blisteringly hopeless article. nothing good to be done for the poor, limbless children. saving lives may only prolong life taking wars, for example. ah what fucked, horrible shit. this is a hilarious night. k sleeps, breathes softly, like an organ in my body steadily churning out the happiness that runs in my veins. without her, lifes looking notably bleak. excited for this plane ride. extremely excited to be able to speak english with everyone i see. though i need to learn to speak spanish to get outside my hilariously well sealed membrane of privelige. i have a hard time talking to black people, i think, at least ones who arent named romeo, were tight ends at harvard and are half white french anyway.