Self

I realise I’ve been taking self-portraits. I realise I’ve been writing self-portraits.

To capture yourself in a moment of time. You should start taking self-portraits.

But that’s what I’ve been doing, haven’t I?

I’ve never been so attached to a body. I am an I. I am not the body I possess or currently care for. The body partners with I. I am a partner of body. There’s companionship with I. I care for this body. I do this as I. I am only I.

I’ve never been so attached to a body. It occurs to me I’ve been taking self-portraits of my own kind. If I’m to study myself, my first thought is not to capture photos of a body. If I’m to study myself, then I am to study I.

Why do you use timestamps? Is that a part of the writing or…

Everything is written to perfection. Everything I write is perfect. Every thing you write is perfect. It has no other way to be. I’ve always said this, there is perfection. I don’t care what you do. You have shown me your mind at a moment in time. You’ve shown me reflection. That reflection is indubitably the culmination of every single second of your life. And in that reflection, there is perfect. It is inherently perfect. It does exactly what it is to do.

I have a hard time editing. That’s actually not true. Editing is one of my favourite literary tasks. I love joining workshops. I love editing. I am challenged to find “work” of my own to edit. I am challenged to find work that is to be edited. No, but, that’s not the same thing. It’s just not right. Okay, but that’s not true. I rather like telling the truth and I rather like being precise. I will not settle with words. It hurts to settle with words. There’s been a kind of unbearable pain when I’ve been “made” to settle with regard to my words.

I realise now I’ve been taking self-portraits. I’ve been writing self-portraits and I will not edit the truth. I will not settle for “truth”. A reflection must remain a reflection whether I like it or not. Once a moment has passed, it is done. It will not be changed. This is a study and observations will not be falsified.

So I have a hard time finding “work” to edit, because maybe I’m not really a writer after all. I told you I don’t “write”. I’m not a “writer”. I don’t know, I don’t know what I am. I think. I document. An archivist.

When I write, I edit, and it’s easy. It’s challenging, but it’s easy. I edit. I write. I write. I edit. I don’t resist the fact of editing and its necessity. This is with fiction. This is with poetry. This is with screenplays. It is only then that I “write”. I’m a writer now. But the rest? There is inherent perfection.

These are not works. These are happenings. They are events. They are moments in time. I realise now I’ve been taking self-portraits.

I think I may’ve been writing self-portraits, and I guess it now kind of all makes sense. If this is a study, I won’t want it tampered with. The validity and accuracy risk being destroyed.

That said, I’m kind of bored of studying. I’ve been doing it for quite some time now. I’m feeling partial to living. You have been living, soprattutto nell’ultimo anno, dai. If living is studying, then I’m growing partial to the living way of studying as opposed to the study way of living.

Studying is easy. It’s instinct. It’s what I do. It’s what I know.

I think I might wanna try that other thing.

[Circa 14:44-16:08 14 mar 2025.]