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epistle log 20enty 9ine
remote
movement. restless and unresting. moving through this city, seeking comfort, seeking home. home is moved, and yet i feel less like i belong there than in other counties sometimes. not to anyone’s fault but perhaps mine own, or perhaps it is circumstantial. i long for the comfort of my academic days, grounded, rooted, routined. now my routine seems empty, going through the movements numbers papers as if tranced: mechanistic.
i am home, or rather in the city of my birth. and yet infirmities of the body and spirit keep me from those that physical distance has already separated me. they are "near," but what of that? that brings me not to them, nor cures the impediments.
is it the individuation i so abhor, this post-modern destructionism? cars necessary for the shortest of travels, and most often alone in my carriage i venture. and even that solitary travel is discontinuous: the movement north on i71 folds on itself: i hardly know one place from the next, except for where i am going from and to. every point in the middle pulls to a tessaract of sorts, and i am looped in the instant of travel for interminable times.
i feel estranged even from this work, these words, this writing, the whole project. nothing touches me: at this instant i am a singularity.
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