I’ve had a week of forgetting why I’m here, which is interesting. I mean, it’s pretty normal for me to have regular “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life” moments, but usually they are of the “what makes me think I am good enough at this to bother?” variety, rather than the “I’ve really forgotten why I’m doing this” variety.
You know that piece by Rilke where the civil servant gets it in his head to calculate the seconds he has left to live? (The link highlights the first sentence of the story) The feeling that every second is important and shouldn’t be wasted, but it is not a long enough period of time to actually do anything? That’s how I’ve been feeling this week.
Despite that, I wasn’t completely unproductive. I’ve spent some time in the National Museum of Scotland, having people look at me strangely when I take pictures of objects through mirrors, comme ça:
I also spent a bunch of time beating myself over the head with Grasshopper, and I think I’m beginning to understand it. I need to give myself permission to do research and reading properly, right now I am able to think in terms of months or years, I shouldn’t be stuck with Nickolai Kusmitisch’s relentless seconds, and I don’t need to stop the world from swaying by slowly reciting poetry.