The Last Straw:
When I expatriate my assets I feel the fear melt away. Like art, capital flight is good only if it has arisen out of necessity.
I was dreaming of a big, perfectly-square cloud casting a square shadow over the car, which follows us, staying locked exactly above us, while I’m sleeping in the back. I can see the driver’s weird, narrow face.
I’m avoiding my phone entirely. I leave it in the car and get out and I’m looking for a newspaper instead, which falls apart in my hands, becoming like ash.
I’m taking a three-week breathing course, because I’ve been so stressed. This guy, who looks exactly like a guy who’s teaching you a breathing course should look like, you know. He has a studio I can go to but I usually just meet him on a Google Meet. I have my studio at home. I think it’s helping. But I slept through it today.
The family mausoleum is being airlifted. And we have a great new site. We just need to build a new road to it. It’s a whole thing. But it’s beautiful, really. They have a plinth there already. In place. I’ve been to see it. It’s weird, the plinth, by itself. It looks like an iPad. It’s this black granite they got from somewhere. Really black. I went there and stood by it. The sky, and so on. The sleet accumulating on the granite.
I’ve been having these dreams, also, where I’m in an endless interior, with all these doors and hallways. Elevators sometimes. It feels like a hotel.
All the walls are always red venetian plaster. And there are no windows. Like, no windows that face out, I guess, but there are skylights. And the sky is always black, and it’s always raining or hailing, splashing on the skylights. Sometimes I meet people in this place and we have dinners, or we’re dating. I go to their rooms with them. I sleep with them. I wake up and it feels like I’ve been living some other life for months. I think it’s the stress.
I just want a cold bottle of water right now. And this place doesn’t have the kind I like.