#9 Control Issues

Hey... I deleted a big chunk of text that came before this, describing events over the week, that made me feel like I'm hung on the laundry line, clipped at both sleeves, while being wrung dry. Gasp.

In progress

Many beakies in progress are on hold. Every beakie is constructed on an emotion, a state of being or a response to situation, etc. Right now, none seems appropriate to be carried forward or I risk dissonance. Changing the course, however, feels like overwriting the moment passed. For now, they sit obediently in a box at the centre of my desk as a constant reminder. 

Each beakie is a time marker.

Anxiety, paranoia, exhilaration, disappointment, anger, hope, mischief, I've cycled through them all and more in the last 2+ months since the virus has arrived on our shores. But this week is different. I feel everything and nothing, like I've no more emotion to give, only physical fatigue.

I feel like the days are no longer mine to spend. To fight the helplessness, I started stealing an hour every morning from my sleep, to sit at my desk, bleary eyed, fiddling textile with my hands. 

First half of the groggy hour is typically spent undoing what was done in the previous groggy hour, before proceeding to adding no more than half pair of ears. Yet. I feel like I still have a sense of control. As such, I've been creating a new beakie I don't yet know what to think of.

New born

But I did complete a pug I believe is a tortured poet in poor disguise. 

Listen/ read/ watch

Breakfast music this week is Kevin Morby's Harlem River and it's many remixes. I find his lazy stubbornness comforting in a time less rosy. 

A quick diversion from tedious news is Save the planet six-word stories.

Stories of discourteousness in pandemic spun as a bad joke makes me shudder. I found temporary relief in much needed levity in If I wrote a coronavirus episode. Scroll all the way for Oscar the grouch.

I kept clicking on Ghost town to goat's town to look at the video and pictures. They fill me with hope like wildlife in chernobyl's exclusion zone.

At Dusk by Hwang Sok-yong is a short novel I ended taking longer to read so not to miss what is not said. I'm not an architect, or an actor, or very rich or very poor. I'm stirred but I can't figure out why or how. So much so the day after I finished the book, I watched Parasite, also Korean, in attempt to figure out that unfamiliar feeling in me. Now I've just doubled the ache.


Eggless Spanish omelette need I say more? Recipes are a dime a dozen online so I won't go into that. I dislike making easy but tedious things, so I experimented. Instead of frying potatoes till translucent (which always takes forever), I boiled them sliced skin on with salt in just enough water to cover, and poured potatoes plus liquid into the chickpea and wholemeal flour mix. Faster and no significant taste difference as long as I remember the salt and oil.

There is so much more I want to tell you, but I don't know how without loosing control I'm trying so hard to maintain. When things are smooth, the ground solid, I could indulge in a little diatribe and a dose of misery. Not now. I gotta reserve energy for disinfecting groceries, door handles, spectacles, DIY cloth mask and a hundred more. Remember to clean this device after reading, marn.