Back at my desk, fumbling. It’s a grabby day, the eyes on my left hand spotted another eye looking through the bookshelf, which—it’s not much of a secret, so I’ll say it—is just a windowpane usually covered. Today, no books in between me and the world out there, and I hate seeing it because it keeps asking me for things.
When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up to be a book. Silent and respectable. Great boundaries. Never fumbles a word even when skimmed through haphazardly. I imagined myself jammed up against a hundred thousand others in a library somewhere for half a century and never forgetting who or where I was, which is an incredible thing, in this world full of shiftiness and noise.
Today is label day. Labeling labeling labeling. On my desk is a book of grids, a pendulum, a packing box that became interesting when I unfolded it, and some shadows. I already went through a phase of never labeling anything, to labeling everything cheekily, to labeling everything earnestly, to labeling some things and not others, to questioning labels, then to respecting labels, and now I’m at the point where I think labels are ok.
