It occurs to me, as I am reading more definitions of ideology and subject, and trying to understand the theoretical difference (which really means the intentionally conscious experiential difference) between subject and individual, that all that hammering in the distance could be working for me. Industriousness as a part of the cozy complexity that continues interpellating me all the way through subjectivity and into sleep after sleep. I always insist upon waking I’m working, even when nobody’s asking.
There’s not much better I can think of than rainy study Mondays with the cats drifting at light shows on the walls and pages, listening to melancholy music while pretending to nobody I’m really reading.
Except adding two or three cups of black tea with lavender that reminds me of something that never happened, and a timer, if only just to gently rub a little more salt in the joke.
I swear I’m gonna bite you hard and taste your tinny blood
If you don’t stop the self-defeating lies you’ve been repeating since the day you brought me home
I know you’re strong.
“Plea From a Cat Named Virtue” — The Weakerthans