I turn into a monster in the evenings.

There's so much to get out, to write about, it seems I need to practice my WPM - typing skills as an progression of consciousness dictation. For now my thoughts will have to be contained within these fragments, small windows, passing image frames that I struggle to tie down as they float by. Someday technology will provide me with a documentarian prosthesis: the wonders and the horrors of being able to capture pure thought as it is being produced, filling up hard drives with my own rattling, to be reviewed at some infinitely receding impossible to achieve later date. Maybe it's better that I don't get what I wish for. On this note: research the progression of AI voice, notation/transcription software, and other technological prosthetics in writing or dictating thoughts = INTERFACE.

Quickly! Get down the rest of it before it's gone!

A way of writing the libretto in relation to others - the formation of the self-through-relations. Like the impromptu system begun in Sweden with the letter writing project: put the recipients into catagories to orient the content of the writing content. Now there's a professional catagory: Bratton for technological dialogue, Dolar for issues concerning the voice, Zizek receiving unsolicited psychobabble concerning hope, Fynsk on existential poetics, Figgis on fucked up narrative.... how far would I be willing to go? Conversations with ex girlfriends, picking up where we left off, lost threads treated as though they are still weaving upon this old rusty loom. Remember the Chris Kraus book I Love Dick, read in the airport and on the plane all in one sitting while traveling from Reykjavik to San Francisco - fitting in its own way - how its composed on letters to a fictitious lover drawn into a fanasiful web of relations that really wasn't a fantasy at all.

My body is consumed by eczema. My body suffers from general health. Make continuous reference to the body and its functions. The body is full of intrigue and disgusting annecdotes waiting to write themselves. The horrors of the body.

When will I have time to read through all that has been written? Who am I writing for, yes, but when am I writing for?

Write about work as a literal and metaphorical placard of boredom, futility, tautology.

Write about the walks in the woods for the same reasons, oriented towards the relationship rather than the economy. Dig up questions of purpose, of nature, of self-in-relation to other beings, and the continuous confrontation of "the public" while walking amongst the botanical giants swimming in their void.

Write about being bound to objects, bound to the process of purchasing and acquiring them. How can buying a car tie me to a place, to a person, to a relationship, to a way of living? How can some jeans, some shoes, some seemingly small inconsequential purchase do the same, while seeming to offer liberation? What does purchasing power have to do with real power? Certainly there's much to be said about money - how to do so without slipping into endless cliché, that's the real trick. I need to talk about work without it feeling too much like work.

I should reflect on the past, the immediately passing series of events, while they are still fresh, but this writing feels so anticipatory, leaning forward with a head into the future while the foundation is being left behind. Yes, what time am I writing for, but also what time am I writing in? Am I living in the past, or time traveling into a not-yet-come-into-being, or are there other options that could be articulated, and does it matter to keep track of them? Some of this is my responsibility to sort out for the sole purpose of writing it down, but the general orientation will be left up to the reader - to the actor, the narrator, the listener, the viewer, occupying both sides of the camera.

Yes there are many ideas to unpack from the previous month living abroad, and the ideas will just keep rolling it, so I better get the fuck to work. What does this mean exactly? What does it look like? Is this the work, or a planning stage, or a reminder to recount the work which has already taken place - perhaps in the form of an experience or conversation already fleeting from memory?

Notes to self: find a better job, storyboard (?) and shoot the last scene of the prologue, search for residencies and opportunities for funding that can be applied to.

At some point I will need to confront life itself: how is this current stasis of existence compatible with my work schedule? How is this relationship conducive for working? What are my priorities and how am I balancing them? How much attention should I dedicate towards figuring it out, how much will figure itself out through life itself?

How important are these questions and what do they do? Orientation or disorientation.