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Back Loop Save as PDF
Chapters (33)
  1. Loop
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. A note on the text
  33. Copyright

I don’t understand people who are scared of flying. The plane’s instability is what appeals to me. I don’t mean the turbulence; I mean the act of flying along calmly, thinking that if everything has to end, you could be in the air, in a cinema or lying in bed. Lying in bed, which is where I was just before I learnt that the accident had caused the problem with my gallbladder, a kind of domino effect. And now I think it’s a good thing I went through that, because to travel more lightly, to lose your fear, you don’t even need to leave the house. Afraid of what, why or to what end? From one moment to the next everything can change. You have to relax when travelling by plane, vulnerability is everywhere because the vulnerability is us. Plus it’s nice to see the clouds from above. Oh, that false omniscience. What I really love is seeing the clouds move. A film of moving clouds is a good way to waste time. And it’s even better if I listen to José José singing: ‘Even the swallow emigrated, foreseeing the end.’

10

10

Jonás has decided to postpone his return. His plan is to go to Trévago and then visit a couple of friends in Paris who’ve just had a baby, since Marcos can stand in for him at work. His father and sister came back on Friday. Marina called to say that Jonás sent a few things for me, and that I can go over for dinner whenever I want. ‘My dad and I brought you something, too,’ she said.

Tania on the phone: ‘How do people unwind? For example, people who don’t read think reading is unwinding. But if you read, drink coffee and pace around your office and that’s part of your job, how do you unwind at the weekend? Pace around your apartment in slippers until it’s Monday again? No, my dear: that’s work!’

Someone in the office read me a news article and suddenly writing seemed like making a watery soup. And I don’t like watery soup. Perhaps this, an anecdote I like from John Cage, will give the soup some flavour: ‘One evening when I was still living at Grand Street and Monroe, Isamu Noguchi came to visit me. There was nothing in the room (no furniture, no paintings). The floor was covered, wall to wall, with cocoa matting. The windows had no curtains, no drapes. Isamu Noguchi said, “An old shoe would look beautiful in this room.”’

Maybe one of your shoes, in the middle of this blank page, would look beautiful.