I have nothing much to say or write about this month, which, as for many others, was an unstoppable rollercoaster of deadlines and stress.
Thankfully, I made it OK and still produced a few pieces of writing and some content I will share with you today. On the menu, an extract from a text with a date at the Neue Gallery in Berlin, and some recent thoughts on digital waste and its potential recycling.
(Oh and by the way, I am done with my first book manuscript. Yes. Printed version in Autumn baby.)
I have no other words for today, so please enjoy the words, the visuals, the listening, as usual, whatever is of your interest, whatever suits you best.
5.K grant...
Successful applications... Invitations to “conferences”...
Yo, so, since my breakup,
I only got good news,
Does it mean that,
You can’t have everything in life?
Grieving moments are the best occasions to start seeking a therapist. It does not mean you’re desperate, but it could help to avoid drowning. It’s about healing the freshly cut wound while cleaning the space with open windows. I haven’t had much experience with specialists, but in my defense, I did try. Sadly, I often get the impression that they do not have much to offer,
but I know that, as for anything else, it is because I am not sticking in long enough. I did have groundbreaking encounters, though. A few years back in, when my sexologist once asked: “Morgane, why do you treat your partners in the same manner as your brother?”, she left me with no choice but to break up with my ex and hate my sibling. I thought many times about how Vienna could be the ideal place to start the process of psychoanalysis. In my favorite dream-like scenario, my analyst would be hot as fuck so the process of transference would happen quicker.
I am sitting with Damos, a Lithuanian man which I met in Berlin. He invited me to visit the Neue Gallery, and I happily join for the plot, as I found myself often underwhelmed in modern art museums. Damos has the face of an angel but wears Adidas Original Stan Smith. We quickly skeem through the painting and sculpture and end up sitting at the entrance of the museum. The long and dark chairs look ideal to start performing a session. I told him about my therapy fantasies, and he suggests that I get a Ph.D. as soon as possible, as, in his words, “Analysts are 80% more likely to fall in love with their patients if they have a doctoral degree.” I look at him with curiosity before mentioning that: “ It was on my list.” Back home, I am scrolling the internet, figuring out whom I could truly ask for help from. I don’t have a Ph.D. yet, but I can pretend. I want to believe that love is blind, but I’d rather get a cute specialist. But what would I tell an analyst? I’m not even drowning. I’d be surfing on the couch, telling them that I’m riding the waves of my attempts and disillusions. Thoughts would come in like streams, and I’d be generating the most absurd rendering of the current events. Laying on the couch, not exactly sure about where to place my arms, I would start pronouncing a continuity of ideas, just like that.
M <3