It would be better if there were other ways to have conversations besides language. Language becomes a site of confusion and aggression because we hardly know what other people are talking about. If in a blog post I say language is material, another person will understand “language” differently, and yet another will differently understand “material.” One can hardly write a love letter even without having to tiresomely unpack the numerous meanings of love. Even a grocery list given to a well-meaning friend will yield different results than one might have expected (how could I have wanted anything but PURPLE cabbage, really?). Philosophers keep examining the problem of language but always problematically, because they do it in language, so they really don’t get very far. They spend most of their arguments defining their terms, which is crucial, but unfortunately they can only define their terms in other words, so the whole project ultimately becomes absurd. In that crevice of absurdity, poetry steps in, not to save the day, but to detourne it. I wedge myself into that crevice with a kind of cheerful resignation.
Today’s outfit took off from yesterday’s: the bracelets. pigtails again. Some coral & magenta plastic bling around the neck. The top, amazingly, is by Vivienne Westwood, bought for no more than $15 at a secret place in my neighborhood that sells cut-rate designer goods. If I look a little puffy it’s from allergies. The locust trees spread pollen all over the NYC sidewalks; my throat is scratchy and eyes running. Horrible!
My hairdo morphed as the day got hotter (in the 90s today). Curly-haired friends, did you know that your hair will hold a twist? This is a hairdo idea from my Black sisters. Two rubber bands and about four minutes, and presto:
Gary is not fond of the pigtails, but that doesn’t bother me. They help me into a state of playful regression. How else am I going to get through my adulthood (not to mention the New York summer)? Really!