April 25, 2020
The abatement company I hired left the asbestos tile on the upper floor. How do we trace responsibility? Because of my dad, I trace all responsibility to myself.
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Last night A. and I spent an hour discussing privilege, white-male identity, and the limits of expression: have I been silenced or have the voices of others amplified? What are the contours of my world, the shape of what I rightly can/should express?
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Am I terrified of him? Do I think of him as a child? Like a child he doesn’t demand attention he erodes like the ocean’s waves, crashes sometimes, but one cannot get angry at the sea. Perhaps, I need to look to the moon. Thoughts of others do not occur to water. It takes and takes and takes, ripping everything away until you have nothing, until you relax and then maybe you begin to float buoyed by the salt. Or you drown. Submission to care is all it wants. The attack confession and expression of pain.
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“The best parts of the genre are the drafts or remnants or plans for a future autobiography that is never written. 28 vol. 2 Piglia.
