Even though I didn’t go on total hunger. I feel the effects of eating the restrict amounts very much. I basically dream with food every night, but food is always a bit monstrous and out of proportion in the dreams. Last night I dreamed I was eating myself, my fingers, the corners of it, big pieces… then I got scared and decided to hide the pieces I haven’t eaten yet.
About my last writing ‘the bird…’I was just trying to understand how writing (as conceptualization) and the ‘being’ here could come together without instrumentalizing each other.
My words have left me. Or language has. Doesn’t make sense anymore I’m deeply suspicious of it. Of not being ‘true’ to what I experience. Of blowing up things, not giving enough space to the banality of this experience. As if it just proves its worth in the poetics of success or disappointment. Probably because my practice is language-based, I am a bit over overfed on producing words, writing the long ritual scores. In the writing the enchantment becomes materialized, there the energy is transferred. In that long moment of concentration to get all the steps clearly ordered and explained. Finding the right words and spells. My back hurts like hell during writing. Every morning. As if this is the price to pay.
I’m now eating one Chinese soup spoon per meal. The almost nothing that is so different from nothing at all. That keeps me in the air, without loosing my ground. It allows me to access other planes of perception. I’m so happy to transfer the power of the portions to the machine so I can undergo it without complaint. This I could never do for myself. The care of denial. It’s a great transformative force. I am getting empty. Of want. I just do. Most of the time. I’m just here.