this week i give my words to thesis, marking, writing a paper, but not here. there have been many moments of wanting to write here, something for myself. because here is the only space that feels entirely mine. but these moments are undercut by the rising pressure of urgent tasks. and all is urgent (except for this). but of course, nothing is urgent. i just go along with pretending it is because that makes things easier for me down the track; it ensures my 'productivity'. i am but a machine. the most i aim for is to have a little style and rhythm in my mechanical procedure. to which i thank music, the current tempo of the home space, and lefebvre, whose Rhythmanalysis arrived in the mail this week. says henri:
Spontaneously, each of us has our preferences, references, frequencies; each must appreciate rhythms by referring them to oneself, one's heart or breathing, but also to one's hours of work, of rest, of waking and of sleep. (page 10)
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