Do you sometimes at earliest waking observe yourself struggling towards a pronoun ? Do you fleetingly, as if from a great distance, strain to recall who it is that breathes and turns ? Do you ever wish to quit the daily comedy of transforming into the I‑speaker without abandoning the wilderness of sensing ? The sensation isn’t morbid ; it is ultimately disinterested. For me it’s a familiar moment, boring and persistent and disappointing. Again one arrives at the threshold of this particular, straitening I. With a tiny wincing flourish one enters the wearisome contract, sets foot to planks. Daily the humiliation is almost forgotten, until it blooms again with the next waking. It is an embarrassing perception best stoically flicked aside, left unreported. With an obscure hesitation one steps into the day and its frame and its costume.
Lisa Robertson ⋅ The Baudelaire Fractal ⋅ Coach House ⋅ 2020 ⋅ p. 14