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Monday, April 23, 2018


Waiting for the train I had absorbed a lot of outside air and even though it was in the 60s I remained quite cold. Earlier in class we had discussed who gets to kill Time. Nobody could agree if Time should also suicide or if it always gets to hold the knife. Waiting for the train was my way of considering the question in a long-durational capacity. It was like how yesterday I was made to distinguish between a point and a line. I watched a movie about childhood trauma that was a series of puncture wounds. Is a puncture, produced from a knife, a point or a line? It depends on your stance. If it is a point, that means the final goal is to puncture skin and this is sadomasochistic. If it is a line, that means you expect this will lead somewhere, the hospital, fleeing the room, death. This is entertainment. Either way, time holds the knife. Either way, time bleeds the line. The film was beautiful but the flashy transitions back to childhood, done with a neon filter and rapid aperture shifts, was as cheesy as expected though thoroughly felt. Before the train came, I stood in what I think of as a vestibule despite there being no more payphones, even the word payphone is underlined in my Word processor as incorrect, and I stared at my sunlit reflection in the plexiglas. I thought what it would take to walk through walls. Kitty Pryde at one point is in a structure inside of which she can’t escape. There are two explanations: We are all of us stuck in the artifice of a maker. I cannot walk through walls. Kitty Pryde can mostly walk through walls except when her maker decides that she can’t walk through walls. In these moments she can’t walk through walls, it is chiefly done as a reminder that everything posed has thus far been fantasy and nothing more. Kitty Pryde, when faced with such an obstacle, the very obstacle we experience every day, is no more in a situation than anyone else at the mercy of molecular boundaries. This brings up a different point altogether. Had I suddenly the ability to move through walls, would it be I whose cells would absorb into and through multistructured surfaces or would it be the multisurfaced structures whose cells would split perfectly around my body’s dimensions? If my enemy were to construct a wall in which to trap, would they have to solve for how to make a wall whose cells are so bonded that the quantum mechanics behind my powers is rendered useless? Or would they have to solve what I am and manufacture a material that could never momentarily absorb me? At this point I am much warmer but I wish to be warmer. I press my hand to the plexiglas and nod to our new psychic trust. And isn’t it always that we absorb what we touch as we smear a piece of ourselves on what we touch? I am neither a line nor a point. I shouldn’t be trusted to do the right thing.

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