Real Estate
I have been tidying my studio in little sections. Today, I found myself rummaging through my woo-woo drawer. Many things had piled up on my little dining table and while I was crouched in the hallway, and putting my tarot cards away, I noticed a book on my shelf by Deborah Levy called “Real Estate” and started reading. It has chosen itself as my next book.
It’s in moments like this, when I notice how quickly my attention gets captured by something and the letters “ADHD” also flash across my brain with some judgment. I might like to investigate what’s up with that. Sometimes, I let it be and attribute it to paying close attention.
My media consumption theme, which seems to spillover from last year, is “Women-Identifying Artists and Writers”. I devoured Miranda July’s latest book ‘All Fours’ in less than a week. Miranda July is a kindred. I have not felt such a closeness to an artist. I think I was in high shcool when I first discovered her works. She was as weird as I felt I was and aspired to be. She didn’t have to explain herself. I didn’t want her to. No one asked her to. She just was.
Her works have followed and kind of haunted me in magical ways. I happened to be working for a contemporary art non-profit when I read First Bad Man. Now, in my late thirties I picked up her novel about women in their pre-perimenopausal stage. It feels like a warning: Remember to be as non-conforming and weird as you want to be. Be formless. Or you’ll find yourself in a marriage-turned-friendship and kind of resentful.
I am looking forward to enjoying more of my borrowed real estate. I wouldn’t be staying put in this country if it weren’t for my apartment. I would likely be fleeing.