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delgatoday i managed to go food shopping and also forget to buy a potato. this would be a problem if i planned on cooking tonight - which is typically what i do on a sunday evening (i.e. cook properly) but then i realised that i had food leftover from friday so no cooking and, in theory, a break in the routine.
—
speaking of broken routines, i gave up on zumba a couple of weeks ago. i wasn’t enjoying the new place as much as i did my old one back home, and i missed the feeling of working out without actually feeling like i was working out. in the meantime i’ve been compensating with the pilates challenge (that i am now also behind on! well done me!) and with walking, but i can’t do that the whole time because i have seriously messed up my feet.
these are all excuses, of course. i have to get back on the zumba. my housemate will be away for a couple of weeks so i’m hoping to follow a youtube playlist i found where the programme is more like what i used to do back home. the whole thing is making me sad, tbh, which is a symptom of being stressed about it, but also not doing anything to resolve the situation.
you can’t fix everything at once: you have to start small. but i do feel a bit like i’m dropping the ball right now.
—
i finished abdurraqib’s they can’t kill us until they kill us which i am struggling to talk about. not because i don’t have a lot to say, but because it’s difficult to pinpoint what the collection is about without being reductionist. the essays talk about music, and the history of different genres, but also about those histories in relation to the author, and then from the author out into the space he occupies, and how he occupies that space as a black man in america, and how the context of his experiences define the way he speaks about music and politics and the amplification of violence against black bodies in the past few years, or rather, how that violence has become visible in ways that before were more of an implication or an echo of violence already past.
it isn’t a secret that i love abdurraqib’s poetry, nor is it a secret that i love the poetry of his prose, but the collation of these essays - the care that had gone into separating them into different sections, and how it makes sense to me that you’d start with springsteen and jepson and then segue into the heavier topics - the simple, careful thought that’s gone into the composition of this book is affecting. i appreciate the craft of it, and i was thrown so many times by the rhetoric! i felt every bit a spectator when reading the book, even when there were parts that spoke to my own experiences, both as a person of colour and a person who loves music, because it isn’t written to me, necessarily. and that’s really the gift of it; that it isn’t written to those of us outside the experience, but it’s also for us, and not for us, and we’re not owed anything, but we’re given the window anyway.
i gasped reading it. i couldn’t help myself. i think it says a lot about your place in the world when you remember where you were when news broke of one tragedy, but not of another. there’s something shameful about it, and then again, something human.
it’s a fantastic collections.
—
yesterday i saw translations which, at its heart, is also about violence. i thought it was a brilliant production, and the whole cast was on form.
in the evening i saw julie, the tragedy of which, as i mentioned to my friend, was that its cast was superlative. i say tragedy, because that play was terrible.
—
look at us, rushing to midsummer! it was bright outside at half 8 a few nights ago and i was so happy! give me more daylight, please!
—
speaking of broken routines, i gave up on zumba a couple of weeks ago. i wasn’t enjoying the new place as much as i did my old one back home, and i missed the feeling of working out without actually feeling like i was working out. in the meantime i’ve been compensating with the pilates challenge (that i am now also behind on! well done me!) and with walking, but i can’t do that the whole time because i have seriously messed up my feet.
these are all excuses, of course. i have to get back on the zumba. my housemate will be away for a couple of weeks so i’m hoping to follow a youtube playlist i found where the programme is more like what i used to do back home. the whole thing is making me sad, tbh, which is a symptom of being stressed about it, but also not doing anything to resolve the situation.
you can’t fix everything at once: you have to start small. but i do feel a bit like i’m dropping the ball right now.
—
i finished abdurraqib’s they can’t kill us until they kill us which i am struggling to talk about. not because i don’t have a lot to say, but because it’s difficult to pinpoint what the collection is about without being reductionist. the essays talk about music, and the history of different genres, but also about those histories in relation to the author, and then from the author out into the space he occupies, and how he occupies that space as a black man in america, and how the context of his experiences define the way he speaks about music and politics and the amplification of violence against black bodies in the past few years, or rather, how that violence has become visible in ways that before were more of an implication or an echo of violence already past.
it isn’t a secret that i love abdurraqib’s poetry, nor is it a secret that i love the poetry of his prose, but the collation of these essays - the care that had gone into separating them into different sections, and how it makes sense to me that you’d start with springsteen and jepson and then segue into the heavier topics - the simple, careful thought that’s gone into the composition of this book is affecting. i appreciate the craft of it, and i was thrown so many times by the rhetoric! i felt every bit a spectator when reading the book, even when there were parts that spoke to my own experiences, both as a person of colour and a person who loves music, because it isn’t written to me, necessarily. and that’s really the gift of it; that it isn’t written to those of us outside the experience, but it’s also for us, and not for us, and we’re not owed anything, but we’re given the window anyway.
i gasped reading it. i couldn’t help myself. i think it says a lot about your place in the world when you remember where you were when news broke of one tragedy, but not of another. there’s something shameful about it, and then again, something human.
it’s a fantastic collections.
—
yesterday i saw translations which, at its heart, is also about violence. i thought it was a brilliant production, and the whole cast was on form.
in the evening i saw julie, the tragedy of which, as i mentioned to my friend, was that its cast was superlative. i say tragedy, because that play was terrible.
—
look at us, rushing to midsummer! it was bright outside at half 8 a few nights ago and i was so happy! give me more daylight, please!
