Michel Foucault talks about selfwriting and correspondence as being the cornerstones of a self-examinational toolkit that itself is crucial to a life well lived. It’s not always easy to take the time to write, or even to have the impetus to have anything to say above the basic mundanities of every day existence but perhaps that is enough. Certainly, that is the quotidian reality of much of our time spend on this planet.
I am in Landover, MD, in an empty hotel lobby with pop rock playing quietly, and I can see three television sets from where I am sitting. The overwhelming background noise is provided by an ancient refridgeration system that is, from what I can see, only keeping some bottles cold. Manchester City have just secured their second English Premier League title in a row, the first team in a decade to retain the title and doing it with record stats both times. Pep’s talent and drive seem unassailable, but you might argue being able to bring Sane, Jesus and Mahrez on from the bench gives them an advantage, as well as being funded by oil money of the kind that buys you whatever you need. You still need to do something with it all though. This isn’t Rich Kids of Instagram.
I should take a walk, but it’s raining, and there’s really nowhere to walk to, at least, not without putting in a half hour on pavements not designed for humans to actually use. Still, I should do something with this rare day of what you might call ‘leisure’. These days will not come easily, any more and those vanishingly rare days of wanton and directionless excess receed into the past. The mind is no longer capable; the body no longer willing or able. I must resign myself to having burned the candle at both ends, rather, such that there really isn’t much candle left.