Toast and a cold glass of pulpy orange juice. It’s been a morning of lots of quotes and I feel that I haven’t been reading very much the past week and a half. I’m not even very sure what has been occupying my time seeing as I didn’t exercise very frequently this week either, or watch TV. Sometimes I wish the weekend could stretch out for days and days so that I may lounge around at all hours of the day with a book in hand, music in the air, and a 90s cartoon playing soundlessly on a screen just in the corner of my eye.
The reality is closer to me hanging out in my gym attire at work, procrastinating with the internet, reading quotes from Tumblr.
The plan today is to jam on out of here, book it to my exercise class, get ready for the day, and head on over to a SoFar LA music event. I’m hoping my evening will somehow involve a little wine but I never can remember to bring any home from the store.
Tomorrow there will be my early Sunday morning run, rushed breakfast of standing around the kitchen counter, crumbs falling down off a plain slice of toast, then exercise class, and then – just maybe a little unplanned, unrushed, pure relaxation.
I imagined I needed no one, and this is what I still imagine to this day. I needed no one, and so I had no one. But naturally we do need someone, otherwise we inevitably become what I have become: tiresome, unbearable, sick—impossible, in the profoundest sense of the word. I always believed that I could get on with my intellectual work if only I were left completely alone, with no one else around. This proved to be mistaken, but it is equally mistaken to say that we actually need someone. We need someone for our work, and we also need no one. Sometimes we need someone, sometimes no one, and sometimes we need someone and no one. In the last few days I have once more become aware of this totally absurd fact: we never know at any time whether we need someone or no one, or whether we need someone and at the same time no one, and because we never ever know what we really need we are unhappy, and hence unable to start on our intellectual work when we wish and when it seems right.
— Thomas Bernhard, Concrete (trans. David McLintock). Interlink Publishing Group, 1990