People are laughing behind their masks at teatime, listening to Mozart. Arguing about no-politics and destruction. The ignored throw spongy-triangle sandwiches in the air and laugh at grammar. They’ve come here for tea snacks more than tea talk. Nobody listens to their own chatter. There’s a vacuum slowly scooting around chair’s that are slightly shifted to accommodate the cleaning. There’s an eagle pin on the maid’s blouse, who knows America.
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I create a visceral summary in my head of how I’d like to be alive and strive towards that. Not quite like the fated path of a jaguar but similar. A series of mistakes can be made along the way, leaving you blind or disabled. Every story is a story of survival. The jaguar who must make the pass carved from Mexico to Argentina, to mate. I too am bound to my people, ancestrally speaking–– the migration from Scotland to America. What better unifying symbol can there be than the jaguar? Not even the Loch Ness compares.
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I’m so moody. Sorta a flaw, symbolic for a stalled train. There are no weapons inside this carrier. I am just as flawed as my love but somehow I still think I’m the best thing that could happen to someone. I went wind watching. It’s where you stand on the street and watch how many people tremble at the force of the wind, how many people act stealthily and work against this wind, how many people are stalled and fall down. The subway creates wind when you’re standing on the platform. I use this to my advantage and make my hair stand-on-end in a wind-swept-do. I am constantly getting what I want.