It feels quieter right now, even though it’s not.
It’s not quieter, because the birds are out again.
What I mean by quiet is that my voice feels softer. It’s why I have to lean into the computer, so the others can hear me.
The other day, I met up with a colleague. We emoted through our masks and hands and the way we sat beside each other. There was a strain on my voice, which has always been quiet and made quieter because of this time at home. I imagine I will be shouting at people when I see them.
What is a face through a mask?
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Today we talked about time. Rather, we talked about things related to time. Music, dust, ritual.
What raveled today, what was woven: a way of centering care that is not centered on ourselves.
I think this has to do with how we introduce something to somebody. For example, I’ve seen long introductions full of self-deprecating gestures. I’ve made such introductions before. Somehow we negate what we say when we do this to ourselves, to the person listening to us. It is possible, however, to contain such introductions. That is, to present the thing you want to share in a focused narrative. This does not exclude messiness. We must be messy. It is unavoidable, in fact. But we can let that messiness be shaped by a container, a container that is meant, after all, for others to see.
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I am still looking for a definition about time, but I think I will accept answers only from poets and physicists from now on.
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This relentless dailiness, he said.
Invite to the LKRP on time, March 14, 2021.