Leftovers #105

Life right now feels marked with a lack of inspiration. It’s both vague and uncertain as well as boundaried and consistent. Unlike Sisyphus who rolled the boulder up the hill only to see it roll down the other side and repeat the cycle, I feel like I’m pushing a wheel across bumpy but flat ground, no end in sight, nothing wrong but the landscape is endlessly the same, no perspective, expectations on either side of me that remained half-fulfilled and a long road to somewhere but nowhere specific ahead. This makes me sound very depressed, which I’m actually not. In fact I was thinking this morning how I hadn’t cried in a while, which must have instigated a cosmic shift or a bodily purge, because I saw a photo of myself and wept for 20 minutes.

When I’ve not been feeling this Sisyphean despair, I’ve been cooking plates of green goodness and feeding my body all the things I believe will turn me into a perfect specimen (although as we know, perfection is a capitalist construct that tricks us into believing it’s achievable if only we bought more things. I am complicit in the lie. We must continue).

PSA: I went to see Challengers last night and can confirm that Josh O’Connor’s dick-swinging swagger is one of the hottest things I’ve seen in cinema for a long time. Technically terrible for anyone with a penchant for slightly toxic men for it really does perpetuate the narrative.

Agnes Martin’s Untitled, c. 1946

Cooking