My editor said I should write an afterword, now that some time have passed, from those tireless days and nights writing letters that were never gonna be sent, to you. She said I should perhaps write in a different tone, not as the letter to N as all these pages before/after. (Strangely, all afterword are at the beginning of a book, isn’t it?)I don’t know if I can, escape this embodied space created by, thinking, wording, towards you. But I will try.
February this year, I went to berlinale, by chance, right after IFFR, also by chance. I saw so many movies, only one made me cry, made me shiver, made me ashamed of leaving the crowd who are untouched, busy-looking, unimpressed, and me, alone, cried in silence a ripping heart the center of the last row. I haven’t met anyone since. February last year. I thought, prior to watching this movie, that my helpless romantic nerve were cured, that I’d grown, out of the poison of romantic narrative, I’d been graced with revolutionary radical intimacy ideal, love but differently.
May arrived, I was on the rooftop in pfefferberg, listening to this young boy telling me “I know it is all about love, me, at the age of 23 now, realize this.” I guess romanticism is an incurable disease, just as philosophy, just as certain sense of wording the reality. I keep remember this gentle sounding of my favorite student saying “… but that’s so beautiful, relentlessly trying, but never managing, in the end, dying as this never arrived person… so humanly beautiful.” Fate, fatalistic beauty, it conjures something, deep rumbling without clear sentence, a stone facing the ocean feeling, in me.
There is a strange comfort, clearly facing the limit of one’s contour. “This is me. I see, I’m like that. I see the line from where it came from, and I see where it will go towards.”
Permenant and Pertinent Resi(st)dance 