i went down to compost and check the mail for money and to the dog yard to see if the baby redbird was still there and then to the little library to give back two books and to the farmer's market i thought was not open and found it was and had been all winter and i bought some baby spinach and lovely oyster mushrooms i would like to make together with pasta gigli for mother's day without mothers who are far away. after market i sat on a bench on the midway and read terminal boredom which i retrieved from my return pile after reading about it in hyperallergic. she didn't write a lot and she was a model for araki and she took her own life after writing the title story. in the second story you may dream i found the word of the day, syzygy, meaning yoked together, in conjunction or opposition, as in eros, or aeon.

in that story on page 69 —

— everything feels serious, and everything feels like a pose, not that it makes any difference. i can act all kinds of ways, but in the end it's always an act. 

— what about the real you? aren't you just repressing your true nature?

— that's what i'm saying. this is the real me, this is who i am.

— that's the saddest thing i ever hear. to think that's the only way you can live.

— it doesn't make any difference, though. i mean, who cares?

i don't know why i quote that, but i have thought that way, maybe i do feel that way, though writing it becomes clear i do care, the writer cares, though she killed herself and i don't think i ever would or could. there must be a point beyond care in which you care too much, and then you can't sustain. but who cares doesn't mean you don't care. doesn't mean you don't feel syzygy either way.