On first meeting a person, you are too busy trying to familiarise yourself with them – a bodily and intellectual them—to be able to study the face properly: you are encoding onto it. This is why I like public spaces: public transport, parks, city centres. In them you meet strangers with whom you will not form a relationship, and so with a disinterested eye you can study faces.
And perhaps whatever reality there is in the notion of coherent individual continuity is just a function of the physical existence. - Aldous Huxley, Eyeless in Gaza
First off, the grass I mentioned yesterday has an uncanny resemblance to Donald Trump’s hair, something I hadn’t noticed yesterday because of the ice. It is wheaty, hardy, dry, and the wind has given it the same properties as a rug whose pile runs in one direction. There are tufts which create the crest of a wave, and surrounding them are the broken waves, forming hollows. Given enough force and time, the wind can make an ocean of anything. But this is a hardy, robust ocean. Like the rest of the island, it continues to exist due to a fierceness. Alongside the Trump grass, there is also tiny little ferns attempting to grow. One was stark white like a new shirt, and had the stumpy leaves that all enduring plants do. Grace isn’t compatible with survival. Grace is something which can only exist in a state of abundance.
The island is gorgeous. It is a teardrop shape—a shape of beauty and sadness, of joy and the carnivalesque. It's also silent—except for an odd birdcall from the south-east. It sounds like a wooden peg board, like the sort you get at school in music lessons. It also makes a whooping, taunting sound. It knows my situation.