Official Diary｜Postponement

I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know how to start, so I went to the cloud drive to look through some photos I took during my travels, and suddenly found that I rarely pick up my phone to take pictures now, maybe because the older I get, the more I feel Everything is so fleeting, and the existence of the photo is only a punctuation mark of memory, it may be an exclamation mark, a question mark or an omission mark, without context; and because of this, it is decided that each time a feeling arises, only feel it with force, not with force. I would like to let the incident of taking pictures interrupt the continuity of the feeling.

I remembered the summer vacation after graduating from high school. When I traveled abroad for the first time by myself, a tenant living in the same Hostel, a local man about 30 years old said that he wanted to invite me for a drink. He said to me that night: "The photo is only It’s just a bunch of files that are uploaded to a cloud drive and rarely reopened.” This sentence is particularly memorable to me, although I didn’t take it seriously at the time.

The people I met in the past, what they said to me now recollected especially like a kind of prophecy, or a "truth" that needs to be tried in person to verify; especially for a very stubborn person who has never fallen I don't know pain.

Above is a photo representing a "question mark" just dug up from Cloud Drive. All I remember is that it was shot in a little earth hut where a boy lived, and this is his book, but I can't remember the title at all. The boy is one or two years older than me. He is an artist. In the evening, he will ride a gear car to a nearby town hotel to work. After waking up during the day, he will engage in creation. When we first met, he kindly told me that the house would not be locked, and that I could use everything in it, including some books, a record player and a stack of vinyl, a guitar, carving tools, etc., and a A cute white cat :)

In fact, I only actually met him two or three times, because every time I went to his small earthen hut after work, he probably had already gone out to work; the last time I met him was to return his carving knife, book, and say goodbye.

The relationships that arise when traveling are like a microcosm of life, always ready to say goodbye and hit the road.

The following quote is from the page in the photo which resonates in my mind at the moment:

Does time speed up when two bodies are joined, and does time slow down when a body is alone? Are bodies motionless only when dead? Can the dead move, through haunting and replication? Is a boy like a boy? Is a girl like a girl? How do categories—mother, hustler, star, maniac—overlap? Is love a movement, and am I part of it? These are abstract questions, but to Warhol, and to sympathetic viewers of his films and artworks, they are as palpable as eight hours' sleep, eight hours' insomnia.

His art ponders what it feels like to wait for sex; to wait, during sex, for it to end; to wait, during sex's prelude, for the real "sex" to begin; to desire a man you are looking at; to endure postponement, perhaps for a lifetime, as you wait for the man to turn around and look back at you.