Potato-ooze-love

Is potato-ooze-love as Herzog puts it, really that much of an oddity, a fabrication in a relentless world? Of course, I shall never know in exactly what sense he used it, whether he uses it to mean the same things as I do. Potato-ooze-love makes any place habitable, any house a home, any quotidian (another controversial word) sense remarkably utopian. Again, my utopia has been coloured by beautiful, very rich, clear, huge advertisements of the ‘good life’ (is it a habit to italicise words, a bad one at that?), where moderately attractive men, women and children inhabit perfect dirt-free home spaces, have shining, well-equipped kitchens and sit all day absorbing homes (books, actually, but I’m going to preserve this particular Freudian slip) and letting themselves be absorbed by creative hobbies. It’s such an ideal to aspire to that one can go through life striving for it. But even my fantasies begin to get fatigued, the scenarios unattractively repetitive, and for a second, wait, wait, is it really a dream? But quotidian things (ah, such a word), by the virtue of being drab, and unremarkable, reinstate my dear-old potato love. So most of the time, I’m somewhere between the two, trying to hedge a delicate balance, and yet trying to accommodate something new.

I’m always striving to add that much bit of significance (potato-ooze) to everything and I mean everything. Doesn’t mean that I’m always successful. Everything in this world, for me, has to be aligned, fitted to an ideal that’s already there and is always being formed...by everything, it seems. Making a card for a birthday, cooking for one’s mother, trying one’s hand at baking, going out somewhere to make a romantic date even more romantic, and in short, always adhering to certain notions of social conduct and aspirations and limits, I don’t know where this leads. Is this even me, I think at times. Are they even my ideas, my desires? Of course not, is the answer it seems.

Even when I’m writing  this, I’m aspiring to a certain kind of middle ground between eloquence and candour, such that will reflect my current state of mind to my successive ones. I always come back to the writing aspect. I don’t know, it always gets me. Every single time. Candour is a word in the language, another symbol in a series of symbols standing in for something else. Technically, I should have put candour in quotes, since I’m referring to the word and not its meaning, but what the hell, it’s all the same to me. Language is an artifice, used to structure more artifices, the artifices of our existence, for example, without which we cannot seem to function. Again Herzog comes to mind. It’s funny, since I find the book a drag. Truth, a world with only truth in it would be unendurable, or something on these lines. That’s what Herzog said. Nothing matters, everything goes. This is also where I end, every time. With a frame of mind that’s so confused and stretched beyond means that everything slips in... and out. The gaps are too wide. What does it matter?