Literature and film, dispositioned: Thought, location and world - Alice Gavin
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  • Parts 2
  • Time 6h 44m
  • Reads 11
  • Votes 0
  • Parts 2
  • Time 6h 44m
Ongoing, First published Mar 09, 2020
This book was begun in London at the London Consortium  which was then directed by Steven Connor. It was completed in Berlin, while I was a fellow at the ICI Berlin Institute for Cultural Inquiry. Both cities and both institutions were vital to the book's development, and  I wish to thank each guiding voice and source of encouragement I encountered within them. My time spent at the ICI was invaluable to the project's advancement; I am hugely grateful for the resources and opportunities my fellowship there afforded. The middle sections of Chapter 2 revisit and reformulate elements of a previously published article, 'Thinking Room and Thought Streams in Henry and William James' Textual Practice 26:5 (2012): 871-889, and I thank the journal for permission to reuse that material here. I also want to thank by name and niche the following: Christien for love and longing; Adam for piano songs; Richard for five years and then some; Sophie for tremendous friendship at tremendous distances; Greg for guitars and whiskey; Laura for brill Brum cos stuff; the Cowley pack for Cowley magic; Alex for Pusha T; Daniel for glam literality; Nahal for calm  and chocolate; Hadi for blue Farsi; Robert for notes that don't exist; Bobby for death on the dance floor; Netta for life on the dance floor; and David for ping pong. But if my admiration and adoration is for these dear friends and many unmentioned others, then this book is for my brothers Ben Harlow and Kieran Gavin, and my sister Lucy Sutton. Here's 'a little something', the least I could do.
All Rights Reserved
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Echo of the Past

30 parts Complete Mature

A few months ago, I bought a mug with gold gilt. On sale. Not a gift either nor because of an occasion to remember by it. Just plain, pretty mug for 15PLN. I drank my coffee from it since. I spat loose tea leaves into it. It never felt particularly significant. An ordinary object. Only when I lost it, I realised its true value. I sat comfortably at my desk one evening. Looking at my phone, I reached to take my song-text notebook. Trivial situation. My clumsy fingers were unable to avoid the mug. They allowed it to topple over, to slip from the desktop. Even though I did not see the split-second occurrence, I felt the pressure of unease. My head painted the trajectory of the fall on its own, the shattering, spillage. The loss. For a millisecond I still had hope, that I would be able to catch the mug, that I would be able to avoid what was about to happen. But I knew I was headed for failure. I don't have any superpowers. I only scalded my fingers. I looked at the mug's new shape for a long while, at the shattered pieces. At the spilling liquid. Our adventure came to an end. Irrevocably. I won't be drinking coffee from it anymore, nor spit tea leaves into it. Well. I shouldn't be sad, it was just a regular mug, just like thousands of others. I grew to like it, it kept me company throughout hundreds of warm drinks. I lost it. I hate this feeling the most. In the moment when I am losing something, I stop in my tracks, I hold my breath. It is always a very intense moment. A short one, but one that gives me the tight unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The feeling of loss is always accompanied by hope. Silly and naïve. Making me believe so strongly, that I can make it. That I will still be able to catch the mug mid-flight. When the feeling is entering the body, crawling into me I realise, how important it was to me. Whether it's Nivan or a stupid mug with gold gilt.