My friend Pieter made an Album called “Everything All the Time,” and for some reason, everytime I put it on, I would think of the title had an imprint of familiarity, a reminder of something else. I figured Pieter must have mentioned it to me before previously. But tonight as I was about to fall asleep I remember it reminds me of the title “And Yet but Still Just This,” a play/poetry/performance piece by Jeremy Hardingham, an old school friend of mine, possibly my first love. The piece in it’s written form is tucked in the National Library of Poetry in London by the Thames. Which makes me so happy, as of all the people I grew up with, he was the most talented.
Everything All the Time – Yet but Still Just This..
It hasn’t been a bad life at all really has it? Not just this. A lot of everything. Always so bad at suffering. In “The Lies We Tell Ourselves,” There will be a chapter called, “You’re so bad at suffering.”
Everything All the Time, Yet but Still Just This, The Lies We Tell Ourselves.
Yan Sham-Shackleton Online 