Do you ever stop & think maybe what you are reading never happened or maybe there’s so much more happening than is being told & recorded despite the honesty it portrays. Last year I had another journal & wrote in it parts of (my) life & autobiography is never complete honesty, just look at Simone de Beauvoir’s autobiography, which is so less telling then a book she wrote that contained the truth about her life, but people don’t understand that & it caused much heartbreak & turmoil in my life. Maybe because the context of a journal is ment to be autobiographical? I hardly ever write what happened to me on a day but rather fragments of feelings that I or those around me have witnessed or experienced. Or perhaps how I have interpreted their reaction to events, because analysing those around me intrigues me. I remember being younger & being like Harriet the Spy with my little notebook on the bus edging in on people’s conversations because it allowed me to peak into a different world.
Does the audience being aware of the blurring of fiction & non-fiction somehow discredit the art? the story being told? I read a certain person’s journal who can articulate feelings & experiences like no one else, but I am pretty sure not everything he writes about has happened, and I am the least bit bothered by it. Although I am not saying that my journal has become a place for make believe stories, but the emotions presented sometimes act as metaphors of experience. Or maybe they are just stories that I imagine happening or have happened but not in that sequence.
Does “it’s not you it’s me” ever mean anything, is it really possible? Why has it been twisted as this awful thing to say to someone on any level. At the end of one letter, he wrote to me, I love you, don’t ever change (unless you want to) but what if I want to & I can’t. What If I have?
Today is the first day of autumn. A while back I thought this autumn would be full of sentimentality and miserable nostalgia, but instead this weekend proved its future otherwise.
We went to the beach, for possibly the last time this year, and here I am.
We tried to make love in the woods and ended up getting bitten by mosquitoes. The day before we ended up at a house birthday party. J was DJ’ing. I was sorting out the vibes. But instead, I ended up getting kicked out by the woman-hating prima donna, John Farah for no good reason at all, other than not letting some asshole get up in my face about something that was none of his business. It’s always on me to make a scene. In the city.
Erica Jong is releasing a new book of poetry in January. I have already started by Jong countdown calendar. I countdown to new episodes of Mad Men, to when I will get to simmer in cum, to new dubstep in Dropbox, to RINSE.FM, a week without yelling, loud amens, grad school, next summer, being woken up by my cats, the Farmer’s Market, Bang Face Weekender, living in Europe, to you wanting me with all of you.
Counting down to is better than counting backwards.
Owning AFX – Hangable Auto Bulb EP2 is even better. Maybe one day I can. Maybe.
“Henry’s definition of human is the one who drinks, forgets, is irresponsible, unfaithful, fallible. Mine is the one who is aware of the feelings of other human beings.” – Anais Nin
I aspire to be more like Anais, but instead I always end up like Henry. A long time ago I wrote out this long piece of how loyal I am in my unfaithfullness – maybe that brings them both to me. Not like June though, she’s another abstracted fantasy of someone I wish I could be and someone I wish could be in my life.
Dan Charnas knows what’s up, as always. Seems like all of us up here and more engaged in Tina Fey’s impersonations of Sarah Palin, and convincing everyone of Obama’s need to win, than how to get our “total fuck up” Conservative Prime Minister, Stephen Harper out of office.
I get to the doctor’s after way too many hours at work to finally get rid of the warts on my foot. He sprays my entire left side with liquid nitrogen. I have to go back three more times just to be sure. I had warts on my foot for almost five years, walking around with a calamity for that long, I guess my vanity isn’t that realized yet. My pedicurist, in broken English, asked me once, “You play with toads yes? I fix it for you. Cut Cut.” She pried open my warts with her cuticle scissors until I bled all over her latex gloves. My foot was left alone in subsequent visits, even though she kept insisting. I would have let her, really, but every six weeks was futile.
It’s difficult to get any moment to sit down and write, but really write, taking that twenty minutes to just pour out shit before the realness comes out, before I start to get it. I’ve started working on my portfolio piece for school, researching mostly before I seek out equipment and get rolling with interviews. I’ve been meandering with fear of what to re-present to the Ryerson committee, and these fantastical ideas would come to me, but really they were just hallucinations of grandeur. I stole that from the Henry Rollins book I picked up at BMV tonight. I thought it was quite pricey for an oldie at $8.99 but on Amazon it starts at $80 and up. Maybe this is the drug deal I’ve been looking for. It’s a volume of his diaries from 1986. Rollins could have been my Miller, except I was born too late and the closest thing I had was Courtney Love or Harmony Korine, who published books that really were “hallucinations of grandeur.” That expression is going to be my cliche in about four days, maybe less.
My new therapist is lovely, and has me excited about introspection and self-awareness again. No one will ever replace D.F. and the way she guided me to be, to let myself be. Sometimes I get really upset in the way we all do, “She was so fucking amazing, why does she get cancer? She doesn’t deserve it.” But then I grieve more, grieve for her, not just because I miss the sessions and her voice and the books she got me reading and the way my relationship blossomed when I was seeing her, because that’s not grief, that’s unrequited victimization and selfishness.
Being a true victim is difficult and often denied, yet becoming a victim as a way of justification is often accepted, making it more prospective than the truth.
My love is trying to get me to read Atlas Shrugged, and it’s making me really indignant because I always try to get him to read, and this is what he gets excited about? The more frustrated I become with his reasons on why I would love it, the more I fall in love with him and the more I fall in love with him because of that, my irritation enlivens, and then so on and so on. Part of him loves ribbing me, and part of him knows that my reactions will be just like the ones I describe. He’s a diabolical genius.
On Thursday I DJ’ed at the Vice/CK Festival Ball. Crystal Castles and Juan MacLean headlined. Jay and I were the DJ’s on the side. Yamaha and their Tenori-On got a room, so we were asked to play. I want a Tenori-on so fucking badly, but they’re over a thousand bucks. I love all the people involved with the Tenori-On in Canada, they’re so genuine and nice and fun and aren’t out to prove themselves. I’ve been thinking about belonging a lot lately. People who cling onto people who don’t give a shit about them, hang on to the past and try to pretend that nothing has changed, get shit-talked behind their back, or try endlessly to only get rejected. It hurts me when I see my friends put themselves out there to get treated like shit. I’m so reluctant to try with people who obviously only want to be my friend because I’m this or that, and then it comes around they’ve been harbouring ill-will towards me when others are around. Some people want to belong so badly, want to be the VIP that they only see exclusion of others as a way to the secret club. It’s so easy to forget being an outsider once you’re inside. It’s basic elementary school science that water just rolls off oil.
As an aside, I thought of this as a fun exercise. Yes, hating on hipster douchebags is so over, but I’m lame so here I go. I wear American Apparel and vintage, I’ll admit it.
Hipsters rely on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs quite evidently. I learned this at the Vice Party.
Self-Actualization: They problem solve their awkward figures by reclaiming mom jeans.
Creativity bursts happen when you cross American Apparel and vintage.
Esteem: Achievement happens when your mug is on takemorephotos.
Love/Belonging: Friendships are important when they get you in the exclusive parties for free and present coke in the bathroom.
Safety: Wearing overpriced clothes to present as rich with a swoosh on the side, because rich is in.
Psychological: Pretending that the basic human needs are mundane and useless.
MP3: Charles Hamilton, Windows Media Player (Play it simultaneously on two different music players for full effect of ultimate in internet self-celebrity.)
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I sometimes post music links. If you want yours taken down let me know. & for the rest of you, if you don't buy music & just d/l links, you should feel like an asshole.
