Thursday, April 2, 2009
i read numerous things simultaneously. currently: i just finished nin's incest two hours ago, reading hart crane's collected, a biography on plath and miller's tropic of capricorn i read fashion magazines i read the economist and the nation and new york times online. i read lots of ridiculous things i read everything that overlaps and i watch lots of movies on things nothing too certain except for places i am interested in, grand spaces i am interested in living within or films by directors i know ive liked before and i just have this terrible urge to devour it all and then days like yesterday happen. where everything seems so terrible and small and out of place like everything is existing apart from what it is, it isnt what it is, exactly, anymore, but what it is interested in becoming. and i cant decide if that truly matters. and all these people writing all of these things and all these people reading all of these things and everyone getting too smart for their own good. everything expanding too much to where the world isnt the world anymore but a theory of being within the world, a theory of humanity and kindness everyone feeling so isolated from everyone else, everyone so well read on everyone else, that we watch the world just fall away from us. reading all of these things and knowing nothing ever really at all, everything being entirely unreliable, even yourself. everything in perpetual collapse. so why focus. whats the point if not just to differentiate everything else that is collapsing in separate degrees.
it is something to be passionate about any one thing. to be so smart and sit in a room or on a porch and watch girls walk by and some stop and you can say something like, im so smart, i speak six languages. never you matter if you actually go to those spaces where those languages are spoken. i read nowadays that we are not even supposed to dream of castles. that something about being rich should be about things like freedom and i dont know love and what not. im not sure if thats true. i study french voraciously but its only because im interested in getting out. i save my money because i want to be rich because i want the freedom of the when-all-else-fails. and its strange because it seems like it has. all thats this day and age talk all that nonsense about other ideas, about the tremendous picture, about staying in the same place and being happy with that. but everything is a distraction. everything. yesterday was shit but not comparatively. i mean it was roses, comparatively. which is horrendous. which is why at six p. i took sleeping pills and woke up today at noon in an entire dream with all my sheets a little nest on the floor and all these distractions to keep peace with.
in a day to day way, i avoid thinking about the things and people and spaces and movements and past parts that make me shudder but in my dreams i am convinced that everything is a symbol for all these parts and that the girls i dream about, that i dont know, definitely dream about me too. and in my dreams theyre so opposite from the pictures made of them. theyre smiling and so sincere and beautiful and like some other part and i know its just me. often in dreams i walk into myself, distinctly sure that it was another girl standing there, holding those balloons, keeping lists and books about how to get through all of this. im still too young to realize thats its not just rebellion and lust and that somedays you hate yourself for being cruel and that at some point it will all be beyond sick body, sick mind and all those other escapes. that nothing has to be comparative. that its all the same thing anyway.