We're in a world made of sand. Zillions of particles. Breakable. Fragile. Impermanent.
Come together when they're wet, fall apart when the well's run dry.
I'm happiest when I'm submersed in a project. When I'm writing something and exploring the world and everything that's fucked about it, whether it be a blog, a children's story, a script or a friggin greeting card for my boss's jewish niece. "On your Batt Mitzvah. Blessings to you and a lifetime of happiness. Mazel Tov!"
I love writing.
And it's not the way some people love it. I mean, I'm writing something and loving that something as a true artist. Not writing a spec. Not writing for personal gain...For status.... For employment.
I'm talking about writing as a form of therapy. And don't stick your nose in the air when I say writing is an artform because it is. You know what i'm talking about. Why must we all commodify and capitalize on our hearts? Some of us are just more introspective then others. Some of us are homemade juice blends fresh from the backyard apricot tree, and some of us are Tang. Diet Tang. I don't trust Tang. Tang is always confused. Always a deer in headlights. Always such a scatterbrain. Always looking for more and more ways of proving themselves as a legit refreshment. Tang talks at people, not with them. Tang doesn't realize the world does not revolve around them. Tang, you piss me off when you're not even around.
Maybe Tang really doesn't want to quench thirsts? It's surely incapable of providing healthy teeth and bones. No matter how fancy the packaging, the stuff inside is still gross. I would not recommend Tang to any of my friends, family or coworkers. Go pure or go home.
Sophie's Choice is fucking me up. I've stopped making sense. I'm pretty sure I'm ranting about Tang, all because i'm becoming soemotionally charged by watching this film. Sophie is an insane character. So well written. SO well played.
Meryl Streep is a goddess. She is ethereal. She is divine. A master of the craft. THe Art.
I wish I had some sort of divinity like she has. Some sort of prodigious air. A Daniel Day Lewis degree of insurmountable awe-inspiring ways and wonders and talent. You can't fuck someone's talent. You can only fuck someone's desperation for talent.
If I could go to the cinema and watch films by myself everyday and then think about them afterwards over an Americano, while I scribble notes in my notebook and people-watch and dwell in my self-pity... Oh how lovely the afternoons would be.
I woke up extremely thrown off this morning. My father called me in the evening and I explain to him my woes. All he has to say is the simplest of words and they put my entire being back into perspective. I trust my father. I relate to him the most in this world because he is the only person I know who is in a similar position as I am, in a weird, difficult to describe in words kind of way.
One of my greatest fears is shattered glass. Glass breaking in my palm causing the skin on my hand to bleed in tiny little pieces all over. And if we're all just particles of sand, does that mean I'm afraid of the deterioration of togetherness? The breakage of something I hold close? I've been having these vivid dreams lately. Some are your everyday Salvador Dali surreal juxtapositions. And some are real. So real that I forget when I wake up that she is gone and when I remember she is not there, the wind is knocked out of me so literally. So real that it feels like yesterday I was eight years old and collecting the loose hairs from your neck. So real that I felt the black of your bruises, the scar on your chest against my ear, the smell of your breath on my eyes and the way your body looked collapsed in the shower, again in the doorway on the linoleum, and then in the kitchen on the floor, on the pavement of the drive. The way you look when they carried you away. The glaze of your eyes looking back at me like whatever snapped inside of you took away all of your memories and your knowledge. I was no one that you knew. It came to a point that everyone around you disappeared. Your eyes filled your little face and you blinked very slowly. Yellow building in every corner. Jaundice. Fuck jaundice. And all you felt now was this overwhelming desire to die. "Please God take me away. Take me away." You prayed to die. You were dying to die. And you know what, I prayed for you to die too.
There's this moment in Sophie's Choice where Stingo reflects on his mother's death when he was an adolescent. He says he didn't love her enough. Sophie says he probably did. But you can just tell that he didn't. When you're an adolescent you waste too much time on stupid silly stupid things and stupid people made of Tang. Distracted away from what's real and what's going on right before your eyes. And then one day you wake up and it's too late. She's looking right through you and right on into the other side wishing God or the Devil or whatever the fuck is out there would take her away.
The only thing I can do now is pretend I'm Daniel Day Lewis. But I'm not going to pretend because I know I am. Or at least that's what Im going to keep telling myself. So one day others will see Daniel in me too... And maybe even she'll see it. Because for some reason, we want so badly to live life to an unbelievable degree to honor those who are no longer with us.
Signed,
Lo (DDL)
(Im Italian and highly emotional to the point of self indulgence. Forgive me, kiss me, pray for me.)
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