I have a kitten now. He’s very tiny and sleeps on my chest in the mornings. It’s hard not to fall in love with something so helpless.
A review of mine was listed on IMDb tonight. They initially spelled my name wrong. I thought it’d be funny if they left it that way.
Prior to the internet and globalization, when word of mouth and hard copy were the primary modes to make one’s reputation, an artist could die hoping that it would make his work desirable to read—maybe that’s too romantic and more people than we know of who committed suicide really didn’t amount to anything. I think that’s more likely. But if someone were to die today, the question is, who will market his work? Is egoism exacerbated in our time? or maybe no one would have cared about Hemingway’s work prior to him being someone.
Apparently his wife came into the publisher’s office with a garbage bag full of his writing. Maybe you’d know what to do with it, she said.
Be wary of women who read. Don’t read what they recommend you either, unless you’re interested. And even then, be careful. I once made the mistake of accepting her cd player and headphones. “Listen to this,” she said taking it off her ear and bag, writing her number across my forearm. She was trouble. She wanted to fuck someone else, an actual artist, but not before giving me a go.
Sometimes you get chosen first; really, you’re just sooner to reach the exit.
Feel badder for the man prolonging his suffering unless—she is sooner to reach the exit; in which case, learn.
My dreams have been vivid these days. It’s hard to fall asleep. It could be all the films or the reading. Last night I dreamt that Scarlett grew old and saw Rhett again for the first time, standing up amongst a crowd of people to make a spectacle of herself; I remember she had died alone, and it frightened me to think that we all lose our beauty in old age, unless we find someone who loves us enough, and believes it to be so that we may never pass into nothingness.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
I painted again for the first time in a couple months. I fear my stuffed animals are losing their magic. Their only hope lies within my sister, who plays with them—and then for a moment they have life again.
We are aging rapidly.
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.
I saw Raging Bull today. I simply did not like it. I know it’s essential cinema and I see why; but I did not like it.
Maybe I don’t like to be reminded that we signal the end; that the moment we become somebody, we are silhouettes of who we once were—and on begins a life of degeneration. Maybe it is best to always be in a world of becoming—not in any Platonic sense, but simply to continuously become somebody, but not a bad comedian at the age of 40+ riding the fame of his previous career. What is noble in being anyone but yourself? But also, what is noble about being yourself.
It’s 3:30 am and people on the other side of the world (not really the other side of the world) are waking up and starting their day.
Someone is crying.
A girl wakes up next to her lover, thankful that he is a man and she is safe; and he, unfazed by her presence, until she is gone.
She will come back, as long as you do not love her too much. The moment you start to really love her, she doesn’t come back.
Haven’t you ever read literature? We don’t live in a fairytale. We die alone, in brilliance.
In other words, let there be…and then there was Nothing.
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