Someone likened me today to someone I would rather not be likened to. She is nice but an emotional heavyweight and a messy thinker. Uh oh. Is this me?
I don't want to make sense, but I think I don't have to not make sense so publically. It's well-fitting to my age hypothesis for my life (18 at 14, 25 at 18, 32 at 23, 4 at 25) that technology has finally caught up to my needs (I willed them into being): voice over internet protocol, web blogging, photo blogging, idea blobbing. Everyone and their third grandmother now can be a quiet entrepreneur. Everyone can be a hobby artist. Artaud, Rimbaud, Sartre, Hughes -- take an IP address and shove it.
It has taken me 7 years of living away from the home I always lived away from to send a video wave for the holidays. I can spend endless amounts of quiet time scribbling happily into blank journals and typing into private desktop widgets. When I am on an airplane and I imagine it crashing, I think first how to save or resuscitate, if necessary (mouth to plug?), my Powerbook, because if it died I wonder if I would be able to move on.
No no, Nostalgia.
No nostalgia.
Mo' nostalgia.
Nostaglia sounds Italian.
Nostaligula sounds Shakespearean.
My horoscope advises me to get ready to be as big as the Red Hot Chilli Peppers this year.
I am a little upset with myself that I found an author who works in line drawings and scribble-thoughts at the San Francisco MOMA Museum shop and forgot to write his name down.
I am not alone.
I am so alone.
I am only not alone when I am alone.
I am running out of space.
I forgot already what it was I actually wanted to write in this entry that was substantive and ambitious.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment