Every woman’s dream. To be stalked down darkened side alleys by three weirdly dressed and probably blue balled sailors. Good. Lessons from 90s European music videos.
“Ooh ooh, ahh ahh sexy eyes!”
“I’m taking you for the long, lonely nights at sea!”
Inside/Outside: Thoughts immediately following a week-long acting intensive
Good love is like good conversation is like good listening. It’s sustained. An impulse to leave is not a pure impulse, but a false one. It stands beside our ego, not beneath it, whimpering and twitching, convincing us by the sheer volume of its cries that it’s what came before all else. But in reality, the purest impulses run to what we want from the other, not from solitude. Persist in an investigation of your others, your dear ones and your strangers, and you will find the basest, most monstrous and most beautiful manifestations of your spirit. Same goes for each and every opportunity lobbed your way. Pursue it with a full body, a full heart: pursue it richly.
Cynicism has diseased me at the roots.
Things consistently lack form and beauty. My mind, my habits, my relationships… All oscillate wildly. Where is the motorised bud that pivots and blooms in new and lacklustre directions with every moment? I want very much to embrace it, to still it with a deep, healing kiss. Instead, poison oak slinks along the inside of my ribs, reaches downwards in the skin of my upper arm: it grows in secret, disused places. I am cheaply tattooed. Like the tattoos you get with bubblegum. Press them in with a wet face washer, permit them to flake away with the disinterest that ebbs out from the point of origin. I wish for symmetry. I press my own belly like it’s a genie’s lamp: a thoughtless prayer to the gods of focus that I might rear a prize-winning rose; that it might bullet from my mouth, arc its petals like mellifluous pink wings. But I bite down. I always bite down. And what’s curious is that it always seems the gesture most needed, most true. False deities once again, razing my roses and the temples in my temples.
Fuck it, maybe I should I go on medication.
