I feel like I'm a trance through rhythms of Britpop and The Kinks (as long as I gaze on Waterloo sunset, I am in paradise...)
And I've lost everything, because destruction is beautiful. Because Nietzsche makes more sense than the bible. Because I could give a fuck about anything in the world. I'm on my way to the bottom, because perfection isn't beautiful, it never existed... and anything close to perfection is just a poor rendition of something, oozing of chimeric nature. B.S. as in bullshit. Bollocks.
Destruction is as beautiful as creation, only it's better. All form of creation is destruction and vice versa, only, anyone can create, it takes a big heart to destroy something. Terrorists are artists, and artists terrorists ... Writers destroy tradition through words, a painter destroys the whiteness of a canvas. Destruction is art. Artists just want to see the world burn because we love it so much.
Yes, I just want to feel pain, love, hate, depression, alcohol, drugs, lost, happy, sad, ALIVE... And pain is the realest and only decent feeling in the world: you can grasp it, you hurt, you feel it in your veins and only then do you really take into account the air you breathe, the scars, the bleeding. Pain is the only you can really be sure about. You're never sure if you're happy.. but when you're sad, when you can't move because you're torn, when you feel so low, only then are you truly alive.
Last night, I slept in an alley, cold... Winter's brush is right around the corner and I felt it through my trench coat. Yesterday was freedom.
God is dead, and humanity's the name on the blade. God mustn't like us that much. We all believe in this forgiving and loving father, but the opposite must ring true too.
Listening to a lot of Pulp, Iggy Pop, Kinks and Stones. My spirit is dying. I don't feel like writing anymore. I just feel like I'm losing touch with everything.
The Kinks - Waterloo sunset http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fvDoDaCYrEY
The Rolling stones - Shine a light http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPbozLRU3so
Wow.. I'm fucking talentless today!
dimanche 7 septembre 2008
dimanche 31 août 2008
Une saison en enfer
Détruit par la débauche et la déchéance
Déchiré par le destin et le devoir
Déprimé par le deuil d'un au revoir
C'est la décadence d'une vie
Je m'exprime mal en Français. J'ai l'Anglais.
Tout à coup, mon inspiration est morte. Je ne la vois plus, enfin, je ne la sens plus. Je sais qu'elle est là, quelque part, elle y sera toujours, mais ces murs, ces falaises, ces vallées qui m'entourent: elle crèvent, de jour en jour.
Il y en a qui marche, qui continue, qui n'ont aucun problème à s'assimiler. L'exile existe, seulement, pas pour tout le monde. L'exile, l'amour et la souffrance... C'est ce qu'on ressent tous un jour ou l'autre. Camus.
Enfin, je suis pas seul. J'ai toi.
Comment font-ils, les autres? J'ai l'impression que c'est tellement facile.
Mais peut-on connaître le bonheur sans avoir connu le malheur?
Je tourne en rond. J'en peux plus. Plus rien ne sort. Plus rien de beau de la plume. Que de l'horreur. Je me sens mourir ici. C'est pas normal. Les gens ne vivent pas comme ça! Il y a un problème. Le suicide chez les jeunes, la dépression chez les adultes, la mort seule dans un asile pour les vieux. C'est pas une vie. Il y a mieux. Il doit y avoir mieux.
Voilà. Je me sens comme Rimbaud quand il pouvait plus écrire.
Déchiré par le destin et le devoir
Déprimé par le deuil d'un au revoir
C'est la décadence d'une vie
Je m'exprime mal en Français. J'ai l'Anglais.
Tout à coup, mon inspiration est morte. Je ne la vois plus, enfin, je ne la sens plus. Je sais qu'elle est là, quelque part, elle y sera toujours, mais ces murs, ces falaises, ces vallées qui m'entourent: elle crèvent, de jour en jour.
Il y en a qui marche, qui continue, qui n'ont aucun problème à s'assimiler. L'exile existe, seulement, pas pour tout le monde. L'exile, l'amour et la souffrance... C'est ce qu'on ressent tous un jour ou l'autre. Camus.
Enfin, je suis pas seul. J'ai toi.
Comment font-ils, les autres? J'ai l'impression que c'est tellement facile.
Mais peut-on connaître le bonheur sans avoir connu le malheur?
Je tourne en rond. J'en peux plus. Plus rien ne sort. Plus rien de beau de la plume. Que de l'horreur. Je me sens mourir ici. C'est pas normal. Les gens ne vivent pas comme ça! Il y a un problème. Le suicide chez les jeunes, la dépression chez les adultes, la mort seule dans un asile pour les vieux. C'est pas une vie. Il y a mieux. Il doit y avoir mieux.
Voilà. Je me sens comme Rimbaud quand il pouvait plus écrire.
samedi 30 août 2008
I'm broke but I'm happy
Retour en Suisse - la prison infernale, où l'on boit pour s'échapper, pour oublier ces murs, ces façades et falaises qui nous entourent dans notre indifférence, notre matérialisme, et qui nous étouffent, lentement, nos idées, nos rêves, nos aspirations.
Il y a une semaine seulement, le monde était a ma portée. La vie n'était plus que des photos, des filmes, de la musique. Le ciel vibrait, et cette terre avait une âme, un coeur qui battait, inconstant... Maintenant, je retombe dans la déchéance, la débauche, la délinquance - caractères propres à ce pays - et je n'écris plus, malheureusement. J'arrive pas. Je me sens comme avalé par cette mentalité, cette peur constante de la Suisse. Cette Suisse, si renfermée, si xénophobe.
Il y a toujours les paradis artificiels.
Mais ce soir, il y en avait pas. Ni bouteille, ni échappatoire.. juste un ciel monotone qui, sans les étoiles, déprimeraient même les meilleur d'entre nous.
Je suis le dernier des romantiques, mal à l'aise dans un monde de gens sensés. J'éprouve, je m'émeus, je rigole, je m'attriste. Je vis une tragédie, dans le sens que, quoi que je fasse, je m'en retire détruit.
Et cet alcoolisme, qu'en faire?
Dear oh dearest girl, I adore you, so it scares me this addiction
Les choses s'assombrissent, mais la lueur est à ma portée. Si seulement c'était différent. Ce ne l'est jamais.
10 mois. 300 jours environ.
Mon esprit est vide. Les pensées coulent, mais rien ne sort. Un amour impossible... Et les signes? Que voulait-il dire? Sûrement je suis fou, bête, ou rien.
Je ne peux plus parler. Je ne sais pas quoi dire. Cette situation me trouble, me perturbe, me détruit. Il y a quelque chose de mieux. Kant prétend qu'on est tous né avec une germe de morale, quel que soit l'éducation ou la culture qui nous a été enseigné. Il ne faut pas réfleichir trop loin pour réaliser que quelque chose ne va pas ici. On n'est pas fait pour la Suisse. Il y a mieux. Se sentir accepté, c'était toujours notre problème. Cette lutte contre le monde, il y à quelque part où la paix régne. Fais moi confiance.
L'Angleterre, ma bouée de sauvetage... J'ai juste jamais penser que le bonheur avait un prix: toi. C'est un bonheur égoïste, je ne peux pas me le permettre. Te laisser ici, seule. Une tragédie.
Je meurs ici. Chaque seconde qui passe me tue. Quand je pars, c'est pour de bon. La fugue. Oh... Mais tout ça me semble si lâche maintenant. Rester ici, c'est être fataliste mais là pour toi. Partir, c'est être existantialiste, mais c'est t'abandonner. Je t'ai promis le contraire.
Une tragédie racinienne.
Il y a une semaine seulement, le monde était a ma portée. La vie n'était plus que des photos, des filmes, de la musique. Le ciel vibrait, et cette terre avait une âme, un coeur qui battait, inconstant... Maintenant, je retombe dans la déchéance, la débauche, la délinquance - caractères propres à ce pays - et je n'écris plus, malheureusement. J'arrive pas. Je me sens comme avalé par cette mentalité, cette peur constante de la Suisse. Cette Suisse, si renfermée, si xénophobe.
Il y a toujours les paradis artificiels.
Mais ce soir, il y en avait pas. Ni bouteille, ni échappatoire.. juste un ciel monotone qui, sans les étoiles, déprimeraient même les meilleur d'entre nous.
Je suis le dernier des romantiques, mal à l'aise dans un monde de gens sensés. J'éprouve, je m'émeus, je rigole, je m'attriste. Je vis une tragédie, dans le sens que, quoi que je fasse, je m'en retire détruit.
Et cet alcoolisme, qu'en faire?
Dear oh dearest girl, I adore you, so it scares me this addiction
Les choses s'assombrissent, mais la lueur est à ma portée. Si seulement c'était différent. Ce ne l'est jamais.
10 mois. 300 jours environ.
Mon esprit est vide. Les pensées coulent, mais rien ne sort. Un amour impossible... Et les signes? Que voulait-il dire? Sûrement je suis fou, bête, ou rien.
Je ne peux plus parler. Je ne sais pas quoi dire. Cette situation me trouble, me perturbe, me détruit. Il y a quelque chose de mieux. Kant prétend qu'on est tous né avec une germe de morale, quel que soit l'éducation ou la culture qui nous a été enseigné. Il ne faut pas réfleichir trop loin pour réaliser que quelque chose ne va pas ici. On n'est pas fait pour la Suisse. Il y a mieux. Se sentir accepté, c'était toujours notre problème. Cette lutte contre le monde, il y à quelque part où la paix régne. Fais moi confiance.
L'Angleterre, ma bouée de sauvetage... J'ai juste jamais penser que le bonheur avait un prix: toi. C'est un bonheur égoïste, je ne peux pas me le permettre. Te laisser ici, seule. Une tragédie.
Je meurs ici. Chaque seconde qui passe me tue. Quand je pars, c'est pour de bon. La fugue. Oh... Mais tout ça me semble si lâche maintenant. Rester ici, c'est être fataliste mais là pour toi. Partir, c'est être existantialiste, mais c'est t'abandonner. Je t'ai promis le contraire.
Une tragédie racinienne.
vendredi 22 août 2008
Journal entry #5: Goodbye for now
From the West End girls in their keds, or leggings and boots, to the East End boys with their air max's, tn's or forces. From the Jamaicans by the corner store singing their loud and chauvinistic songs, to the subway musicians strumming renditions of Bob Dylan and "Stairway to heaven". The middle-aged or more tattooed and stocky regulars at some pub, who, at their age, still have what it takes to put a decent beating on you, to the hooligans proudly scarving their favorite teams. The free newspapers with gossip on anyone in the public eye, the CCTV cameras - displays of Britain's paranoia, the robotic voice that sounds the same in any elevator, subway or bus you come across. The weather with its mood swings, the humid summer day and hale driven nights. The indie rockers with pointy shoes and slim pants - my crowd, really -, the Chinese students gathering in foursomes and more, wandering Oxford circus to Soho with brand name paper bags dangling from their arms. The Ray Bans, white Kanye-style sunglasses, cardigans and bowling bags. The cult of smokers reuniting in front of every restaurant, pub or H&M in town. The multicultural or culturally diverse melting pot we call London... It's goodbye for now.
It's a Friday night. I'm eating KFC in front of the Dreamers - I've probably watched it a dozen times since I came to England. I did some drinking before, two singles, three doubles - all Jack and Coke - but the buzz is quite light. I'll add some more, later, to keep the alcohol abuse to a limit. Still uninspired, although I wrote another of those pretentious poems, it goes:
A life gone to waste in Satan's slippery slope
Undoubtedly, tonight will be another of the immoral crazes
In the shadow of the favorite tombs
Far away, is slumber setting in on an undying ship
Passionless virtue and sins we've withheld
Liquor is the bad advice I can take
Slowly decaying like a bleeding tree
Oh Arcadia, I can feel you... and it hurts
Where is my revolution? My May '68. Humanity's at stake, but no one to shepherd the troops. My cause, my rebellion, why did we lose the fighting spirit in the twenty-first century? Lost. Mourning the greats: Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, The Stones... hell, even Sid Vicious had a better message than this. What's now? Gary Glitter. Jude Law at a Starbucks, Aniston on the beach, Geldof at some club, Doherty at some club, Paris Hilton at some fucking club... Crucifying our last hopes on the front pages of newspapers. What has happened to us? We've sunk down to this? We're animals! No, we're not. Animals don't do half the clever shit we thought about, and I am ironic.
Well, back to Switzerland, for a stay long enough to get half an education's worth. I'm leaving. There, I said it. Fleeing the fatigues for a life of either fame and fortune, or artistic Bohemia with the usual substance abuse and random torment. Sounds promising. Live fast and die young. I'm too stubborn to change, too hardheaded to listen, too stupid to conform, fit the mold, the nine to five suits with a tie, the two cars in the garage, a garden where my wife grows aubergines and parsley, my wife - typically beautiful but politically correct, no taboo subjects at the table, likes to read, maybe paint - and my kids, a boy who does soccer and a girl who reads books. The dog, of course, with a name like Lucky or Skip, and a cat, who has ongoing wars with the said dog. Vacations, to resorts in Thailand, Caribbean islands, Turkey, maybe. We rent movies, I join a club to play golf or tennis. We take Christmas photos and send them to relatives 'round the world. We sing to the radio in our car. Go to church. Picnics, to the zoo and whatnot. No one smokes, not a liter of booze in the house. I am overjoyed. Then again, fuck that. Perfection is overrated. I'd regret it, when I'm broke lying on a mattress somewhere in a flat in Mile End, the life I passed on. I'd regret this more, not going after my dreams.
I should stop going crazy. I'm a burden to my friends - too much weight. They must feel like their help was in vain, because every week, something new and disastrous has happened.
I should take a long look at myself. And I will. Right in front of you, here naked - and if I'm writing this now, it's because I know that no one will read it, because going through those first paragraphs, you must really love me. Okay. Let's start. Or let's not.
Where does the torment come from? Does it grow on trees? Or was I born with it. Let's see. Absent father throughout the preteen years, eight years old, absent parents so I was raised by my grandmother. Small physique, hence the violence to prove myself. Moving back and forth from countries, hence me being emotionally detached.. Having to make new friends, new lives.. BAM! Romantic at heart, I needed someone to fill the void, to take me out of exile. The drinking stems low self-esteem and the search for Arcadia. The mood swings from the contradictions in my life.
Losing at all. Isn't that Arcadia? I had it, all, once. Fucked it up, big time. Lost it all. I could have done it better, but I didn't. See, that's life, you fuck it up sometimes, and either you dwell, or move on.
A Brazilian girl, Gaby, who might be reading, gave me the best insight I've had in a long time. "You always know what you're doing, regardless"... Drinking isn't an excuse, being depressed, feeling alone, they don't make up. I know what I'm doing, don't I? Self-destruction, the path to Arcadia, little steps, everyday, to get to bottom. It's crazy, I'm crazy, but that's life, isn't it? Oh for fucks sake, I fucked it up. Dreaming of a past I can't forget, genuine smiles, all to ashes, burnt, I fucked it up. You always know what you're doing. I fucked it up. I had it all. Everything I ever wanted, still dwelling, turning in circles. Maybe I'm in love with my misery, maybe I just like dwelling. It never got me anymore, but nothing ever did.
Who's reading this, up till here? You... That's great, fucking great. I did that bottle of Jack, post-drunk now. I did it. Swallowed it nice and easy. This is the second part. Everything up to here was sober, now, it's disillusion, fucking a'. The best moments have gone astray. Now I'm lost, again, and whoever you are, you're not here to help, or at least, I doubt it. FAKE! FAKE! FAKE!
Look at me, preaching existentialism, the words straight outta Sartre's mouth. It's beautiful only I'm a determinist, a fatalist at best. You can live your whole life pretending to be someone else, living what you was meant out of you. Your perfect life, with your perfect love, perfect dreams... All-so-fucking-perfect! I wish I had that perfection. Am I who I want to be, and not what's expected out of me. Hell, I could've been the model son, good grades, into sports, no tar, grass or booze. Hell, I could've done it. They'd be proud, my parents. Shit. I'm not. I am who I am, real. Real like pain, like cutting your veins and blood oozing out. Real, like the drug problem in the states. Real, like the opposite of fake. Real, like me still bleeding, day after day, after day, after fucking day.
It wasn't always like this - typical line. I use to be happy. Anywhere up till 14, and 17 when I was in love. Up till 14, I was happy, I didn't get a taste of it, the world, the cruelty, the bad and what's worse. No, immune to that, really. In a dream world, where everything was fine and dandy, fucking fine and dandy. Then 14 hits, like a brick in the face. Like, hey, I ain't got friends. I'm lost. I had what? Writing, cinema... Cinema!
"Taxi Driver" was the proverbial first fuck, the deflowering. Maybe it was Mean Streets, either way, I would come home, sleep, and watch a movie. I went through Scorsese, Tarantino - whom I know hate -, Godfather trilogy, Kaufman... They were my friends. They kept me waking up every morning. Sometimes, I'd wake up at 4, to watch King of New York... I know, not the best of movies, but that was my life, my only conversation of the day. Besides the wrist-cutting, I'd say I was immune to anything else. Depressed, really. But the films, they kept me going. That was before I had alcohol. Had I had it, no screenwriter, just a fucking wino. Maybe that was the best thing that happened to me, looking at it now.
All the bad things, they happen for a reason. I didn't flee to Albion on my accord, I had to. Military, it rings true, but it's not the whole ring. There's something over there, I can't stay. I wish I could, but I guess I'm weak. Not your hero, not your antihero, I'm just fleeing, escaping ... this is me being existentialist. Or this is me being a coward, simply because the days look alike, and I couldn't live one more. It's pain, only constant, unlike pain. Day after day. The tummy aches, the chills, it's all there, all accounted for. Britain's a way out, it's like alcohol when alcohol isn't enough.
Well there, mildly drunk. No Arcadia, no nirvana, I'll have to settle for this now. Because things always go back to the way they were meant to be. That's me in London, like a refugee, like abandon. Good thing no one understands this.
So, back to Switzerland, much to my dismay. Back to endless hours of school. Back to all of that. Switzerland rhymes with pain in my book, it doesn't get better, until you leave. But then I'm gone, then no where I turn will it come back. My life in my hands. It was good while it lasted, then gone, forever. Know one knows pain like I do. You can deal with it, and once you can't, you stuff it somewhere, forgotten. I haven't got that closet. I wear pain like a new trend. Pain. Pain. Pain. It's what make you feel alive. But I've been alive for so long, I'd be better off dead - not a suicide metaphor. I'll be here, for a while, and after that, gone. I'll have made my mark. I lived the best parts in life, now it's time to write about it.
Fuck... that's my exit for tonight. Blame it on the drinking, but you always know what you're doing. I learned that today. Bad moods, Vodka, Whiskey, hate, adrenaline, love... Excuses. You always know what you're doing. This is me taking a shit on the world.
It's a Friday night. I'm eating KFC in front of the Dreamers - I've probably watched it a dozen times since I came to England. I did some drinking before, two singles, three doubles - all Jack and Coke - but the buzz is quite light. I'll add some more, later, to keep the alcohol abuse to a limit. Still uninspired, although I wrote another of those pretentious poems, it goes:
A life gone to waste in Satan's slippery slope
Undoubtedly, tonight will be another of the immoral crazes
In the shadow of the favorite tombs
Far away, is slumber setting in on an undying ship
Passionless virtue and sins we've withheld
Liquor is the bad advice I can take
Slowly decaying like a bleeding tree
Oh Arcadia, I can feel you... and it hurts
Where is my revolution? My May '68. Humanity's at stake, but no one to shepherd the troops. My cause, my rebellion, why did we lose the fighting spirit in the twenty-first century? Lost. Mourning the greats: Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, The Stones... hell, even Sid Vicious had a better message than this. What's now? Gary Glitter. Jude Law at a Starbucks, Aniston on the beach, Geldof at some club, Doherty at some club, Paris Hilton at some fucking club... Crucifying our last hopes on the front pages of newspapers. What has happened to us? We've sunk down to this? We're animals! No, we're not. Animals don't do half the clever shit we thought about, and I am ironic.
Well, back to Switzerland, for a stay long enough to get half an education's worth. I'm leaving. There, I said it. Fleeing the fatigues for a life of either fame and fortune, or artistic Bohemia with the usual substance abuse and random torment. Sounds promising. Live fast and die young. I'm too stubborn to change, too hardheaded to listen, too stupid to conform, fit the mold, the nine to five suits with a tie, the two cars in the garage, a garden where my wife grows aubergines and parsley, my wife - typically beautiful but politically correct, no taboo subjects at the table, likes to read, maybe paint - and my kids, a boy who does soccer and a girl who reads books. The dog, of course, with a name like Lucky or Skip, and a cat, who has ongoing wars with the said dog. Vacations, to resorts in Thailand, Caribbean islands, Turkey, maybe. We rent movies, I join a club to play golf or tennis. We take Christmas photos and send them to relatives 'round the world. We sing to the radio in our car. Go to church. Picnics, to the zoo and whatnot. No one smokes, not a liter of booze in the house. I am overjoyed. Then again, fuck that. Perfection is overrated. I'd regret it, when I'm broke lying on a mattress somewhere in a flat in Mile End, the life I passed on. I'd regret this more, not going after my dreams.
I should stop going crazy. I'm a burden to my friends - too much weight. They must feel like their help was in vain, because every week, something new and disastrous has happened.
I should take a long look at myself. And I will. Right in front of you, here naked - and if I'm writing this now, it's because I know that no one will read it, because going through those first paragraphs, you must really love me. Okay. Let's start. Or let's not.
Where does the torment come from? Does it grow on trees? Or was I born with it. Let's see. Absent father throughout the preteen years, eight years old, absent parents so I was raised by my grandmother. Small physique, hence the violence to prove myself. Moving back and forth from countries, hence me being emotionally detached.. Having to make new friends, new lives.. BAM! Romantic at heart, I needed someone to fill the void, to take me out of exile. The drinking stems low self-esteem and the search for Arcadia. The mood swings from the contradictions in my life.
Losing at all. Isn't that Arcadia? I had it, all, once. Fucked it up, big time. Lost it all. I could have done it better, but I didn't. See, that's life, you fuck it up sometimes, and either you dwell, or move on.
A Brazilian girl, Gaby, who might be reading, gave me the best insight I've had in a long time. "You always know what you're doing, regardless"... Drinking isn't an excuse, being depressed, feeling alone, they don't make up. I know what I'm doing, don't I? Self-destruction, the path to Arcadia, little steps, everyday, to get to bottom. It's crazy, I'm crazy, but that's life, isn't it? Oh for fucks sake, I fucked it up. Dreaming of a past I can't forget, genuine smiles, all to ashes, burnt, I fucked it up. You always know what you're doing. I fucked it up. I had it all. Everything I ever wanted, still dwelling, turning in circles. Maybe I'm in love with my misery, maybe I just like dwelling. It never got me anymore, but nothing ever did.
Who's reading this, up till here? You... That's great, fucking great. I did that bottle of Jack, post-drunk now. I did it. Swallowed it nice and easy. This is the second part. Everything up to here was sober, now, it's disillusion, fucking a'. The best moments have gone astray. Now I'm lost, again, and whoever you are, you're not here to help, or at least, I doubt it. FAKE! FAKE! FAKE!
Look at me, preaching existentialism, the words straight outta Sartre's mouth. It's beautiful only I'm a determinist, a fatalist at best. You can live your whole life pretending to be someone else, living what you was meant out of you. Your perfect life, with your perfect love, perfect dreams... All-so-fucking-perfect! I wish I had that perfection. Am I who I want to be, and not what's expected out of me. Hell, I could've been the model son, good grades, into sports, no tar, grass or booze. Hell, I could've done it. They'd be proud, my parents. Shit. I'm not. I am who I am, real. Real like pain, like cutting your veins and blood oozing out. Real, like the drug problem in the states. Real, like the opposite of fake. Real, like me still bleeding, day after day, after day, after fucking day.
It wasn't always like this - typical line. I use to be happy. Anywhere up till 14, and 17 when I was in love. Up till 14, I was happy, I didn't get a taste of it, the world, the cruelty, the bad and what's worse. No, immune to that, really. In a dream world, where everything was fine and dandy, fucking fine and dandy. Then 14 hits, like a brick in the face. Like, hey, I ain't got friends. I'm lost. I had what? Writing, cinema... Cinema!
"Taxi Driver" was the proverbial first fuck, the deflowering. Maybe it was Mean Streets, either way, I would come home, sleep, and watch a movie. I went through Scorsese, Tarantino - whom I know hate -, Godfather trilogy, Kaufman... They were my friends. They kept me waking up every morning. Sometimes, I'd wake up at 4, to watch King of New York... I know, not the best of movies, but that was my life, my only conversation of the day. Besides the wrist-cutting, I'd say I was immune to anything else. Depressed, really. But the films, they kept me going. That was before I had alcohol. Had I had it, no screenwriter, just a fucking wino. Maybe that was the best thing that happened to me, looking at it now.
All the bad things, they happen for a reason. I didn't flee to Albion on my accord, I had to. Military, it rings true, but it's not the whole ring. There's something over there, I can't stay. I wish I could, but I guess I'm weak. Not your hero, not your antihero, I'm just fleeing, escaping ... this is me being existentialist. Or this is me being a coward, simply because the days look alike, and I couldn't live one more. It's pain, only constant, unlike pain. Day after day. The tummy aches, the chills, it's all there, all accounted for. Britain's a way out, it's like alcohol when alcohol isn't enough.
Well there, mildly drunk. No Arcadia, no nirvana, I'll have to settle for this now. Because things always go back to the way they were meant to be. That's me in London, like a refugee, like abandon. Good thing no one understands this.
So, back to Switzerland, much to my dismay. Back to endless hours of school. Back to all of that. Switzerland rhymes with pain in my book, it doesn't get better, until you leave. But then I'm gone, then no where I turn will it come back. My life in my hands. It was good while it lasted, then gone, forever. Know one knows pain like I do. You can deal with it, and once you can't, you stuff it somewhere, forgotten. I haven't got that closet. I wear pain like a new trend. Pain. Pain. Pain. It's what make you feel alive. But I've been alive for so long, I'd be better off dead - not a suicide metaphor. I'll be here, for a while, and after that, gone. I'll have made my mark. I lived the best parts in life, now it's time to write about it.
Fuck... that's my exit for tonight. Blame it on the drinking, but you always know what you're doing. I learned that today. Bad moods, Vodka, Whiskey, hate, adrenaline, love... Excuses. You always know what you're doing. This is me taking a shit on the world.
jeudi 21 août 2008
Journal entry #4: Light daze/days
"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one"
I'm tired. Not very drunk really. This life of excess is taking it's toll. To further the matter, let's speak about it, the elephant in the room. I may have a problem, with drinking. I suppose, I drink a lot. Almost everyday. Is that where the problem is?
"I'm flattered, really, I am"... Do I look gay? Strangely enough, to some gay people, I do. For the description, short Chinese guy with a Beatles cut and ironic glasses. I was, flattered, but come on. I like women. It would have been nice though, to like men, that way I wouldn't have all the fuss, and I could talk to someone who actually understands me - who am I kidding, no one does. Hope I didn't offend him. It must be fun though, gay people, they're so liberated ... free, little libertines in their sense. I don't have any gay friends, at least, not close friends. I still do ... CIRCLEs
Didn't see her today. Disappointed. I'd say, it's better that way. Once you get to know someone, you tend to either fall deeply in love, or demystify her perfection. But from a far, it's romantic - slightly stalker-ish - but just to look on, and see her laugh, and look back at me: nothing can go wrong. Leaving Britain, she'll be my summer obsession, immortalized in time as the perfect girl. No smeared lipstick, no gray or cuts in her hair, and she looks so ... How can I begin to explain.
I wrote a poem today. I tend to do that when I'm uninspired. My poetry has gone past the barriers of what's understandable. In that sense, it's abstract, and I'd like to think, somewhat rimbaldian. These pages, on the internet, use to be piles and piles of cute yet redundant adolescent love gone astray and in flames. I'm past that. Romanticism has gotten immature. I try to avoid it, but it's part of who I am. Romantic, in the original sense of the term. Skim candle light dinners and whatnot, the melancholia, the images of perfection, spleen and the inability to be satisfied and there you have it, a romantic. It's not glitters and gold, more like heaven and heartbreaks.
London's treated me right. Sure, the weather is reminiscent of my mother's menopausal mood swings, but that's beauty: anything can happen. Maybe that's why I love London. It's got that magic, like, you never know. In a tube you might find love, get stabbed in a bus, write a poem on the bridge or see the first performance, in a dilapidated and smoke infested pub, of any group that's come to save rock and roll... Happened with The Libertines, just as decades before, The Beatles.
I don't feel like talking anymore. I'm writing my life here. If anyone wants to know what my holidays were like, come here. Few regrets though, the redhead, the skinny one, the others and loads of others. Only one that wasn't just a face in the crowd, just happens to be the one that I'll be seeing for the last time tomorrow... Who knows? You can always love in big cities right? Typical, no? Artist boy meets artist girl in subway, they talk and eventually something wrong happens, but then it's resolved and BAM! Happiness. Then again, I don't tend believe in romantic comedies, hence "Sister Ray!"
Uninspired. Hungover. Bored.
I think I'm a pain to anyone who knows me. I may be funny, or just incredibly cynical that it's funny. Then there's the antics, the drinking, mood swings, bad temper, unpredictability, spontaneity not to mention the weekly cries for help... I am really a pain in the ass. Oh...and the big one, I forgot, I'm pretentious.
Yes, yes, all of this is true. I don't know why I write here actually, reading pages and pages of filth, who would? I think an article would suffice, a glimpse, then, no more. I'd get tired reading it, I'd think: "fucking pretentious asshole".
Regardless of whatever was mentioned, surprisingly, I'm quite happy today. And I don't know why. My poetry was garbage, my stomach was aching, I was cold and couldn't pen down a phrase for shit. I think, looking back on this holiday, I think it was nice. I lived. I lived . No one will take that away from me. I loved, and for this, I'll hand over the pen for someone who wrote much better than I did: Musset
« Adieu, Camille, retourne à ton couvent, et lorsqu'on te fera de ces récits hideux qui t'ont empoisonnée, réponds ce que je vais te dire : Tous les hommes sont menteurs, inconstants, faux, bavards, hypocrites, orgueilleux ou lâches, méprisables et sensuels ; toutes les femmes sont perfides, artificieuses, vaniteuses, curieuses et dépravées ; le monde n'est qu'un égout sans fond où les phoques les plus informes rampent et se tordent sur des montagnes de fange ; mais il y a au monde une chose sainte et sublime, c'est l'union de deux de ces êtres, si imparfaits et si affreux. On est souvent trompé en amour, souvent blessé et souvent malheureux ; mais on aime, et quand on est sur le bord de sa tombe, on se retourne pour regarder en arrière, et on se dit : J'ai souffert souvent, je me suis trompé quelques fois ; mais j'ai aimé. C'est moi qui ai vécu, et non pas un être factice créé par mon orgueil et mon ennui. »
Musset: On ne badine pas avec l'Amour
^He said it better than I ever could.
So let's see, I lived, loved, hated, drank, created, wrote, watched, made love, cried, laughed, smoked, pissed, ate, fought, slept ... have I done anything wrong?
I think I'm an atheist now. I feel like deleting this whole article, but, I'd be censoring myself.
I love three things: Bob Dylan, London and the song "Konstantine" by Something Corporate.
Back Saturday. Then school ... then life. And by life, I mean never having to work again. Writing isn't work to me. This coming year will be the last of that bullshit. I can't spend time learning German, my work is going far too well to intoxicate my mind with that ugly language. Safe for Goethe and Susskind, never was a fan. Life awaits me. With its pain and pleasures. Peace
I'm tired. Not very drunk really. This life of excess is taking it's toll. To further the matter, let's speak about it, the elephant in the room. I may have a problem, with drinking. I suppose, I drink a lot. Almost everyday. Is that where the problem is?
"I'm flattered, really, I am"... Do I look gay? Strangely enough, to some gay people, I do. For the description, short Chinese guy with a Beatles cut and ironic glasses. I was, flattered, but come on. I like women. It would have been nice though, to like men, that way I wouldn't have all the fuss, and I could talk to someone who actually understands me - who am I kidding, no one does. Hope I didn't offend him. It must be fun though, gay people, they're so liberated ... free, little libertines in their sense. I don't have any gay friends, at least, not close friends. I still do ... CIRCLEs
Didn't see her today. Disappointed. I'd say, it's better that way. Once you get to know someone, you tend to either fall deeply in love, or demystify her perfection. But from a far, it's romantic - slightly stalker-ish - but just to look on, and see her laugh, and look back at me: nothing can go wrong. Leaving Britain, she'll be my summer obsession, immortalized in time as the perfect girl. No smeared lipstick, no gray or cuts in her hair, and she looks so ... How can I begin to explain.
I wrote a poem today. I tend to do that when I'm uninspired. My poetry has gone past the barriers of what's understandable. In that sense, it's abstract, and I'd like to think, somewhat rimbaldian. These pages, on the internet, use to be piles and piles of cute yet redundant adolescent love gone astray and in flames. I'm past that. Romanticism has gotten immature. I try to avoid it, but it's part of who I am. Romantic, in the original sense of the term. Skim candle light dinners and whatnot, the melancholia, the images of perfection, spleen and the inability to be satisfied and there you have it, a romantic. It's not glitters and gold, more like heaven and heartbreaks.
London's treated me right. Sure, the weather is reminiscent of my mother's menopausal mood swings, but that's beauty: anything can happen. Maybe that's why I love London. It's got that magic, like, you never know. In a tube you might find love, get stabbed in a bus, write a poem on the bridge or see the first performance, in a dilapidated and smoke infested pub, of any group that's come to save rock and roll... Happened with The Libertines, just as decades before, The Beatles.
I don't feel like talking anymore. I'm writing my life here. If anyone wants to know what my holidays were like, come here. Few regrets though, the redhead, the skinny one, the others and loads of others. Only one that wasn't just a face in the crowd, just happens to be the one that I'll be seeing for the last time tomorrow... Who knows? You can always love in big cities right? Typical, no? Artist boy meets artist girl in subway, they talk and eventually something wrong happens, but then it's resolved and BAM! Happiness. Then again, I don't tend believe in romantic comedies, hence "Sister Ray!"
Uninspired. Hungover. Bored.
I think I'm a pain to anyone who knows me. I may be funny, or just incredibly cynical that it's funny. Then there's the antics, the drinking, mood swings, bad temper, unpredictability, spontaneity not to mention the weekly cries for help... I am really a pain in the ass. Oh...and the big one, I forgot, I'm pretentious.
Yes, yes, all of this is true. I don't know why I write here actually, reading pages and pages of filth, who would? I think an article would suffice, a glimpse, then, no more. I'd get tired reading it, I'd think: "fucking pretentious asshole".
Regardless of whatever was mentioned, surprisingly, I'm quite happy today. And I don't know why. My poetry was garbage, my stomach was aching, I was cold and couldn't pen down a phrase for shit. I think, looking back on this holiday, I think it was nice. I lived. I lived . No one will take that away from me. I loved, and for this, I'll hand over the pen for someone who wrote much better than I did: Musset
« Adieu, Camille, retourne à ton couvent, et lorsqu'on te fera de ces récits hideux qui t'ont empoisonnée, réponds ce que je vais te dire : Tous les hommes sont menteurs, inconstants, faux, bavards, hypocrites, orgueilleux ou lâches, méprisables et sensuels ; toutes les femmes sont perfides, artificieuses, vaniteuses, curieuses et dépravées ; le monde n'est qu'un égout sans fond où les phoques les plus informes rampent et se tordent sur des montagnes de fange ; mais il y a au monde une chose sainte et sublime, c'est l'union de deux de ces êtres, si imparfaits et si affreux. On est souvent trompé en amour, souvent blessé et souvent malheureux ; mais on aime, et quand on est sur le bord de sa tombe, on se retourne pour regarder en arrière, et on se dit : J'ai souffert souvent, je me suis trompé quelques fois ; mais j'ai aimé. C'est moi qui ai vécu, et non pas un être factice créé par mon orgueil et mon ennui. »
Musset: On ne badine pas avec l'Amour
^He said it better than I ever could.
So let's see, I lived, loved, hated, drank, created, wrote, watched, made love, cried, laughed, smoked, pissed, ate, fought, slept ... have I done anything wrong?
I think I'm an atheist now. I feel like deleting this whole article, but, I'd be censoring myself.
I love three things: Bob Dylan, London and the song "Konstantine" by Something Corporate.
Back Saturday. Then school ... then life. And by life, I mean never having to work again. Writing isn't work to me. This coming year will be the last of that bullshit. I can't spend time learning German, my work is going far too well to intoxicate my mind with that ugly language. Safe for Goethe and Susskind, never was a fan. Life awaits me. With its pain and pleasures. Peace
Journal entry #3,5: The Hangover
Wow! Seeing last night's entry, I'd say I was rather, um, drunk. But I won't edit it out. After all, that would be censoring myself.
Yes, I went somewhat crazy, passed out... and was a big burden to my neighbors. Lost my keys. And, I'm really not sure about anything else. All I know is that I've got a Whiskey breath to go with the lack of sleep. And I'm still drunk.
Jack n' coke.
It was because of a sellout love story. It's not me, not what I do, nor what I feel. I feel "Sister Ray!", I feel black and white, neo-noir and surrealist, absurd and crazy, I am "Sister Ray!"... The same way Flaubert is "Madame Bovary", Camus is "L'Etranger", Rimbaud " Le Bateau ivre", "Le Dormeur du val", "Les Effarés"...
God, it's so early. I never think I've ever been up this early. I'm not thinking straight. I stumble when I walk. My clothes are scattered all over the room.
Last night I was screaming. I went crazy.
Is the alcohol slowly taking over? Am I but a mere puppet to its desires? Am I losing a war? Slowly, drifting away from who I ever was... Who I still am, hardly... And who I will not be, anymore, ever. Is the alcohol fueling the writing? Or is life just fueling the alcohol?
This is not one of those cry for help things, more of a "Look at me! I'm crazy!" type of things. Well that's the good thing about being surrounded by people that don't know you, they don't know you're not actually like that. I can pack my bags, move two miles north, west, east or south - although moving more south would really take its toll with the bullet wounds and whatnot, still - and start a new life. Again. God, I'm feeling like I've done this my whole life. Home is an abstract notion. Home is where the heart is. Home is where you're making love. Home is where you can always be accepted... This is what they say, only, I wouldn't know. Never felt it. No direction home, so to speak. Make friends, settle in, fall in love... Then, leave. Once again. Brown boxes, white boxes, big, small, light and heavy - I know how to pack. Always, the new kid in town. London's different for that. I feel accepted, but that notion of growing up with people I've known my whole life, nada. I guess what I'm trying to say, in my little way, is that, I might miss it, Switzerland. Oh yes, I might miss it.
The squareness, short-mindedness, violence in train stations, stupid and depressing winters, the lack of style, the petty thieves with attitudes, the white ballerine wearing-whores, and, my friends - my family. Thanks for making the overdue stay worth while. Thank you for last night, although my recollection is bad, you got me jolly again - that's you May, if isn't obvious. Thank you for the Summer nights spent in total decay and oblivion. Thank you for trying to let me in the Jill Scott concert, and getting punked by the security. From the illegal fight clubs held in my room, to the disrupting of German classes. From the rough trainings getting my nose broken, to the first time I got drunk. From the stars from a balcony smoking, to the free newspapers in the morning. The overpriced McDonald's, to the cheap vodka called Wodka. From the Wednesday we spent rolling in the rain making out, to the first time I got laid. From the fistfights in train stations, bus stations, clubs, lakeside, at house parties and whatnot. From the first time I smoked weed, to the first time I threw up. My first hangover, my hands broken on walls. No names need any mentioning, it's just an anonymous. And knowing you, you'll never read these lines: too much English. But that was the thing with you, none of this ever needs to be said. We just have to pop open a Goodbye-bottle of Jack, and just live. I'm not gone yet, 10 months really... And funny as it is, I'll miss it. Because regardless of the bullshit, the bullshit, and the bullshit it's given me, it was home to the worst days of my life, but also to many many good ones.
I tend to have epiphanies when I drink, lots. This rang true last night. I guess I'll miss it. Think of this as escaping, it makes it romantic. Think of this as not looking back. As a red convertible Chevy' swerving off to Mexico with dirty money and silly dreams. I've got a soul... but I'm not a soldier. And as much as I tend to go to war with about anybody I've met - because, I'm somewhat crazy - I don't believe in the war. Going to the army would be like admitting that the world needs one. I'm a pacifist, very funny, I know. Well, we poets tend to be contradictory, but then again, we're poets, so we can. DEAL WITH IT!
I'm not writing it. At least I don't think so. Fuck them! I don't have to prove shit. I walked the world with my dick in my hands. I lived... this is me, unadulterated, hungover, still romantic, still crazy, happy, tired, listening to The Killers, I don't know why, waking everyone, everyone I met last night.
I'm Bob Dylan with the cue cards. I'm Jimi Hendrix with teeth on some strings. Ledger as the Joker. Sid Vicious singing My Way. Doherty on coke. Bertolucci making Paris. Scorsese behind the lenses doing Taxi Driver. I am Paul Schrader writing Taxi driver. Rimbaud writing "Une Saison en enfer". Cocteau. I am a black and white movie, a feature-length, a short, a color movie, good dialogue. I am all of these things.
But all I'm thinking about right now is: "God, I hope I see her today."
Yes, I went somewhat crazy, passed out... and was a big burden to my neighbors. Lost my keys. And, I'm really not sure about anything else. All I know is that I've got a Whiskey breath to go with the lack of sleep. And I'm still drunk.
Jack n' coke.
It was because of a sellout love story. It's not me, not what I do, nor what I feel. I feel "Sister Ray!", I feel black and white, neo-noir and surrealist, absurd and crazy, I am "Sister Ray!"... The same way Flaubert is "Madame Bovary", Camus is "L'Etranger", Rimbaud " Le Bateau ivre", "Le Dormeur du val", "Les Effarés"...
God, it's so early. I never think I've ever been up this early. I'm not thinking straight. I stumble when I walk. My clothes are scattered all over the room.
Last night I was screaming. I went crazy.
Is the alcohol slowly taking over? Am I but a mere puppet to its desires? Am I losing a war? Slowly, drifting away from who I ever was... Who I still am, hardly... And who I will not be, anymore, ever. Is the alcohol fueling the writing? Or is life just fueling the alcohol?
This is not one of those cry for help things, more of a "Look at me! I'm crazy!" type of things. Well that's the good thing about being surrounded by people that don't know you, they don't know you're not actually like that. I can pack my bags, move two miles north, west, east or south - although moving more south would really take its toll with the bullet wounds and whatnot, still - and start a new life. Again. God, I'm feeling like I've done this my whole life. Home is an abstract notion. Home is where the heart is. Home is where you're making love. Home is where you can always be accepted... This is what they say, only, I wouldn't know. Never felt it. No direction home, so to speak. Make friends, settle in, fall in love... Then, leave. Once again. Brown boxes, white boxes, big, small, light and heavy - I know how to pack. Always, the new kid in town. London's different for that. I feel accepted, but that notion of growing up with people I've known my whole life, nada. I guess what I'm trying to say, in my little way, is that, I might miss it, Switzerland. Oh yes, I might miss it.
The squareness, short-mindedness, violence in train stations, stupid and depressing winters, the lack of style, the petty thieves with attitudes, the white ballerine wearing-whores, and, my friends - my family. Thanks for making the overdue stay worth while. Thank you for last night, although my recollection is bad, you got me jolly again - that's you May, if isn't obvious. Thank you for the Summer nights spent in total decay and oblivion. Thank you for trying to let me in the Jill Scott concert, and getting punked by the security. From the illegal fight clubs held in my room, to the disrupting of German classes. From the rough trainings getting my nose broken, to the first time I got drunk. From the stars from a balcony smoking, to the free newspapers in the morning. The overpriced McDonald's, to the cheap vodka called Wodka. From the Wednesday we spent rolling in the rain making out, to the first time I got laid. From the fistfights in train stations, bus stations, clubs, lakeside, at house parties and whatnot. From the first time I smoked weed, to the first time I threw up. My first hangover, my hands broken on walls. No names need any mentioning, it's just an anonymous. And knowing you, you'll never read these lines: too much English. But that was the thing with you, none of this ever needs to be said. We just have to pop open a Goodbye-bottle of Jack, and just live. I'm not gone yet, 10 months really... And funny as it is, I'll miss it. Because regardless of the bullshit, the bullshit, and the bullshit it's given me, it was home to the worst days of my life, but also to many many good ones.
I tend to have epiphanies when I drink, lots. This rang true last night. I guess I'll miss it. Think of this as escaping, it makes it romantic. Think of this as not looking back. As a red convertible Chevy' swerving off to Mexico with dirty money and silly dreams. I've got a soul... but I'm not a soldier. And as much as I tend to go to war with about anybody I've met - because, I'm somewhat crazy - I don't believe in the war. Going to the army would be like admitting that the world needs one. I'm a pacifist, very funny, I know. Well, we poets tend to be contradictory, but then again, we're poets, so we can. DEAL WITH IT!
I'm not writing it. At least I don't think so. Fuck them! I don't have to prove shit. I walked the world with my dick in my hands. I lived... this is me, unadulterated, hungover, still romantic, still crazy, happy, tired, listening to The Killers, I don't know why, waking everyone, everyone I met last night.
I'm Bob Dylan with the cue cards. I'm Jimi Hendrix with teeth on some strings. Ledger as the Joker. Sid Vicious singing My Way. Doherty on coke. Bertolucci making Paris. Scorsese behind the lenses doing Taxi Driver. I am Paul Schrader writing Taxi driver. Rimbaud writing "Une Saison en enfer". Cocteau. I am a black and white movie, a feature-length, a short, a color movie, good dialogue. I am all of these things.
But all I'm thinking about right now is: "God, I hope I see her today."
Journal entry #3: Jack and coke
I saw her again. Miss perfect. Dressed in black keds, black leggings. black minishort, black cardigan, white polo. Only, I didn't know anything. Nothing. Next to me, we brushed shoulders, but what was I suppose to do?
Days and nights in London have been great. I'm drunk, once again. Don't tell me anything. you assholes would never know why I drink. I'm free, like a bird. so fuck you for judging me, for making fun of me... ASSHOLES!
This is my life, fading every second. I'm dying, every second a bit more,
I met a Brazilian, a Portuguese couple, a Taiwanese designer... and just random girls.
FUCK YOU WORLD!
FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU
FUCKING FUCKS!
Days and nights in London have been great. I'm drunk, once again. Don't tell me anything. you assholes would never know why I drink. I'm free, like a bird. so fuck you for judging me, for making fun of me... ASSHOLES!
This is my life, fading every second. I'm dying, every second a bit more,
I met a Brazilian, a Portuguese couple, a Taiwanese designer... and just random girls.
FUCK YOU WORLD!
FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU
FUCKING FUCKS!
mercredi 20 août 2008
Journal entry #2: Vodka and juice
Yes, once again, I declare myself being hereby drunk. It doesn't come as a surprise to anyone, and for those reasons, I will tell you why I drink.
I may appear being the stereotypical alcoholic writer, only, I'm not. If I drink, it's not because I'm depressed, sad or unhappy. No, far from that. I drink, to free my soul, to be away creatively, to not limit myself to what this world calls politically correct and incorrect, frankly, I never gave a fuck. I drink, for a good time. I drink, so that the free flows of my ideas come to life, in words, phrases and paragraphs that actually mean something. True, you could call this the slow descent into alcoholism, but no one's stopping me, and it's not. It's opening the door to a world of fabulous and ludicrous dreams, sugar-coated with all that makes this state that much better.
Pardon me, if I don't make sense. It's the vodka.. and I still love you
Today, we read my script: "Sister Ray!"... It was labeled a pastiche of "Huis Clos", a cheap noir that didn't make sense. An art film, deeply misogynistic. A piece of theater, a play, with no appeal to any audience i.e. not marketable.
FUCK YOU!
"Sister Ray!" was first and foremost an exercise in writing. It was an existentialist play on how we only care about ourselves and the death, lives and unhappiness of others are but mere stars on a cloudy and purple night. It was not "Huis Clos", although I like the comparison. It didn't make sense because it was intended that way: life doesn't make the sense. It was underlining the absurdity of existence. The emptiness of empathy. It was an art film, and yes, it's not marketable, but I never wrote for money, fame or recognition. I wrote, for me, because I have to. And "Sister Ray!" may not be a piece of genius, but it is smart, different and tops all the pile of bullshit Hollywood is accustomed to letting out. Fuck you critics! It will hit Broadway. You may hate it, love it, but respect "Sister Ray!" for what it is and don't hate it for what it's not.
In that regard, I chose to write another screenplay: "A sellout love story". It's your typical this, typical that, boy meets girl, rejected, tries to get her. Once again, I didn't come in this business to write predictable pieces of shit. However, if I have to, I will, but only once. Never again. I don't care much for a hopeless romantic and a fragile girl, for how they meet, how he's pushed away, and how he finally gets her. Life isn't like that. Life is true, with its cuts, bruises and burns. A love story in an underground station rings of fairy tale romance, but I'll do it. I'll write it. In a few hours, you'll call it genius. But remember me for the neo-noir surrealist satire known as "Sister Ray!", because that was my message. Not love, just a shitload of lust.
Besides that, I've been surviving here in London. Eating once a day. Chain smoking my lungs to death. I'm underfed, I lack sleep and I'm drunk, but that is what I came here for. Truly, I've never written as much as I do here. It's liberty. Freedom. I am one with myself in my writing. My poetry has reached new highs. As for my screenplays, the dialogue and story lines have gotten better. So did the style. And for the novels, I have two weeks worth of decay worth writing about. I am at home here.
I will be back in Switzerland Saturday afternoon, but not for long. A 10 month stay, then, I will never grace Geneva, Lausanne or Bern with my presence. I've given up on it. The square people, the redundant days, the lack of ambition, dreams and hope: it's a prison to me. I cannot, CANNOT stay there. In London, the multicultural city that has given birth to anyone from the Sex Pistols to The Libertines, this is where I belong. This is what I call home. Switzerland provided me with the experiences that made me part of who I am today. However, I hate her for it.
So that was today, besides getting drunk, directing my play and struggling to eat, I'd say, it was pretty boring. Vodka and juice, Fanta to be exact, where what made this night. The skies are gray and purple, crowded with clouds by the ever so parental gaze of a full moon. I'll be sleeping tonight, for once. That was today.
Good night
I may appear being the stereotypical alcoholic writer, only, I'm not. If I drink, it's not because I'm depressed, sad or unhappy. No, far from that. I drink, to free my soul, to be away creatively, to not limit myself to what this world calls politically correct and incorrect, frankly, I never gave a fuck. I drink, for a good time. I drink, so that the free flows of my ideas come to life, in words, phrases and paragraphs that actually mean something. True, you could call this the slow descent into alcoholism, but no one's stopping me, and it's not. It's opening the door to a world of fabulous and ludicrous dreams, sugar-coated with all that makes this state that much better.
Pardon me, if I don't make sense. It's the vodka.. and I still love you
Today, we read my script: "Sister Ray!"... It was labeled a pastiche of "Huis Clos", a cheap noir that didn't make sense. An art film, deeply misogynistic. A piece of theater, a play, with no appeal to any audience i.e. not marketable.
FUCK YOU!
"Sister Ray!" was first and foremost an exercise in writing. It was an existentialist play on how we only care about ourselves and the death, lives and unhappiness of others are but mere stars on a cloudy and purple night. It was not "Huis Clos", although I like the comparison. It didn't make sense because it was intended that way: life doesn't make the sense. It was underlining the absurdity of existence. The emptiness of empathy. It was an art film, and yes, it's not marketable, but I never wrote for money, fame or recognition. I wrote, for me, because I have to. And "Sister Ray!" may not be a piece of genius, but it is smart, different and tops all the pile of bullshit Hollywood is accustomed to letting out. Fuck you critics! It will hit Broadway. You may hate it, love it, but respect "Sister Ray!" for what it is and don't hate it for what it's not.
In that regard, I chose to write another screenplay: "A sellout love story". It's your typical this, typical that, boy meets girl, rejected, tries to get her. Once again, I didn't come in this business to write predictable pieces of shit. However, if I have to, I will, but only once. Never again. I don't care much for a hopeless romantic and a fragile girl, for how they meet, how he's pushed away, and how he finally gets her. Life isn't like that. Life is true, with its cuts, bruises and burns. A love story in an underground station rings of fairy tale romance, but I'll do it. I'll write it. In a few hours, you'll call it genius. But remember me for the neo-noir surrealist satire known as "Sister Ray!", because that was my message. Not love, just a shitload of lust.
Besides that, I've been surviving here in London. Eating once a day. Chain smoking my lungs to death. I'm underfed, I lack sleep and I'm drunk, but that is what I came here for. Truly, I've never written as much as I do here. It's liberty. Freedom. I am one with myself in my writing. My poetry has reached new highs. As for my screenplays, the dialogue and story lines have gotten better. So did the style. And for the novels, I have two weeks worth of decay worth writing about. I am at home here.
I will be back in Switzerland Saturday afternoon, but not for long. A 10 month stay, then, I will never grace Geneva, Lausanne or Bern with my presence. I've given up on it. The square people, the redundant days, the lack of ambition, dreams and hope: it's a prison to me. I cannot, CANNOT stay there. In London, the multicultural city that has given birth to anyone from the Sex Pistols to The Libertines, this is where I belong. This is what I call home. Switzerland provided me with the experiences that made me part of who I am today. However, I hate her for it.
So that was today, besides getting drunk, directing my play and struggling to eat, I'd say, it was pretty boring. Vodka and juice, Fanta to be exact, where what made this night. The skies are gray and purple, crowded with clouds by the ever so parental gaze of a full moon. I'll be sleeping tonight, for once. That was today.
Good night
mardi 19 août 2008
Journal entry #1: Gin and tonic
"Hello there, stranger" she smiled at me and talked...
That was today. I met a prostitute whilst on my cigarette break. She told me she had no place to go, that life had handed her the wrong cards and that she was battling a heroine addiction. This is life, unadulterated, and in your face. Blow your smoke elsewhere, I don't paint the pretty picture.
Yes, I'm destined to a life of undying decay. An immoral and self-destructive life. Self-destruction is the path to Arcadia. Whereas in heaven, the streets are filled with gold, in Arcadia, the streets are piled with endless bottles of 'skey or vodka, needles and the expendables i.e. Mary Jane, 'shrooms and LSD. It's not your story book ending, but that is it, life.
I'm drunk - again - so pardon everything else, if you even give shit, that is. I'm drunk because it fuels my writing. Because in order to reach perfection, I have to destroy myself, my physical self. Because in me, there is nothing, I am just a piece of wood molded into phrases, a piece of cloth carved into a trench coat, a pair of jeans or a g-string. I am but a mere puppet to the world. To laugh at, weep with and give your money to.
Forget morals. Forget tradition. Forget pride and love and lust, forget yourself. Forget your dreams. Forget your regrets. Forget putting a happy face on 'cause no one will notice. Forget caring, forget her in your arms, forget doing anything that will put your heart at jeopardy, forget romance. Forget your clothes, your face, your hair, your long nails. Forget your appearance. Forget the girls that keep you up late, forget the girls you stare at in the bus, forget the ones that never gave you the time of day, forget the ones that broke your heart. Forget your past, forget your future, forget this second, that has already passed. Forget your hopes, your envy, your hate. Forget your feelings. Forget 70's style diners, cute terraces and abandoned cottages. Forget who you were, who you are, who you will be. Forget music, pictures and entertainment. Forget life...
That is a pool of Arcadia, knee-high. That is happiness like you've never felt before. It's like when you're drunk and you know you're drunk but it's just right. Like Christmas day, when you wake up, and a bunch of wrapped bullshit lays under a tree. It's like when you've got her panties off, and you're done with the foreplay. It's taking a good swing at a guy and seeing him good down. It's arriving at a train station knowing she's been waiting for you. It's hearing a song you've got in your head, just to hear the chords. It's crying when you feel like you've lost everything. It's writing thirty pages in a book and feeling like you've achieved something. It's staring at you're father's eyes without shame. It's going to bed after a night of binge drinking and chain smoking. That's Arcadia, times a thousand, a million, a fucking billion... Arcadia is what all the writers write about. It's bottom in Fight Club, it's what Rimbaud spent his life dreaming about, it's what Hendrix did his guitar solos for: it's there, right in front of you, and to have it, you have to let EVERYTHING go.
So here I am, naked. In my intimacy. Letting everything go. From the Saturday night Jack Daniels, to the lavish and expensive clothes. From the childhood heartbreaks, to the teenage feelings of pride. From the shit I engraved with a pen, carved in a book no one read, to the movies I watched that gave me the chills... All of that, is GONE! Forever. No use dwelling in the past. I'm on my path to where I need to be. And this, may be the rantings of a poor and deranged soul, but, hopefully, it isn't. Maybe it's better out there. Maybe I belong.
This was in vain, I know. Most of you never understood me, and to those who did, you thought I was crazy. You're not too far off. But now, now, I am happy. It takes the weight off. So wish me luck for my script, and resume your materialistic passionless train wreck of lives, with a future consisting of two kids and car, a cat or a dog, a cute little terrace, leather sofas and plain, old and redundant emptiness.
Good night, or morning.
That was today. I met a prostitute whilst on my cigarette break. She told me she had no place to go, that life had handed her the wrong cards and that she was battling a heroine addiction. This is life, unadulterated, and in your face. Blow your smoke elsewhere, I don't paint the pretty picture.
Yes, I'm destined to a life of undying decay. An immoral and self-destructive life. Self-destruction is the path to Arcadia. Whereas in heaven, the streets are filled with gold, in Arcadia, the streets are piled with endless bottles of 'skey or vodka, needles and the expendables i.e. Mary Jane, 'shrooms and LSD. It's not your story book ending, but that is it, life.
I'm drunk - again - so pardon everything else, if you even give shit, that is. I'm drunk because it fuels my writing. Because in order to reach perfection, I have to destroy myself, my physical self. Because in me, there is nothing, I am just a piece of wood molded into phrases, a piece of cloth carved into a trench coat, a pair of jeans or a g-string. I am but a mere puppet to the world. To laugh at, weep with and give your money to.
Forget morals. Forget tradition. Forget pride and love and lust, forget yourself. Forget your dreams. Forget your regrets. Forget putting a happy face on 'cause no one will notice. Forget caring, forget her in your arms, forget doing anything that will put your heart at jeopardy, forget romance. Forget your clothes, your face, your hair, your long nails. Forget your appearance. Forget the girls that keep you up late, forget the girls you stare at in the bus, forget the ones that never gave you the time of day, forget the ones that broke your heart. Forget your past, forget your future, forget this second, that has already passed. Forget your hopes, your envy, your hate. Forget your feelings. Forget 70's style diners, cute terraces and abandoned cottages. Forget who you were, who you are, who you will be. Forget music, pictures and entertainment. Forget life...
That is a pool of Arcadia, knee-high. That is happiness like you've never felt before. It's like when you're drunk and you know you're drunk but it's just right. Like Christmas day, when you wake up, and a bunch of wrapped bullshit lays under a tree. It's like when you've got her panties off, and you're done with the foreplay. It's taking a good swing at a guy and seeing him good down. It's arriving at a train station knowing she's been waiting for you. It's hearing a song you've got in your head, just to hear the chords. It's crying when you feel like you've lost everything. It's writing thirty pages in a book and feeling like you've achieved something. It's staring at you're father's eyes without shame. It's going to bed after a night of binge drinking and chain smoking. That's Arcadia, times a thousand, a million, a fucking billion... Arcadia is what all the writers write about. It's bottom in Fight Club, it's what Rimbaud spent his life dreaming about, it's what Hendrix did his guitar solos for: it's there, right in front of you, and to have it, you have to let EVERYTHING go.
So here I am, naked. In my intimacy. Letting everything go. From the Saturday night Jack Daniels, to the lavish and expensive clothes. From the childhood heartbreaks, to the teenage feelings of pride. From the shit I engraved with a pen, carved in a book no one read, to the movies I watched that gave me the chills... All of that, is GONE! Forever. No use dwelling in the past. I'm on my path to where I need to be. And this, may be the rantings of a poor and deranged soul, but, hopefully, it isn't. Maybe it's better out there. Maybe I belong.
This was in vain, I know. Most of you never understood me, and to those who did, you thought I was crazy. You're not too far off. But now, now, I am happy. It takes the weight off. So wish me luck for my script, and resume your materialistic passionless train wreck of lives, with a future consisting of two kids and car, a cat or a dog, a cute little terrace, leather sofas and plain, old and redundant emptiness.
Good night, or morning.
lundi 18 août 2008
The Wasteland-London notes
Bob Dylan said it best: everyone's either making love or else expecting rain.
Today was one of the gray day's reminiscent of a Thursday, a gloomy Sunday or a heartfelt autumn. I wore my favorite scarf - it's purple. I wore my bonnet, à la Farrell/Ledger. "Roll over and get fucked" ... that's the basis, the motto for my newly acquire student life here in South London.
An epiphany, I don't recall it, don't know how it happened, but it's engraved, tattooed and scarred in my thoughts... "Booze, burgers and oysters", my new screenplay, the new screenplay - the big one. In my 18 year existence, I've never been so sure about anything, except for this. It's fresh, different, and better than all the other bullshit coming out of Hollywood's proverbial ass. It also means I'm not sleeping - not that I was ever, really - but how can I waste time dreaming when I've got it? In front of me! Palpable, like the tension in a stare down, the humidity in autumn's fog. I can't do too many reveals for the moment, only it's about Julian or Poe - I haven't figured it out yet -, a 19 year old student, promising writer and poet, who bares vague resemblances with Rimbaud, Dylan and Doherty. And his friend, Constantine or Julian, the stereotypical drug-frenzied rock star bad-boy. Juliette, the French bourgeoise with a wild side and a gift for photography and painting, the love interest, so to speak. It's about their search to Arcadia by self-destruction and rerouting the senses, expanding your horizons - like the Doors. It's about life and the search for pleasure and happiness. It's liberation in the libertine sense of the term, creation, pushing your limits. It's about looking for a revolution, a cause to fight for when there's no May '68 or summers of '69... It's about life.
I'll be up all night writing, for what? I wish I knew. I don't like to, don't want, but I have to. It's engraved, and as long as it's not done, I can't move on. I dwell. So good luck to all of you in your materialistic words, taking sips of your poison, with lives planned ahead - the chimeric happiness, the beautiful lies. I'll be drinking till the Gin and inspiration kick in. A mere puppet for you to spend your 12 dollars, 10 pounds, 10 Swiss Francs, 80 pesos on a movie depicting the world seen through my eyes. And if you don't, don't worry, they'll always be a bastardized romantic comedy, or a cliche action flick with a car chase to get you going, won't there?
Today was one of the gray day's reminiscent of a Thursday, a gloomy Sunday or a heartfelt autumn. I wore my favorite scarf - it's purple. I wore my bonnet, à la Farrell/Ledger. "Roll over and get fucked" ... that's the basis, the motto for my newly acquire student life here in South London.
An epiphany, I don't recall it, don't know how it happened, but it's engraved, tattooed and scarred in my thoughts... "Booze, burgers and oysters", my new screenplay, the new screenplay - the big one. In my 18 year existence, I've never been so sure about anything, except for this. It's fresh, different, and better than all the other bullshit coming out of Hollywood's proverbial ass. It also means I'm not sleeping - not that I was ever, really - but how can I waste time dreaming when I've got it? In front of me! Palpable, like the tension in a stare down, the humidity in autumn's fog. I can't do too many reveals for the moment, only it's about Julian or Poe - I haven't figured it out yet -, a 19 year old student, promising writer and poet, who bares vague resemblances with Rimbaud, Dylan and Doherty. And his friend, Constantine or Julian, the stereotypical drug-frenzied rock star bad-boy. Juliette, the French bourgeoise with a wild side and a gift for photography and painting, the love interest, so to speak. It's about their search to Arcadia by self-destruction and rerouting the senses, expanding your horizons - like the Doors. It's about life and the search for pleasure and happiness. It's liberation in the libertine sense of the term, creation, pushing your limits. It's about looking for a revolution, a cause to fight for when there's no May '68 or summers of '69... It's about life.
I'll be up all night writing, for what? I wish I knew. I don't like to, don't want, but I have to. It's engraved, and as long as it's not done, I can't move on. I dwell. So good luck to all of you in your materialistic words, taking sips of your poison, with lives planned ahead - the chimeric happiness, the beautiful lies. I'll be drinking till the Gin and inspiration kick in. A mere puppet for you to spend your 12 dollars, 10 pounds, 10 Swiss Francs, 80 pesos on a movie depicting the world seen through my eyes. And if you don't, don't worry, they'll always be a bastardized romantic comedy, or a cliche action flick with a car chase to get you going, won't there?
South London
Gin and tonic is wicked like vultured corpses
The tunnel vision of abortion, panicked and loud
Although she makes me frown, and my brain gets clammed
By the unwinding rattles of a marching band
In storm, flawless, alone
I write the vows that lie me with death
Fueled by the useless births of a thousand souls
I voice the mute nation of a breathless slumber
Trench coats in the wind,
Candles for the graves
In puddles of pissed off wine bibbing pricks
I am not one to point fingers
But wave the tab of a bottomless glass
That keeps me happy... for a while
I smile and dose off to a chain smoke of dirty dreams
Piling the shame to the name of a porttrait
Undone in time by the poems of a shameless sinner
A casualty in the making
The tunnel vision of abortion, panicked and loud
Although she makes me frown, and my brain gets clammed
By the unwinding rattles of a marching band
In storm, flawless, alone
I write the vows that lie me with death
Fueled by the useless births of a thousand souls
I voice the mute nation of a breathless slumber
Trench coats in the wind,
Candles for the graves
In puddles of pissed off wine bibbing pricks
I am not one to point fingers
But wave the tab of a bottomless glass
That keeps me happy... for a while
I smile and dose off to a chain smoke of dirty dreams
Piling the shame to the name of a porttrait
Undone in time by the poems of a shameless sinner
A casualty in the making
Down in Albion
In the words of Travis Bickle: she cannot be touched.
Wearing leather boots, black leggings, a purple miniskirt, a gray leather jacket and elbowing a black patent leather bag ... she is, or ELLE EST. Boasting confidence with her short brunette hair and her red dye highlights ... she is, or ELLE EST. She cannot be touched. She reverts me back to the hopeless romantic I thought I'd be bold enough to shake off. An art student ... she is, or ELLE EST.
She isn't someone else, she could be - fake, blond or materialistic, only she isn't. She is but herself, no one else.
She has me turning in circles. Scribbling my hands. Off, daydreaming. Chain smoking to see her glow. She graces my poetry without a name, vandalizing the pages of a writer's decay.
She has me counting the minutes before break time, speeding off to the doors, for a glimpse, at he sheer innocence, her twenty-or-so year old face. Porcelain skin, model looks and physique. She is (once again) ... and cannot be touched.
Albion has me off in Arcadia, where I write countless pages of noir comedy - satire and bullshit. Albion, has me surviving off burgers, pizza and pastrami - all under 10 pounds, and all frozen. Albion has me underfed. Albion has me dreaming of 200 pound five foot rabbits wanting to kick my ass. Albion has me meeting druggies, winos, and film makers. Albion has me dressed in skinny jeans and trench coats. Albion has me writing this down, for you, or anyone dumb enough to read. Albion is watching me, through a camera in every corner, a robot in an elevator, "mind the gap" in a tube. Albion has me in love, with Albion. I feel at home, not misplaced or disregarded ... at home. Albion is a runaway and refugee's home, boasting of multicultural bricks and accents, Albion is the world, with the girls and their plimsoles, the guys with their Ray Bans, the pigeons and rats. Albion makes the druggies and pissheads bearable. Albion is the hand that writes, smokes and punches. Albion is me, you, and anyone in Albion.
Pardon the abstract bullshit, but I care too little for anything to bother me anymore. London is great. People tell me I hate everything, that's wrong, I love London, Bob Dylan and the song "Konstantine" by Something Corporate.
For once, I finally feel at home. I'm as inspired and crazy as I've ever been, but that doesn't matter. I don't sleep nights, I write. Like Rimbaud when he wrote "Une saison en enfer", I am Jean-Michel, writing "Sister Ray!", "Sofa King and troubled waters", "Blue murder on a Sunday night" and "Booze, burgers and oysters"... I am or JE SUIS.
Good night
Wearing leather boots, black leggings, a purple miniskirt, a gray leather jacket and elbowing a black patent leather bag ... she is, or ELLE EST. Boasting confidence with her short brunette hair and her red dye highlights ... she is, or ELLE EST. She cannot be touched. She reverts me back to the hopeless romantic I thought I'd be bold enough to shake off. An art student ... she is, or ELLE EST.
She isn't someone else, she could be - fake, blond or materialistic, only she isn't. She is but herself, no one else.
She has me turning in circles. Scribbling my hands. Off, daydreaming. Chain smoking to see her glow. She graces my poetry without a name, vandalizing the pages of a writer's decay.
She has me counting the minutes before break time, speeding off to the doors, for a glimpse, at he sheer innocence, her twenty-or-so year old face. Porcelain skin, model looks and physique. She is (once again) ... and cannot be touched.
Albion has me off in Arcadia, where I write countless pages of noir comedy - satire and bullshit. Albion, has me surviving off burgers, pizza and pastrami - all under 10 pounds, and all frozen. Albion has me underfed. Albion has me dreaming of 200 pound five foot rabbits wanting to kick my ass. Albion has me meeting druggies, winos, and film makers. Albion has me dressed in skinny jeans and trench coats. Albion has me writing this down, for you, or anyone dumb enough to read. Albion is watching me, through a camera in every corner, a robot in an elevator, "mind the gap" in a tube. Albion has me in love, with Albion. I feel at home, not misplaced or disregarded ... at home. Albion is a runaway and refugee's home, boasting of multicultural bricks and accents, Albion is the world, with the girls and their plimsoles, the guys with their Ray Bans, the pigeons and rats. Albion makes the druggies and pissheads bearable. Albion is the hand that writes, smokes and punches. Albion is me, you, and anyone in Albion.
Pardon the abstract bullshit, but I care too little for anything to bother me anymore. London is great. People tell me I hate everything, that's wrong, I love London, Bob Dylan and the song "Konstantine" by Something Corporate.
For once, I finally feel at home. I'm as inspired and crazy as I've ever been, but that doesn't matter. I don't sleep nights, I write. Like Rimbaud when he wrote "Une saison en enfer", I am Jean-Michel, writing "Sister Ray!", "Sofa King and troubled waters", "Blue murder on a Sunday night" and "Booze, burgers and oysters"... I am or JE SUIS.
Good night
vendredi 8 août 2008
Shine on you crazy diamond
Je viens de tombé amoureux. Elle s’appelle Kate Perry. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NoKPi8xtyjA
Qui aurait cru ?
Problème d’avion, je pars samedi matin pour London town. J’ai passé la semaine dans la déchéance élégante – je me sentais comme important, la preuve, j’ai un blog où je mets mes idées… Bref, les vacances sont bientôt terminée et je n’ai pas beaucoup avancé dans mon roman, fuck.
Aujord’hui il pleuvait, ce qui veut dire que trois semaines d’écriture et d’encre ont rejoigné les égouts d’excréments riches de la Riviera, c’est dommage mais ce qui est fait est fait. J’aurais bien aimé avoir quelque chose de positif à dire, mais voilà. Journée peu mouvementée.
Je voulais juste dire que je suis tombé amoureux (et si vous la reconnaissez, c’est la même fille que dans la vidéo de Cupid’s chokehold)
Qui aurait cru ?
Problème d’avion, je pars samedi matin pour London town. J’ai passé la semaine dans la déchéance élégante – je me sentais comme important, la preuve, j’ai un blog où je mets mes idées… Bref, les vacances sont bientôt terminée et je n’ai pas beaucoup avancé dans mon roman, fuck.
Aujord’hui il pleuvait, ce qui veut dire que trois semaines d’écriture et d’encre ont rejoigné les égouts d’excréments riches de la Riviera, c’est dommage mais ce qui est fait est fait. J’aurais bien aimé avoir quelque chose de positif à dire, mais voilà. Journée peu mouvementée.
Je voulais juste dire que je suis tombé amoureux (et si vous la reconnaissez, c’est la même fille que dans la vidéo de Cupid’s chokehold)
mercredi 6 août 2008
Save the hero!
A crimson colored bloodshed bleeds amongst the clouds
By pupils numbed down by state-issued needles
Dark birds croak their petty feasts like children on petty theft
Let the soldier sleep, he’s fatigued
Somewhere, a double-breasted martyr makes speeches
In the name of the king we crowned with dead roses
Tears in oblivion, this poor wretched soul
Clings to the fuse of his stoic freedom
Chalking the grace of our beheaded fathers
Our blistered little fists calloused by the grin of a chauvinist trigger
A nation red-handed with a feverish craze
Cut by the dull side of the blade
Humanity at stake, fugazi for a flag
Hello sorrow and shame, and a flag in flames
By pupils numbed down by state-issued needles
Dark birds croak their petty feasts like children on petty theft
Let the soldier sleep, he’s fatigued
Somewhere, a double-breasted martyr makes speeches
In the name of the king we crowned with dead roses
Tears in oblivion, this poor wretched soul
Clings to the fuse of his stoic freedom
Chalking the grace of our beheaded fathers
Our blistered little fists calloused by the grin of a chauvinist trigger
A nation red-handed with a feverish craze
Cut by the dull side of the blade
Humanity at stake, fugazi for a flag
Hello sorrow and shame, and a flag in flames
lundi 4 août 2008
Off to Albion...
Il est environ trois heure du matin. Je n'ai plus de cigarettes et j'ai mal au ventre - étonnemment, même après ces années passées sous l'influence, mon corps n'a pas su proprement digérer l'alcool. Les programmes à la télé semblent inintéressant, un peu comme ces vacances - une succession de jours où l'on se force à faire la fête, boire, peut-être prêter une oreille attentive à une personne que, le matin venu, nous paraîtra incroyablement chiant/chiante, ou pire, normal/normale et cela dit, ordinaire.
Oui, ça c'est bien mes vacances. Je me vanterais d'avoir fait quelque chose de productif, mais je n'étais jamais du genre à me mentir à moi-même. Bref, je fais rien, les journées se ressemblent. J'écris beaucoup, enfin, comme il se doit quand on s'autoproclame écrivain - j'ai quand-même du culot. Mais aujord'hui c'est différent, j'ai fait effort pour quelque amateur de mon blog de déchéance en écrivant en français, comme Camus à dit: "Ma patrie, c'est la langue française". Maintenant abandonnons le spleen et passons aux choses sérieuses.
L'Angleterre. Connue pour sa pluie, ses fish & chips, ses buveurs de thé et pour la culture. Oui, l'Angleterre, qui m'hebergera pendant deux semaines, et qui est l'unique influence sur mes tenues vestimentaires. Lorsque j'y pense, l'Angleterre est pour moi ma bouée de sauvetage, mon paradis artificiel. Elle est la terre d'accueil des artistes déchus et des poètes maudits - pas pour être prétentieux mais je me sens concerné dans les deux cas.
Dimanche matin, avec l'unique valise encore respectable que j'aie, je m'en vais conquérir le monde avec des intentions plus au moins bonnes, et des rêves enfantins - j'étais toujours très têtu. Donc voilà
Mis à part ça je fais maintenant l'effort de me ballader plus au moins partout avec ma caméra vidéo. C'est un exercice assez Warhol-ien - peut-être néologisme? - qui me serait bénéfique car je perdrais moins de temps à écrire et plus de temps à vivre. Je tourne en cercle, je ne sais pas très bien structurer mes idées. Si vous vous attendiez à tomber sur une petites taches de génies à travers cet article, je suis désolé, mais comme j'ai dit, j'ai beaucoup moins d'habilité avec la langue française.
Et maintenant j'en ai marre, de toujours rester sur la même idée à travers un paragraphe. Je trouve que les filles grosses ne devraient pas courir, ça leur donne l'air d'être encore plus grosse. Je trouve dommage qu'on n'aie pas besoin de mettre d'uniforme pour aller à l'école - j'ai toujours été jaloux des Anglais pour pouvoir porter leur cravate en cour. Je trouve que Bob Dylan ne se fait pas assez remercier pour sa contribution à la culture, de même que pour Mai '68...nous oublions vite. Hollywood ne sort plus que des filmes de merde. Nous passons plus de temps à obséder sur des stars héroinomane plutôt que de sauver notre planète - et je ne suis pas un vert. Je voudrais commencé à boire de l'absinthe, je me sentirais plus artistique.
Voilà pour ce soir.
Oui, ça c'est bien mes vacances. Je me vanterais d'avoir fait quelque chose de productif, mais je n'étais jamais du genre à me mentir à moi-même. Bref, je fais rien, les journées se ressemblent. J'écris beaucoup, enfin, comme il se doit quand on s'autoproclame écrivain - j'ai quand-même du culot. Mais aujord'hui c'est différent, j'ai fait effort pour quelque amateur de mon blog de déchéance en écrivant en français, comme Camus à dit: "Ma patrie, c'est la langue française". Maintenant abandonnons le spleen et passons aux choses sérieuses.
L'Angleterre. Connue pour sa pluie, ses fish & chips, ses buveurs de thé et pour la culture. Oui, l'Angleterre, qui m'hebergera pendant deux semaines, et qui est l'unique influence sur mes tenues vestimentaires. Lorsque j'y pense, l'Angleterre est pour moi ma bouée de sauvetage, mon paradis artificiel. Elle est la terre d'accueil des artistes déchus et des poètes maudits - pas pour être prétentieux mais je me sens concerné dans les deux cas.
Dimanche matin, avec l'unique valise encore respectable que j'aie, je m'en vais conquérir le monde avec des intentions plus au moins bonnes, et des rêves enfantins - j'étais toujours très têtu. Donc voilà
Mis à part ça je fais maintenant l'effort de me ballader plus au moins partout avec ma caméra vidéo. C'est un exercice assez Warhol-ien - peut-être néologisme? - qui me serait bénéfique car je perdrais moins de temps à écrire et plus de temps à vivre. Je tourne en cercle, je ne sais pas très bien structurer mes idées. Si vous vous attendiez à tomber sur une petites taches de génies à travers cet article, je suis désolé, mais comme j'ai dit, j'ai beaucoup moins d'habilité avec la langue française.
Et maintenant j'en ai marre, de toujours rester sur la même idée à travers un paragraphe. Je trouve que les filles grosses ne devraient pas courir, ça leur donne l'air d'être encore plus grosse. Je trouve dommage qu'on n'aie pas besoin de mettre d'uniforme pour aller à l'école - j'ai toujours été jaloux des Anglais pour pouvoir porter leur cravate en cour. Je trouve que Bob Dylan ne se fait pas assez remercier pour sa contribution à la culture, de même que pour Mai '68...nous oublions vite. Hollywood ne sort plus que des filmes de merde. Nous passons plus de temps à obséder sur des stars héroinomane plutôt que de sauver notre planète - et je ne suis pas un vert. Je voudrais commencé à boire de l'absinthe, je me sentirais plus artistique.
Voilà pour ce soir.
dimanche 3 août 2008
Sample size snippets of my life
Oasis - Live forever
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9GiLnZyUgM
Meredith Brooks - I'm a bitch
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JiSoZy8qlzo
Green Day - Macy's day parade
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obhApvS4Dn8
Bob Dylan - Like a rolling stone
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xO0gSJGJ7Fs
The Babyshambles - Albion
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFnlCjg1OsI
Richard O'Brien - Science fiction/double feature
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0LKZWtLbLpQ
Wilco - Jesus, etc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cBhj73WtiZU
Velvet Underground - Sister ray
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cyhCG6GT2jY
The Kooks - See the sun
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJ4NLYE3dpU
The Format - She doesn't get it
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6X-Uo8fFFs8
Duels - The slow build
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cu2ErnbyFP8
The Rolling Stones - Out of time
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RJfCOD_mXE
Jimmy Eat World - Hear you me
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pQo9OQlIB8
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9GiLnZyUgM
Meredith Brooks - I'm a bitch
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JiSoZy8qlzo
Green Day - Macy's day parade
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obhApvS4Dn8
Bob Dylan - Like a rolling stone
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xO0gSJGJ7Fs
The Babyshambles - Albion
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFnlCjg1OsI
Richard O'Brien - Science fiction/double feature
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0LKZWtLbLpQ
Wilco - Jesus, etc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cBhj73WtiZU
Velvet Underground - Sister ray
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cyhCG6GT2jY
The Kooks - See the sun
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJ4NLYE3dpU
The Format - She doesn't get it
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6X-Uo8fFFs8
Duels - The slow build
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cu2ErnbyFP8
The Rolling Stones - Out of time
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RJfCOD_mXE
Jimmy Eat World - Hear you me
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pQo9OQlIB8
mardi 22 juillet 2008
Porno for the illiterate
Intimacy gashes by orange dents and cracks
As a subtle brush crashes a dead silence revived
By the indifferent lives – we are all so alone
Praising our little scrap of heaven in a glass by a bed night piss
Grey cats dance in light poles and jaywalk the cricket streets
While unwanted wives weep a neighboring stranger’s sleep
Unlike Broadway, our nights cast away in dreams
Heading South in red Chevies to flee redundant days
But the orange lights flicker – someone still awake?
Off an unfinished binge to set the clock front
We waste our time lakeside by an oak-aged face
Popping bottles like christening boats
I’m barely afloat, can’t walk a straight line
And today’s smartest statements are tomorrow’s forgettable phrases
Yes, the angelic faces that have graced lips dried by a malt
Are tomorrow’s forgettable faces that stain my pillow cases
Whiskey raped my youth – I was abused – what’s your excuse?
Mary Jane promised me lies, had me tangled in blue
This broken sonnet echoes the age-old ramblings of a drunkard
Yet it’s too subtle for you to say: “You have a problem”
Fuck you, what do you care?
As a subtle brush crashes a dead silence revived
By the indifferent lives – we are all so alone
Praising our little scrap of heaven in a glass by a bed night piss
Grey cats dance in light poles and jaywalk the cricket streets
While unwanted wives weep a neighboring stranger’s sleep
Unlike Broadway, our nights cast away in dreams
Heading South in red Chevies to flee redundant days
But the orange lights flicker – someone still awake?
Off an unfinished binge to set the clock front
We waste our time lakeside by an oak-aged face
Popping bottles like christening boats
I’m barely afloat, can’t walk a straight line
And today’s smartest statements are tomorrow’s forgettable phrases
Yes, the angelic faces that have graced lips dried by a malt
Are tomorrow’s forgettable faces that stain my pillow cases
Whiskey raped my youth – I was abused – what’s your excuse?
Mary Jane promised me lies, had me tangled in blue
This broken sonnet echoes the age-old ramblings of a drunkard
Yet it’s too subtle for you to say: “You have a problem”
Fuck you, what do you care?
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