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June 2002
When she was a girl, her mother asked her "Why can't you be a good kid?"
And she replied, "I dunno. Probably for the same reason you can't be a good mother."
"Young lady, that's disrespectful."
"Yeah? Well what about you? Aren't you being disrespectful too?"
Later, a friend asked her "If you could be anybody you wanted to be right now, who would it be?"
"I've spent my whole life trying to become who I am today. This is the best time of my life. I'd be myself. I'd be even more myself if I knew how. I'm still learning."
She doesn't feel like she felt when she was younger, when she said " 'Gimme the food,' said the Beast Queen."
Her brother asked her "How stupid can you get?"
"I don't know? How stupid do you want me to be?"
She knew that he was silly, but she didn't know he was projecting.
The world is filled with supercilious people who have too much money and not enough concern. She's glad she doesn't have any money so that that cannot apply to her.
She got a job in a government office that she hates. She thinks that the world is filled with humorless bureaucrats whose sole motivation is to make you just like them.
Everyone, all her life, has been trying to make her just like them. People watch her like they watch the television. If she wanted to, she could make them believe anything she wanted. But she doesn't want to.
People are like the weather. They change according to the season.
She doesn't know who is worse, forecasters who can't accurately predict weather beyond the next day, or the people who watch them, believing that they can.
She wrote a song she didn't like because it was a ripoff of a style.
It makes her sad to think that she has no original talent of her own.
sometimes I get sad when I think about you all time passed gets in the way like Fiona I cry feeling pushing it out connecting and contacting you held back in tears that I'm never to feel so they're out there in front of my face in a world made of me that I see in your eyes exposing our soul together at last dedication and power of will I receive making my life worth a little bit more bit by bit eye by eye day by day each little thing done gets in the way making me feel I am, going somewhere when I'm holed up inside like an asshole like you on a chair til the next time I see you again, maybe not now but if not now then when?
She has a website where she tries to reinvent herself, but fails. She used to get a lot of visitors, but now the traffic has dropped off.
Using a website visitor counter is like a physicist trying to observe a sub-atomic particle: the act of observation influences its nature.
She thinks she might be a postmodernist, but she doesn't really know what that means.
Postmodernism as an academic discourse is like...
She can't finish the sentence. She doesn't know what it's like.
The sun shines yellow near dusk up the valley through the leaf tree jumble hung with dead vines.
She wishes it could be summer all the time, or she were rich enough to track the sun to places where its angle never shallows.
She's always had problems with boys, and now she has them with men. They don't call it the opposite sex for nothing.
She met a man who she thought was different. She liked him a lot.
She wonders why he was delicately testing her feelings instead of blundering his way in as they, men, usually do.
He owned a computer he called abacus that he wrote all of his tracts on in the hope that one day he would become an infamous pamphleteer.
But Harold Ramis said it long ago in "Ghostbusters" and he was only echoing the media commentary of the time: "Print is dead."
He told her when he left her that, as a woman, she's the epitome of perfection, but as a person, she leaves a lot to be desired.
Desire is like music. It feels good, but when you try to understand it, you get confused.
She likes jazz because they make it up, the good musicians, as they go along, like she makes up her life.
Jazz (jass) was originally a sexual term used, among other things, as an insult for scab musicians in Chicago.
Men live in their own world and know very little, if anything at all, about the world of women.
Except for Wet Willie, who raps like a white boy, yeah. She wishes she could talk slick like him.
But she could never become involved with him, because he knew too much about how she felt inside, and because he took drugs.
Maybe they were the same reason.
He reminded her of Robert Downey, Jr.
How much better they both could have been if they hadn't been taking drugs. Or, maybe, drugs contributed to their genius. Maybe the quality of their work is the testament to their life, not some anal production standard they failed to live up to.
They act like they're guests in this world, not permanent residents.
Someone wrote in her guestbook: "I like this site. It's the kind of site my site wants to grow up to be".
She imagined that the writer could solve her problems.
But it was a fantasy. It was a guy's name.
Everybody has a solution, but nobody knows the problem.
Yet she admires people who admire her, or her work.
It always makes her feel like she is someone else.
She admires actors who can pretend successfully that they are someone else. Some actors do this easily. Others, like Patrick Swayze, always play themselves. She didn't think she'd ever want to play herself.
Other actors are totally useless for the purposes of comparison.
She wonders who David Niven had to perform sexual favors for to get work. She couldn't believe anyone ever hired him for his (lack of) talent. He must have been a great schmoozer.
Sometimes she thinks the only thing that prevents her success, other than an unwillingness to perform, is an aversion to public relations.
The worst people succeeded, at least for a time, due to publicity.
Hitler, early on, got wide public notice and became popular during his trial for treason, a crime for which he served six months of a five year sentence. There is no such thing as bad publicity.
Publicity is acting in the present as if you're going to be important for a long, long time to come.
She believes that the best time of your life is always the present. No other time can be lived, and life is better than death or memories.
You die a little bit each time you remember your past.
Remembering the past demonstrates a fear or hatred of the world.
She believes that if you vocalize or otherwise demonstrate that you fear the world, or that you don't like it (which amounts to the same thing), what you are actually revealing is that you don't like yourself. Self-loathing and/or fear of (the unconscious power of) self reveals itself as a dislike of the world and/or its people. When she hides from the world, it is for this reason.
She's really trying to do the impossible, to escape from herself. And so are others, she thinks. But, at least, she has the intelligence and insight to admit it.
She despises other women (who always seem to be hating the world, especially the world of men) almost as much as she despises herself. Women use their sexuality to get what they want, not the least of which is sex.
Women are coy and flirtatious and play hard-to-get because that activity enhances their sexual response, as a form of foreplay, so that they are more ready for the sexual act, whereas the male is immediately ready and more quickly satisfied. Women have developed this psychology in order to more effectively achieve orgasm in light of the rapidity of men.
Because she is so slow to orgasm, and because she's not a lesbian, men don't like to have sex with her unless they can come right away and get it over with.
Men are very egotistical in that way.
People in general have small minds and smaller sensibilities--but they have enormous egos. How can all that ego fit inside such small minds?
People live short lives because they have such small, small minds.
She has to live a very, very long life, because she has to know what's going to happen to the world before she leaves it.
Each day she makes the attempt to continue her long life.
Each day she begins to work at whatever it is she has to do.
Some days it goes well, of course; some days it does not.
She has the rest of her life to think about this.
She wishes she could stop thinking and merely live.
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