This is my last post:
ok. so its 117, in estonia, and im lattitudinally jet lagged, so im not sure what this worth, but
i feel like i can say it.
finally.
the ultimate truth.
but first, isnt it strange that i would think such a thing? such a childish notion! that writing or saying anything can be important or have meaning. ha ha!
ok, now to my truth. what i really am, and in so doing ... in getting it out and on paper, what? arrive? cut to the chase? understand the reason for everything?
first ill say it then we can ask what its good for, ok?
this life is pretty fucked up.
my fantasy is to go into a shrinks office and say: "is there any difference between obsession and love?" any at all. an honest question. suicide? he or she will ask. sure. it seems reasonable to me. it always has.
the only thing i ever really wanted in this life, is the one thing denied me. just bad luck i suppose. well, ive tasted it - but cummon, 5 years out of 50. 10% happy. you tell me. does it add up?
im not depressed. i just want to make that clear. but i want to be clear too. i mean, honest.
yes i work. yes. fine. work. i guess for some people thats enough.
two seven year relationships, both times she had a kid with someone else. well, it might have been mine, i mean, it _might_ have been. just wasnt. just bad luck.
when helena was pregnant, my first reaction was undescribable joy. like something so primal and true. well, 5 mintues in paradise. 5 minutes in the parking lot of schiphol airport.
i knew it was possible. i knew it. i was right!
and yet...
through it all, through all these long years,
returning, again and again, there is that old urgency -- like a fire or a coal that has never died. not angry, but like a gift. a thing to share. to create things astounding to people and in some way wake them up to the power and beauty of our existence. the miracle i guess. or at least its cool. and somehow trumps
well, everything else. the fucking relationships. the fucking poverty. the fucking fucked up family. the fucking lonliness.
i know it is childish, but it stems from, or connects to the body. so speak with it. it makes of course dance a logical choice.
and because this is so, because i care about dance - and its possiblities, well that negates the possiblity of a relationship. what!? i dont even know what that means anymore.
art? love? art? love?
i remind myself of a monkey who, in trying to carry a second banana, keeps dropping the first one.
and here i have said something great. not just for one of my 10.000 computer files, but for suicidegirls! wow. and this adds up to... a great big nothing. even published, it is doubtful anyone will ever read it. im not complaining about that - why should they? i do think about jumping off a cliff in norway, and then living secretly with a nomadic tribe of what are those people called in northern norway?
ok. having gotten it down, like suicide, i will never have to write in my diary again. yey!!!
ok. so its 117, in estonia, and im lattitudinally jet lagged, so im not sure what this worth, but
i feel like i can say it.
finally.
the ultimate truth.
but first, isnt it strange that i would think such a thing? such a childish notion! that writing or saying anything can be important or have meaning. ha ha!
ok, now to my truth. what i really am, and in so doing ... in getting it out and on paper, what? arrive? cut to the chase? understand the reason for everything?
first ill say it then we can ask what its good for, ok?
this life is pretty fucked up.
my fantasy is to go into a shrinks office and say: "is there any difference between obsession and love?" any at all. an honest question. suicide? he or she will ask. sure. it seems reasonable to me. it always has.
the only thing i ever really wanted in this life, is the one thing denied me. just bad luck i suppose. well, ive tasted it - but cummon, 5 years out of 50. 10% happy. you tell me. does it add up?
im not depressed. i just want to make that clear. but i want to be clear too. i mean, honest.
yes i work. yes. fine. work. i guess for some people thats enough.
two seven year relationships, both times she had a kid with someone else. well, it might have been mine, i mean, it _might_ have been. just wasnt. just bad luck.
when helena was pregnant, my first reaction was undescribable joy. like something so primal and true. well, 5 mintues in paradise. 5 minutes in the parking lot of schiphol airport.
i knew it was possible. i knew it. i was right!
and yet...
through it all, through all these long years,
returning, again and again, there is that old urgency -- like a fire or a coal that has never died. not angry, but like a gift. a thing to share. to create things astounding to people and in some way wake them up to the power and beauty of our existence. the miracle i guess. or at least its cool. and somehow trumps
well, everything else. the fucking relationships. the fucking poverty. the fucking fucked up family. the fucking lonliness.
i know it is childish, but it stems from, or connects to the body. so speak with it. it makes of course dance a logical choice.
and because this is so, because i care about dance - and its possiblities, well that negates the possiblity of a relationship. what!? i dont even know what that means anymore.
art? love? art? love?
i remind myself of a monkey who, in trying to carry a second banana, keeps dropping the first one.
and here i have said something great. not just for one of my 10.000 computer files, but for suicidegirls! wow. and this adds up to... a great big nothing. even published, it is doubtful anyone will ever read it. im not complaining about that - why should they? i do think about jumping off a cliff in norway, and then living secretly with a nomadic tribe of what are those people called in northern norway?
ok. having gotten it down, like suicide, i will never have to write in my diary again. yey!!!