01/13/2010

 Pages? Self? Gratitude? What makes me me? What is it? Is it that I write? I don’t really do that. What is the core of me? I had a pretty clear idea of who I was until all the external manifestations of that where stripped away one layer at a time. I was me, bitchy, funny, maitre d’. I was my list of groceries, the same things bought and honed over years and years of trail and error. My function was to control the floor and touch people with joy. Hello, joy? Where are you? She, who does not believe in the word no. She who dines. I dressed really well. I was immaculately put together. I was a production. I was a genius one woman act. These are all superficial things I suppose.

So who am I now? What lies at the essence of being me? What do I do? What do I want? What is it worth struggling for? What is the end game? Goal? What is the point of this exercise? Was I happy before? I don’t remember. I look at pictures. I look happy. What is this happy? What makes me happy? Forget happy, what is one good fucking reason to get up? Just think of one. One.

He says life is about the struggle. Really? Is this true? I don’t have any real struggle. I am not dying in Haiti. Not fighting in far off lands. Not starving. Not homeless. I am educated. I am fed. I have a an apartment within which I exist. I exist. I guess. I must. I am writing this. Do I really exist? I fear I may have created some myth of me which I have failed to live up to. With out my mythology who am I? Is this what happens to empty theatres. Am I waiting for my next script, my next set, my next props and costumes and lights? Do I need an artistic director? Am I supposed to be this artistic director?

I would like a restaurant. I would like a home. I would like an audience. I would like some Emi yogurt and some really good stinky cheese and a glass or ten of great red wine. I miss the show. I miss the limelight. I miss the attention. Am I really this shallow? Is that shallow? 

Is this an exercise in futility? Why am I dressed like a homeless person? Does fear of failure prevent action? Perhaps. What is this action? I need a job. I need a job in a restaurant. I do not want to serve tables. I want to make a difference. I want to have my vision be seen. I want to create. This action seems unattainable. There is a chasm of red tape between here and there. So why get out of bed? Move in with my parents…wait to die. Go to Canada…wait to die. Stay right the fuck here…wait to die. End result seems the same. Best just stay here, wait to die.

How long does it take to die of failure? 

Right oh, moving on to gratitude. I am grateful for him, Mac, I am grateful that I like to cook and can cook and have a kitchen and things to cook. I am grateful for cigarettes. The stereo. I think I may need to come back to this.

I used to write. Pages and pages. Words that used to come so fluidly that i could not type fast enough. I have 700 odd pages that I read sometimes. I don’t recognize her. She has a voice that seems foreign to me. Maybe I used to live so hard that I had to type type type it out lest it slip away. Perhaps I need to write so I can live. I get out of bed to make stock. Perhaps I get get out of bed to make stock and write something. I need my nook. I need a desk. I need a ritual. I need something. 

Misery is self perpetuating. Fucking ameba. Self perpetuating wallowing in self pity but how do you make it stop. I can’t see people, I have nothing to say, the less I leave the apartment the less I have to say. Great. 

Quelle joy, oui?