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8.15.2002 | link |


just finished reading “cause celeb” two nights ago. and now i’m obsessed with africa. news headlines are jumping out at me. i’m looking for my copies of “the sheltering sky” and “heart of darkness.” i’m re-reading my tunisian journal. i’m looking up flights to ghana...

six months ago, i came across an article about an archeological find outside lima, peru. and i almost signed up to go to ayacucho as a care corps volunteer.

and after I saw “the royal tenenbaums,” all i wanted to do was lock myself in the bathroom, smoke secret cigarettes in the bathtub and watch my little tv.

despite a classic case of vacation deficiency, this is just my m.o.—romanticizing everything. because the truth is, i want to live inside a novel. i want my life to be worth reading about. or worth watching. like the lead character in a movie: sitting alone at a café, legs crossed. stirring a lukewarm cup of coffee and stubbing out a cigarette. walking aimlessly down a busy street in downtown L.A., making eye contact with a homeless man and holding it way. too. long. driving 80mph down an empty freeway at night with all the windows rolled down. headlights intermittently lighting up my face in the rear view mirror. the soundtrack to my life is always playing in the background. and the audience knows all my bizarre thoughts. they understand me. my loneliness. my desires. and they’re rooting for me…

it’s silly and adolescent. i know. and completely egocentric. but, we all want this…don’t we? don’t we want it all to mean more than it actually does? isn’t this why some people cling to belief in god? isn’t this why we write? don’t we all want to be immortal, somehow?

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