Inspiration, passion and poetry.

Day 28

It seems strange, when after spending a month glowering in the corners and crying yourself to sleep, all it takes is one bus conversation to turn things around. A few blunt and playful words and all of a sudden you've come to a jewelled understanding and things seem dangerously exciting at least for the moment. Right now, I feel mysteriously euphoric.

In 35 years time I will be wearing my scarlet Chanel suit, smoking long black cigarettes, gulping martini's and telling my 19yearold lovers about how my latest film is semi-biographical. I can dream can't I? Afterall, its christmas.

Sylia Plath, that darling poetess, said that Dying is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

There are two points to this. Firstly, she states that everything is an art, down to the way those pretencious twats stir their coffee in Starbucks or how old Spanish women shamelessly spit in the street to show their distaste at the 21st century. No matter how small or purposeless, it is all an art of a kind. Yeah, why not. Secondly, Sylvia claims that her art is dying. And it seems shameful to confess, the endless times I have curled up thinking I understand Sylvia so well, because I felt that dying will inevitably be my art too. But I came to a realisation last night, having snuck out at around 2am to crouch behind a van across the road, smoking a forbidden cigarette and shivering to death. Dying could not possibly be even a fraction of me, because (and it is terrifying to admit) I take after my mother.
My mother, who has been dragged through hell and back in her lifetime, who has cried more than anyone I know and hurts for all the people she has lost. She is, by definition, a survivor. And apparently I am to take after her one day, as countless friends, relatives, therapists, social workers, teachers, even strangers on trains have told me. I think I am beginning to believe they're right. So dying, no matter how psychotic and mental I feel - is not on the list of absolutes.

Passion, she said, You have limitless passion. Maybe they have known me so much better than I ever knew myself.

Passion is an art like everything else, I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell, I do it so it feels real.

Yes, and sometimes it feels too real. Passion of course is never the same, it's possible that that is the beautiful thing about it. Passion is when I was ready to fling myself under a train because he had used me and pushed me away and lied. Passion was when I saw 52 students up on the stage, singing and dancing in an amateur and hopeless show I had decided to direct, and I cried in the wings. Passion is sitting on a bench at 3am and thinking of the black and white film I will one day direct about the impoverished provinces of Russia today. Passion, is the silly 17yearold me staring at him for hours and wanting to touch him more than anything else in the world.

And fuck me, I could go on and on and on.
What I have got myself into now, is a perfect narcissism. Here, there aren't any lines or no's and you don't need to glare at the mirror to get to know yourself. It is simply a golden inspiration which will one day prove, if nothing better, just a funny story to tell over dinner. A very contraversial dinner story - what I decided to be at seventeen.

Anyway, I have gone on for far too long, all in riddles and sacred secrets. One day anyone and everyone can know - different names and faces of course- but still, an identical painting.

Je t'aime.
Bon soir - Je vais a le restaurant avec mamma.
Peut etre je peux ecrire le blog prochaine au Francais? Hmm.