| now is | once was | came from | heard tell |

2:11 a.m. - 2005-01-05

bad art

I’m wondering a little if this is how the hero of a cheap student art film (on digital handheld with washed-out colour and free motion sickness) feels, or is intended to feel, when she packs up her belongings and says goodbye to her friends, and flees to the other side of the world to get away from a woman. Not entirely so simply, of course (such simplicity would contradict the artfully disjointed structure of such a film) but also to, you know, discover that the happily ever after of those left behind cannot be slapped in the face or in any way disrupted, and the solution lies in either distracting oneself endlessly or growing up. Distraction, while more expensive, gives better anecdotal opportunity. It is important to compare one’s own angst with the exotic angst of all the poetic lesbian foreigners one will no doubt sleep with in the grand adventure of gone. At the end of the movie (“The End” over a black and white shot of a quarter-profile, eyes in shadow) the hero does not get the girl.

The woman I am fleeing is not the boy I spend all my time with. I do not update often enough to make such things clear. The woman I am fleeing is so much more deeply ingrained in my life. The boy is a manageable threat to my mental and emotional stability, easily excised were such a thing required. This woman, she is part of everything now. There is no escape except the classic escape, to flee overseas and try to overwrite this hopelessness (of nearly two years, as though unrequited love rewards persistence) with more fleeting, bright, flashing loves (or at least lovers). She wishes me all the best, I know she does. Her life will lose an edge of angst without my presence. I don’t think she will miss it.

- |+

[Phone Home] - 2005-02-22

[She hurts, even from here, she hurts.] - 2005-02-11

[Two weeks and counting] - 2005-01-31

[Dirty] - 2005-01-20

[Here Now] - 2005-01-18