I went out yesterday and drank 1/8th of shitty cafť mocha, got a variety of the most beautiful greeting cards in the world, bought the best calendar ever by faking a 50% off discount sticker, and began a postcard club with Hilary. I came home, rented the dreamers and watched It to my hearts content and then moved up a wooden table to my room so it will start looking like im in France. I listened to the new 2-disc Dean Martin cd, and wrote a letter to myself for the big 07. I know that its ailing and senile that were living in the age of you-tube and the net, and were trying to out-hip each other with more secluded arts, and that Iíd rather be part of the political upheavals of 1968 about the La Cinematheque FranÁaise a few seconds after Henri Langlois has been shooed away by Andre Malraux. Because, because, itís so much more sincere. I want to be sincere, Im always sincere, but I want to remain sincere, I want to remain so sincere that after chasing a bus and getting on it I still think it was a good idea; I donít want to believe I could have just taken a cab. Because thatís bullshit. Because thatís me spinning down to levels so intolerant of anything one would rather pass out in her own bed with rose scents on the sheets. Because that happens a lot, because itís grimy and collared as the roof top boys. I would say this years going to change, and I would mean it, and I would mean it so much that things start becoming relevant and holding on becomes that much more solid. With new headphones I rode in the backseat of a car out to Dalhousie, more definitely the meeting place for train dwellers, no gooders, and readers. And im sitting there, and for a brief moment I think it feels like that time I sat on my plane ride from Asia this summer and a rush of thoughts came to my head. Of course I cant remember those beautiful phrases that I kept muttering to myself as I sat next to a cornered and frail Asian woman who spent 15 dollars on 3 Heineken brews as I took part in my pseudo-intellectual reading. (but that was a good moment) I decided to write a final summation to a bunch of others (other no gooders), apologizing for my "in the moment" promises. The letter was half self deprecation and half sick with how beautiful I believe staying stuck is. I underline the sentences and passages (of my own letter) that ring true to my journey over the course of the last 186 months. Plus, my ego is always filled when I find myself reading/listening/watching something difficult, and undesirable to my instant gratification drowned brain. And I wont ever send the letters out, Iíll just keep it in the new manilla envelope I bought myself to keep those in. its like those cards I bought, but I will be sending those out. Those are too good. But, I think, I think, this is better. Or this will get better. And it should get better. Because it cant get any worst. (it can, but, hey, this sounds shattering).
This is for 2006. This more so actually for 2007. because ive written enough closures for 06. this is for the new year, this is for sex politics and cinema. And dreaming.
Happy new years.
I hope its good.