When I first read Anais Nin's Diaries, I casually looked up her date death on the internet.
I wasn't working at the time. I oozed in and out of life and realities. There was no reality tied to time. I once told Kent (who i did tell boldfacedly that I was in a manic phase) that I had stayed up all night long - intentionally - the night before - just because I had no job - no lover - no housemate - and could do it.
I smoked a lot of pot and took many videos and pictures of myself. I did yoga and listened to music and danced and sat in my yard with the artdoor speakers and pond and sky and the ability to be absolutely private from everyone due to very tall hedges snuggling in on a green fence. we had koi and water lilies.
When I first fell in love with anais nin, I looked up her death date to see if perhaps i could be her reincarnation.
after 1971, so no way.
she frightened/s me.
I just ran from work - stealing some of my bosses pot - am melting a clonzipriam under my tongue and writing to you.
Wondering (congratulating myself violently on not buying smokes) both:
1. am i a true drama queen? 1.a. does that mean i am not real? are my feelings not real 1.i. do my tears fall for no reason save to mourn my own death? 1.a.i.x. fuck
1b. Why the mother fuck do I (and then sure, she) write this and feel so fucking good doing it?
2. Why is it that I'm always artistic while on pot. Why do I feel more real when I am on pot - more free and away from the sinister falseness and illogic and visceral psychic Pain of the world - more mature and wry and laughing and confident and worthy of all love and MOST DEIFINITELY AND SPECIFICALLY MY OWN..
(anais nin btw, was criticized for BOTH being narsissistic AND not addressing the times of her day - i.e. specifically the wars)
p.s. I wish I had bought some smokes on the way home - but still proud like a capillary hanging on - that I did not.