yo, Diary,
Listen up a minute, OK?
I used to think you loved me. But you just languish here, you don't write yourself. I want you to talk to me, I want your paragraphs to tap tappety tap themselves into existence overnight.
"Dear rainy," you will say,
"I love what you have done with your fingernails - everyone who doesn't love you is crazy!
Your punctuation and stuff is still bad, it's a terrible embarrassment to me, but don't worry, while you have been busy doing boring things and falling in **** (ugh), I have been busy planning your beautiful future on a beautiful island! Yes, you can live there by yourself, in a house you built with your own hands, and you can wear all white clothes and fly around in your very own blue and white seaplane! Don't worry, I have investigated the logistics of this; flying a plane is easy peasy, easier than driving a stupid car! People try to keep it a secret how easy it is, because they don't want everyone flying about all over the place and cluttering up the sky.
I know you can do it, rainy; what about that time you picked up all the broken plates after that earthquake? "
Come on Diary, be nice to me because I stick up for you ALL THE TIME, to EVERYONE! You should hear me:
"Diaries are not always inherently adolescent. However, it�s really much better if they are. Teenagers have the nerve to be obsessional, full of despair, reckless. Such luxury, such bile and blinding-sweet syrup!'
Dear Diary,
Do you miss me as much as I miss you?
love, rainy
Hi Diary!
So I was at work today, you know, in the basement just doing a speck of registering. "Speck" is right - mainly I was listening to Inferno FM and wondering aimlessly about the members of Blink 182. hmmm... are they twee or are they not twee? But after a while I stopped thinking about Blink 182 and I started thinking about this other thing that I sometimes think about without realising I'm thinking about it so I don't wonder why or anything. A place. I think it must be Bombay, but I'm not sure. it's not like the island daydream. Here is what I wrote as I was thinking about it:
squares and diamonds. Another daydream was the ?Bombay one, with the white shirt and gin and limes. A more social aspect than the island one, but definitely from a distance. A view of the sea, with a lush garden - affluence rather than a minimalist no-shoes paradise. Also, the day and the night activities are reversed. ie; in Bombay there is sleeping during the day and waking in the early evening to shower and change into a fresh white shirt. Vibrant colours in the distance, oh, it's the city of course! And the sea is a glass lawn reflecting the heat in diamondy pinpricks. Something to do with a conversation, I can't quite remember it. One person at first, and then a small group. Sky a lot higher than on the island, the sun is a big melting heart, not a big yellow happy flower.
Would you (yes, YOU) let me go away to Bombay so that I can find out if this is something I invented myself or a real place that I'm having reverse/forwards deja vu about? This Bombay daydream is a bit scary, the island one is just pure happiness - escapism in anticipation of the actual event. Oh my god, when I live on an Island in a house I built with my own two hands, I'll have so much time to think about myself!
Maybe I'm dying of Vanillism, I do feel sort of funny all the time. Maybe I need a bigger vocabulary. You there! Hand me that Glossary! I need to lie down. I need to get outside, I don't have any good enemies anymore. I'm just so, like, something... I don't know. I'm practically made of gravy.
Dearest Diary,
if you looked up through my hair towards a light source (hmmm, like, oh, I don't know... THE SUN!!), could you ever trust me again? Yeah, see, I knew it.
I'm sorry, I can't come in to work tomorrow. I have Stockholm Syndrome...
Well, it's a variant anyway.
Er, myself, actually. Haha that's right...
Mmm, not contagious, no.
Yes, that's right, I'll be stuck here all day, staring at the mirror...
Yes, I am sorry, I should have really had this intolerable prettiness checked out before it came to this, you know, the terrible pococurantism and enervation...
Okay then, seeya, bye.
His entire countenance seems to deliquesce into a splotch of spreading goo.
-- John Simon, "The Underneath," [2] National Review, May 29, 1995
Darling Diary,
hello! I had such a terrible day today, really despicable. I know I use that word too much.
Listen to this: the scenario of walking home from the library or your job or the supermarket as the evening is closing in and it's starting to rain and you are waiting at the crossing and a car's headlights shine their beams across your feet and legs. This happens in the morning too, if you leave early enough.
I have such a delicious loneliness all through me. When I comb my hair it gets stirred up, envelopes me like poisonous mist. When I take the lift to the basement it leaks out of my eyes in something a bit like tears, but without wetness.
When I hand over my credit card, when I collect my books from the desk, when I click "send"...
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Folders: Inbox Trash Can Sent Mail mark s
Please introduce me to a museum that specialises in
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Persian carpets
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Thank you in advance
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Charles
>Anyway, when I get home I'm calling you and that's that. Plse send me your numero again (although I have it at home) so that I can memorize it over the next few hours. I know it has a 4 in it. Is it: 444 4444? I think so. HAR HAR HAR. The funniest thing happened (but you had to be here) (you're so lucky that you aren't - it's hell) - Our team is called "e-Z" (get it?) and we're are having severe issues including one screaming match earlier yesterday. ANyway - this morning the big group leader said "so, how are all the teams feeling today?" and David (one of my team mates who's highly amusing) was all slumped down in his chair and said without moving "we're really pumped up here at e-Z". I just about keeled over with the humour of it all.
Dear Diary,
to remember for later:
Pamela and the Library
the street
A request for Maryann to please ring me up.
Dear Diary,
I'm listening to that song again (Gepetto). The sun is coming in the window, it's too cold to go outside though. This house is good for me. It's the only place I can express my loneliness healthily. I posted to a discussion board, on a thread called "How many hotdogs is safe to consume in a month?". I tumble dried my jeans. I don't need anyone.
Oh yeah, I just remembered:
Toy ambulance
"I'll pay you not to behave that way!"
bone folder
vox pop
drunk
shelter
bridge
READ UPWARDS!!!
echoes and disturbances
"Stop teasing me like that!"
the music stops and starts, starts and stops.
"Phew, we got out just in time!"
high school rock band
fake message
sitting on top of a tree
back seat
the wind is muted
I pile it up like clean clothes
I defy gravity with it
I tumble it down like oranges from a crate
unseen traveler
flowers (of course)
a fairytale ending
Dear Diary,
It is funny you should ask me actually. I want to tell you about the best thing that happened to me today, but I'm sitting here, losing my money slowly because this place is too busy and I am having claustrophobia and I'm very happy and the gesture that I make - a sideways sort of one, with my hand across my forehead, to imply tiredness (to myself!) - has no assuaging quality. OK, I write this diary. I am suspicious, abandoned in a bustling railway station etc. I do my work for you. And for strangers, because I secretly think if I do a good enough job, I'll be allowed to yank on anyone's clothes that I want to. I need special privileges. Feed me. Enervate me. Drive me about. Organise me. Start anywhere. Live your life through me. This connection is about to fail
Dear Diary,
You know how I always tell you that I want to go and live on an island and build a house with my own two hands? Well, don�t you agree that it is a beautiful daydream, maybe even my most beautiful? I think that even I would be photogenic if I lived walking everyday over the white sand, in between and under a bowery green and tan of trees.
It�s the stripped down-ness of an island life that appeals, naturally, the needing nothing and the hurricane that will take everything away if you start to collect too many things. My house would be flimsy and pulchritudinous, of course. Have you ever seen me build? Well, I�m useless at it (by useless, I mean I�m a total genius), so that is why my house would be so much like so many giant white business shirts stretched to dry on priceless antique ex-boyfriend�s bones.
A triumph of outsider architecture!
Dear Diary,
I have a real attitude problem lately. Sorry.
love, rainy
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