(archive:) Diagnosis
I have spent the past 10 weeks thinking about film and writing about how important it is in my life and how I want to work with it and all and overall it has been depressing. Depressing as hell. "Putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger and realizing there's no bullet in it", that kind of depressing. Surprise, surprise. I thought it would make me happy. No it did NOT.
I've tried everything I can. I write, I read, I even draw - you know I can't draw, but quite surprisingly I started drawing those sad faces, those "sad-eyed ladies of the low land". At one point I just couldn’t eat. I drank three cups of coffee every day and picked up smoking again. Orange juice is my liquid sunshine. I've stopped reading poetry. I can't talk to people. I have lost the ability to love. Everything has been messy. Yet I have been pushing myself to do everything that I should finish.
But what have I found? "Lies, lies and a grief", perhaps?
Or maybe this.
1) In this book that I'm going to write my graduation thesis about, there's this madman, this poet, this "murderer with a fancy prose style". He enjoys watching young girls, just like how the girls he watches love going to the movies and watching those glamorous Hollywood stars. Film equals voyeurism, they say.
2) This guy Woody, who I've always appreciated on an intellectual level, said this when interviewed by this guy Jean-Luc (who I adore intellectually):
When I grew up, it was a wonderful thing to get out of the sunshine, which I hate, and go into a dark theater and avoid the heat and avoid the light, and just sit down and suddenly be transported anyplace - you know, abroad a pirate ship, or to the desert, to some Manhattan penthouse or something. And it was always very disappointing for me when I walked out of the cinema back onto the street, and the light hit me, and you're back into reality. Someplace to escape to, someplace to block out the terrible truths of reality.
(Note that Jean-Luc was playing, again, with the frame of his camera, blocking out Woody's face with a huge black circle and all.)
This guy Woody married his adopted step-daughter. ("Somewhere out there Nabokov's smiling", said his Muse in one of his best flicks.)
3) When I was watching DiCaprio's version of The Great Gatsby, there was this mentally unstable man in the first row who suddenly started crying and screaming and was dragged outside the theatre.
I'm just a mad girl trying to be the world's psychiatrist. But aren't we all? There's always something sick, something distorted, something abnormal. And I just desperately need to acknowledge the pain.