novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- carnal knowledge Mostly, the ten years of this diary are of me complaining.* I've turned it into an art, and for that I can be proud. It's given me a strange understanding of human nature. Funny how I hardly wrote when I was happy. I didn't record the good men, the amazing road trips, the silly friends, the deep family, grandma getting her hair done in Scotland, me singing in London and then running away in a taxi. Why do we find ourselves trapped into cliche? The tortured artist. How boring. My thighs are still shaking. Sometimes I pass near a man with broad shoulders and I want to take his jaw and pull his face down into mine. Then I remember that I don't know him, I am on my way to work, I am supposed to be thinking about provenance research.
Perhaps I should take those years and turn them into a novella. If I weave in plot, dimension and pacing, I'd have my first novel easy. I have a hundred ideas like this a day. As Neiler says, don't go chasin' down every dream or you'll get lost. At least it's an option for the future. 10:51 am - 09.30.10 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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