breakfast, Antonioni is dead, Sartre, none of it makes sense.

He’s the one.

No, I mean not THE ONE. THE ONE is Serge Gainsbourg. And he’d already been dead. And also a slut.

I mean he made everything ok. I mean everything.

I feel genuine sadness as opposed to my normal vague, irritation sadness. It’s alarming – something like wetness behind my eyes but not quite fulsome yet, my body is unaccustomed to emotion.

According to NYT’s lofty tribute, he went around “inspiring intense measures of admiration, denunciation and confusion….” Like, my life’s goal? And now it’s gone, and he’s gone.

I didn’t even get to see him or touch him or make out. He was 94.

Hell is not having anyone around when you find out Antonioni is dead:

Luckily, didn’t have to experience hell for long.

“How are you?” roommate comes in from the outside world, bearing lime seltzer.

“Antonioni.”

“Yeah, dead. The day after Bergman, too.”

“GOD. Can you believe it?”

“It sucks.” Flops down on the couch across from me. He understands.

“I’m actually – really sad. It’s weird. I don’t even get death, and I’m sad.”

“Uhhh,” sip of lime seltzer.

“Well, I’ve never known anyone that’s died, so you know, I can’t really understand it,” I hastily explain, not wanting to sound like a sociopath.

“Well I’ve known people who’ve died, and it’s still wierd,” he says, twirling the lid of his lime seltzer bottle.

“Oh. ok. Cool.”

“How cool is Blow-up?” he says. He moves the air conditioner dial to Cool.

“He basically…changed my life.” I say to my roommate, not really knowing what this means. “L’avventura, La Notte, L’eclisse – I wasn’t the same after those.”

Luckily my roommate’s phone rings, breaking us out of our stupor. “You’re phone is ringing,” I tell him.

“I know. How are you anyway? How were your exams?” he asks.

“Ugh, ok.” I tell him about my excellent egg sandwich in the morning being responsible for my wierdly smooth ace of my exam on Kate Chopin and Willa Cather who have nothing to do with each other, really, I’ve realized.

ok, time for the long tangent: Because I want to deny hunger forever, I never eat breakfast – but the thrifty Korean in me said ‘yes’ when Kklov jauntily asked me whether I wanted an egg sandwich. Wasn’t prepared for this break in my routine, but, shrug. I put it in a tupperware container but couldn’t find the top which i had had in my hand just a moment before. So I walked out carrying it topless exposing my ketchup habits. I jammed bits of it in my mouth on the J train feeling like a normal commuter for once, to the horror of two Polish teens across from me wearing color-coordinated outfits.

Because At (roomie) looks interested, or it could be his personality is muted because he quit smoking, I go on to tell him about my latest texting disaster (as in someone not texting back) and my renewed conviction that those closest to me will devastate me. “I’ve never been dumped,” he muses as I relay to him my one experience of being dumped, which was so sad (but not as sad as Antonioni dying).

We’ve gotten so he asks me how I am and I actually answer because I get the genuine sense that he wants to hear. Is it because he’s from one of the Dakotas, as in North or South? Is it the great frontier, ala Cather, that does this to people and vice versa, streamlining brains into a continuously frank yet distinct treatment of self vs. world? Like, as At says to everything and anyone, “awesome?” I can lean in and tell him things, exercise spontaneity in the morning when we are blind without glasses/contacts and bump into shit, I can even be without affectation in the eve, albeit usually sharing the now absent cig with him. How strange. How contrasting with the shroud of gloom and dissociativeness that comes over me in my general social environment.

Then again when I woke up this morning (I fell asleep at 6 am) at 10, I dreamt I stood up on my loft bed ladder, and my entire bed fell to the floor, slow motion. It was all quite normal in the dream.

“I think medication is making me really obsessive,” I say, as I realize I’ve been obsessing aloud.

“You have been obsessing a lot,” he says. He’s alarmed, not because I’m crazy but because his phone’s buzzing. His text message reminder and phone calls have the same ringtone. “I get really tense when my phone buzzes because I have to wait and see if it’s a phone call so I don’t pick it up.”

“Why don’t you change the tone.”

“I can, I should, but the real problem is me getting so tense when I get a phone call. I experience like 5 seconds of tenseness as I wait to see if it rings a second time.”

It rings a second time.

Ok, this is making me mad. (no, not you.) I literally said and wrote all of the above, then, after roomie went to sleep, I began hunting for Monica Vitti pics as I do occasionally and particularly now, and I came across this article , which basically says everything I just said, or “I was a college student when I saw ”L’Avventura” for the first of many times, and it changed my life.” Fuck. It changed MY life. And mine only.

Wait a minute – searching longer for Monica Vitti pics, I come across this Village Voice article using the same Sartre pun I used and then disc NYT used!!! What !! “Seeing and Nothingness” J Hoberman called it.

Sartre 3x in this post? Life sucks.

Village Voice article written June 6 2006. NYT was June 4th. Coincidence? Whatever – here’s a pic:

It was hard to find a good one of her and Alain Delon – they’re all so dramatic too, I like this one ‘cus they’re laughing and Alain Delon’s my boyfriend.

Anyway, article accurately expressing many things and neatly haunting in bringing us back to what really matters: Antonioni’s death.