…after I watch Il Grido, the Antonioni film I haven’t seen, now that I finally have a night free slash we just got rejected from a bar because our new underage friend’s fake id didn’t resembe her in the slightest bit. I left Mar and Ar – new underage friend – at Broadway after performing the duty of photographing them in hot poses like we’d been painting the town lez, therefore making Ar’s ex-girlfriend jealous.
When in reality all we had was a shitty stamp on our wrists for a bar we couldn’t get into and gastrointestinal pain from slamming white wine at Mar’s earlier, which was actually, the best part of the night.
O Antonioni. The point is, I haven’t seen Red Desert but I’ve been told it ought to be seen on the big screen, so I’m saving it for a BAM retrospective which I’m sure is going to come any day now.
Anyway, death on the mind – my moment of silence for Antonioni is forcing myself to concentrate on a 15 inch screen for two hours of cinema – which means I have beforehand I read everything on Slate and listen to JT remixes and Tangerine Dream first, because I don’t do things when I say I’m going to do them. By the time I do do them I’m swept under the onslaught of a bunch of crap that I’ve never heard of or seen.
Oh yes, The Bourne Ultimatum – I never read reviews anymore because I hate them – but this Slate article has got me all excited. Besides the fact that Matt Damon and Franka Potenta together constitute my idea of real and enduring affection. A difficult materialization on my part, after reading The Great Gatsby with my newly adult mind, or rather I’m a large baby. I guess not as difficult as losing your loved one, your memory and having to kill people and people wanting to kill you. Or that’s my life, minus technicalities.(Ug, who says that?)
For I’ve never lost a loved one, because, as I was discussing w Mar the other night in our moments of self-congratulatory couch-lounging with Miller High Life’s, love is what – a familiarity, delusion, sickness that snakes its way into your life by some bizarre vehicle, but is no realer than any other choice or random incident, no realer than my fucked up caffeine addiction or the fact that I conceive myself primarily as a teeth-grinder. No realer than anything, basically, although one could make the argument that some things have intrinsically more import.
All I care about is my cat, at this point. And getting into X-Party tomorrow night with an underage girl. It’s 3:54AM and I ought to construct my NightGuard, which involves boiling water and me out of here.
It’s 5 07 time, and it’s kind of insane in my head. But I did so want to acknowledge this film and that my roomie said action films haven’t been so good since Die Hard, which means nothing to me. He’s seeing it a second time on Sat and I”m “coming with,” he said- dread – I do so hate new experiences, although I did have a mini burger with two different kinds of sauce today in a place called Dash on the lower east side, which means I’m evolving. I’m passed out on the keyboard as I write this. It’s disgusting and unnecessary.