I am now on cold medicine so am flying high as a kite. Hopefully I won't write anything too revealing or confessional. When I was a fuck-up I would take pseudoephedrine recreationally or like Dexatrim or someone's asthma meds, like trucker speed, for years and years preferring that constancy that flow to anything more illicit at least during the AM so this is like a return to the gloriously familiar. I wish I still smoked. I remember smoking and smoking when I would have like giant pussbags from mono or tonsillitis or whatever disease I regularly carried with me in my twenties, smoking and smoking and drinking whiskey and whatnot regardless. I will erase this later or John will make me, as this may hurt my employment opportunities, such as waiting tables, which seem to be my main employment opportunities in North Carolina, once I finish the book. Now my teeth are gnashing.
Today I read Anais Nin's journals, I read her ones that she edited, so minus the fucking, and then the unexpurgated first one, online on Google books, and thought of June Miller like a Robin Vote or Lol Stein, a muse of innocent primitivism for both Anais and Henry. I flipped through Kate Millett's Sexual Politics and realized it wasn't for me. I do understand her takedown of Henry Miller, his misogyny, his violence, but for me it doesn't express the glorious experience of reading Henry Miller, that ecstasy, that chaos, I'm almost as in love with it as Anais is. This is I guess my central issue - how do I excuse Sade, Miller, Bataille, or their cunt portraits, when I am equally as inspired by them? And do I have to find an excuse for them?
Now I want to watch last night Gossip Girl's or read more Anais Nin journals. Although realizing that they are perhaps the same, that classic structure of traumatic triangulation, the clothes, the girl-joy, the tension between seldom and the annihilation of love that Blair struggles with.
I would post the talk except when I try to paste Microsoft Word onto Blogger it goes batshit. I will try again tomorrow.