foucault + heath ledger

Things that were said in the past couple of days:
"Hey, are you okay? I heard that you punched yourself several times in the face last night."
"Your ass is distracting me from my drinking."
"If we move in together, we just must buy those fake sumo wrestling suits."
"She looks like a neo-nazi with poor fashion sense."
"I am never drinking again."

The last one is the funniest. 

This is a pretty accurate description of what I looked like on Friday.

OK, so, I have been writing a bit more, mostly stuff not suitable for the internet. (Well, yes, suitable, but not necessarily good for anyone’s mental health). For the past FOREVER I have been reading about auteur-structuralism and it’s all sorts of confusing/wrong/fascinating. I want to shoot Foucault in the face… who needs such big words? ME. THINKS. NAMES. ARE. WRONG. See? Easy! 

I mean, really, Foucault? This is your face?

But the business about the writing, I need an editor! Someone who’s like Ezra Pound par rapport to TS Eliot (an anagram of Toilets LOL). Slash my shit in half and tell me I’m worthless. I deserve that, at least!

This week has been a real change for me: I started drinking coffee and stopped drinking alcohol (with the notable exception of Friday night, of which events shall never be spoken of again). I have been, as we say in Uruguay, con un cuete metido en el culo. My therapist says that caffeine is probably not good and might exacerbate my mood swings but OMG WHAT DOES HE KNOW. I even bought a coffee mug. A whole new exciting world. 

Annnyway, like Foucault is obviously right about, I have nothing new or original to say, so I am going to go to bed. And dream. I have been having the best fucking dreams lately. Last night only, I dreamed that:

1. I was Mina Harker from Dracula and I made out with Dracula who happened to be Heath Ledger. 

I literally ask "god" why oh why several times a day.

2. I was filming an acoustic set of Radiohead which included back-up vocals of myself (multitasking), Elly Jackson from La Roux (we obviously made out in this dream too), and Heather Morris from Glee. Thom was like my best friend. 

3. I talked to my sister on the phone and she said that when I turn 28 I must begin an annual check-up for some obscure disease that my father apparently had. The cost of these tests would be of 5000 pesos. She asked me what I was doing with my life (“It’s been sooooo long”, she said distractedly). I, in a small voice, said that I was finishing my BA. She didn’t seem to care that much and the call dropped (BTW, fuck AT&T).
That was the saddest dream because it’s the one that could be closest to the truth.

Also you guys, did you LISTEN to Radiohead’s new album? I need to listen to it a couple of hundred more times to really have an opinion (“they have like, sooo many layers”), but my fave fave song so far is Morning Mr Magpie. And also, Give up the Ghost.

Ok, now, really bed.

They tell me stories,
beaches glimmering with
old bathroom tiles,
a Portuguese ship once forgot.
Your grandmother's death,
The bathroom tiles.
Your grandmother's death,
the bathroom tiles’ forgotten little specks.

Rapid limbs with no owner,
another night in front of the mirror.
The boy, a man, made you take your clothes off
because he took you for a ride on his bike,
his expensive bike
laughing in the faces of the cops
who probably live in the banlieus anyway.
You will wash your face.
You will brush your teeth.
Better now?
Do you know how to get home?
Will you walk into the Atlantic,
to try to find more broken tiles?
Your vomit in spiraling swirls  
in a perfect mix of pristine safe water
and your grandmother’s ashes.


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