Saturday, 31 October 2009

Blogging at the party beacuse I don't know anyone here to Talk to

I am sad and eating Forrero Rochers at my own party. My friends have left and everyone here I have know a mere month. I played an hour of my iTunes secretly knowing it's time was the seventeenth of January two thousand and nine, in a kitchen which appreciated it and I thought I wanted more but in fact everyone was off the scale and crazy on it and it couldn't get better. I played the same songs in a room full of people with zero histories and it didn't make sense. It was stale ironic. It was old signs and older signifier.

I feel sad that he is two miles away. I feel incredibly sad about that, incredibly sad. Two miles away, a lifetime. Fuck off you didn't work and I displaced you without your consent, and now I'm two miles away and it could be 1500, same thing, zero care. But I just can't fucking shake it. What is this new life, so far it is fresh and new and non-historical, by default. It feels flimsy and unsupported and unplanned. I am pleasantly no-one; I am new and ready to be designed.

I am sad they couldn't come to the party, I was usurped. That fucking sucks. Someone else was down, someone else was ill, someones were in the mids. Quite glad I don't have an hour trawl to get home but I guess everyone will still fucking be here in four hours time (7am). Perhaps that is time to decide something. I knew he wouldn't come. I knew I'd be a floating weird thing. I am not solid enough to be sold to strangers right now. At all. I am not good value.

I was immensely happy today. They presented their celebrity and I watched in awe, smiling and incredulous. I was kind of weary that I didn't fit the demographic, I wasn't danced and I wasn't filmed and I wasn't tea-dance-for-BBC-fair. I watched as he skimmed a short lady over the floor, his frame towering her shrunkeness. It wouldn't fit if I danced with him. I was super sad. Are you a dancer, he asked, I want to be, I said. I wondered how serious I was about it. How far we carry our ambitions, if they are truly made or killed by professionalism. Doing/making. Faire. Being. Etre.

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