There is no need for anything to be permanent

Now a-days we must make time for life, people must find time to actively participate in living. It's absolutely pathetic how absorbed society has become in it's own bureaucracy, it's own impositions.
We must find time to live, it is no longer an automatic function. When was it decided that people needed to document, detain and decipher their lives? Is it a side effect of this surveillance culture society has created? I think we must watch everything these days. There is a facet of our culture which demands that we document everything, that we consume everything, that we devastate everything. Our entire world is captured by closed circuit cameras and facebook profiles. I feel threatened by this enclosure.What ever happened to living lives without documentation?
Is there a way to live life without looking back?
Even these pages are beginning to feel line an imposition.

Janine Niépce

(1)

Who is the poet? Not I.

Who is the lover? Not I.

I demand Woody Allen's New York and Goddard's Paris

Who ever said that life is more than it is? Oh, yes, those men in movies who I loved so much. 

Life in instagram:

A Year

I have become a rather lack-luster blogger, have I not? My absenteeism is not entirely unwarranted; at some point, one must actively live life rather than observe it.

School is doing my head in. Drinking is depleting my bank account. I am living on coffee and advil. 

This is simply not ideal. I am slowly beginning to find the thought of going out to clubs on weekends repulsive. There is nothing I want more than to wake up on Saturday morning clear-headed and ready to face the day.

I want to read books and drink tea again. I want to eat in bistros and drink in cafes. 

All of this - the drinking, the smoking, the sleepiness - is making me feel terribly average. I look back on my younger self, wishing desperately to be that tireless girl with straight A's.

She was impeccable. She was above average. She was worthwhile. 

Le fou ou la fou?

Godard is a genius. There is absolutely nothing more to it. In order to "study for French" - yeah, right - I watched Pierrot le Fou two nights ago and it surpassed my already high expectations. The film moves through these scenes of idyllic country life. This, combined with the perfect poeticism of the script, almost make the movie into an unconventional hundred and ten minute lament.
I thought the title was rather clever as well; le fou meaning the fool, and la fou meaning the crazy. That was rather fitting.

If only I had been Holly -

Today I wrote a love poem dedicated to Audrey Hepburn, because her perfection extends farther than the silly thrills of premature affection. I think I will love Holly Golightly more thoroughly than any other living person. But, charm is irrelevant, since the boy I'd meant to talk to hardly said a word.

Je pense: il fait beau, mon amour, il fait beau dans la vie.

There were animals galore and any superhero you could think of - though, their hemlines had been sufficiently decreased. We spent Halloween dancing between other bodies to ecstatic electronic sounds strung together into a common beat.
And I paid four dollars for a bottle of water.
And I froze my little, white arms off in the October night.
And I wished I was at home in bed.
But it was still less horrific than the Halloween I spent walking my sister around the neighborhood , or the time in the basement with the girls who cried. Though, it doesn't beat the year spent evading trick-or-treaters at the southern-style crab shack.

“Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don’t stop to think, don’t interrupt the scream, exhale, release life’s rapture. Everything is blooming. Everything is flying. Everything is screaming, choking on its screams. Laughter. Running. Let-down hair. That is all there is to life. ”

—	Vladimir Nabokov

The feeling of fall is upon us.
The enticing cold, the changing leaves, the steadily falling temperatures and precarious wind - all of which envelop the season in it's own peculiar sting - have descended upon the cozy shingle-topped houses of the various neighborhoods. There is a phony romanticism streaming down with the leaves, recalling a purity in the death and rebirth in seasons. Soon the world will be washed white; the coldest season recycling life to be born again in the spring.

I am not a flower,

I am not a girl in bloom.

There is nothing in

 Me that has blossomed;

Age does not grow

A girl from a bud -

But withers what is 

Already immaculate.