SURPRISE

I'm coming home on Tuesday and have packed nothing, prepared nothing, have to find gifts for everyone, write cards, welcome my mother, clean the apartment. I have made a list, which depresses the hell out of me, so I ignore it zealously.


Well, on Wednesday I was supposed to have dinner with my boyfriend for the first time in more than a month.

And then I got an email in my inbox.

"Let's all celebrate Sara's return to Paris on Wednesday evening!".

A class friend sent this email to about thirty people.

I can't really express how stunned I am. All I can hear is my sister's voice lovingly and sarcastically saying that I've become Miss Popular. YES I HAVE J!
Well, most of the people invited to this thing don't like me, so I suppose I'm not Miss Popular, but Miss Good Excuse To Get Drunk. And that works for me.

I called AD to tell him our plans were cancelled due to my huge and out-of-control fandom.
We are having breakfast together instead. Meal of Kings.
Oh, and I'm getting a set of keys to his place.

THE LIST THE LIST THE LIST is taunting me. If you think this post makes no sense, wait until Monday sets in.

Pretentious manifestos

I am currently writing an essay on Hakim Bey's seminal work, TAZ (Temporary Autonomous Zone), which may well be the most pretentious manifesto in the world.

"No, listen, what happened was this: they lied to you, sold you ideas of good & evil, gave you distrust of your body & shame for your prophethood of chaos, invented words of disgust for your molecular love, mesmerized you with inattention, bored you with civilization & all its usurious emotions.

There is no becoming, no revolution, no struggle, no path; already you're the monarch of your own skin--your inviolable freedom waits to be completed only by the love of other monarchs: a politics of dream, urgent as the blueness of sky.

To shed all the illusory rights & hesitations of history demands the economy of some legendary Stone Age--shamans not priests, bards not lords, hunters not police, gatherers of paleolithic laziness, gentle as blood, going naked for a sign or painted as birds, poised on the wave of explicit presence, the clockless nowever."

Contrast with this delightful Futurist Manifesto written in 1909 by Marinetti: "We will glorify war—the world’s only hygiene—militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of freedom-bringers, beautiful ideas worth dying for, and scorn for woman. We will destroy the museums, libraries, academies of every kind, will fight moralism, feminism, every opportunistic or utilitarian cowardice."

Reading this crap makes me want to crawl into a hole and never pick up an art book again, which, coming from me, is the proof of despair.