Darlings, darlings. I’ve thought of writing a post….for the past week…but I couldn’t find the right words so I thought, “Fuck it. It’s my blog. I could even write a poem about my socks if I wanted to.” So, I figured that it’s not the perfection and correctness and criticism that counts; it’s the fact that I’ve been writing shit about my many obsessions since I was twelve years old and that I should keep going even if I think that there is no point to write because I suck and will always be assured of the irrefutable fact that I attempt to better my craft even though…..I despise everything I write, no matter how hard I try. I actually do believe I have no apparent talents because I’m not even best friends with myself….But writing is the thing I can do without excessive thought. Writing sentences and blasted paragraphs about my dear fascinations keep me from bursting into tears for a while. It’s therapeutic and I’ll keep doing it and I’m tired of my self-loathing and I just want to tell my brain to fuck off for a while.
But anyway I had some entertainment that proved to be short-lived and I even had some moments in which I felt I was to be truly at peace with myself and with my mind, so to speak. But that only lasted for some minutes and my doom thusly resumed. I’m cruel to myself and to my body that exhausts itself to prevent disease. I think of dying every day in any moment really. When I am in class, I wonder, “Is it really worth it? I’ll be forgotten. I’m deluding myself. I’m an intense mess and the world doesn’t need another one.” I realize how depressing my attempts of trying to survive are and wonder what remains of the old me who had common sense and childish aspirations. I think as a child I was truly blind. I can’t remember having so much illusion. But I woke up some years ago and here I am.
By feeling at peace, I mean that I feel that all with be fine. This is obviously felt with music or after I am done watching a good movie. Once my reverie shatters, there’s this cold sensation in my insides and something is wrong again. I feel and feel and feel and think and think and think. What are the results of doing just that? Tears. Salty drops of water just smoothly streaming down my dry cheeks and making them wet again. Sometimes they land on my elbows. Sometimes I cry for hours and hours and god do my eyes burn like hell the next morning, for I normally sob at night.
Jesus, this post is dragging my mood to the pits of the aforementioned tedium.
Okay, if you’ve been reading my intriguing blog, you should now that I like to watch movies very very much, because I….get bored very easily and….they distract me from thinking of the untimely demise that I could bring on myself. I was feeling too numb (damn my negativity!) so I decided to shut my mind up for a while and watch a movie. I tried to read, too. I tried reading Kafkas’s The Metamorphosis and it felt like a hardship. I read and there was nothing in my mind. They were just words and I couldn’t process them in my mind. Plus, I forgot them so I read the sentences again…and it became a hassle so I closed the book and put it back on the shelf. So reading is off my list.
I decided to watch a film that I didn’t know was going to affect me greatly. I watched Wild Strawberries, directed by Ingmar Bergman, and it got through me. I felt the quiet despair, the painful nostalgia and regret and the knowledge that you are destined to remain isolated until you are stone cold dead.
I want to give Paul a million thanks for recommending me this MAGNIFICENT film!!!
It’s the first film that has spoken of the darkest nihilistic things I feel. Bergman’s films have those similar elements of my sadness.
For example, Isak has a dream that makes him realize that he is dead but alive at the same time. His life lacks sentiment. His loved ones left him because he was rather shallow. He is elderly and spends almost the whole time of the movie remembering his childhood summer home; he missed it so much and longed to be young so dearly that the memory appeared real to the viewer.
Almost every line described how I’ve been feeling and it just fucking understood me. I felt like Isak and also like his son, Evald, who was very much like him. They felt remorse and they felt life had failed them. Isak was successful but…empty and often got lonesome. There was a hollow black void in his life. I assume that it started when Sara (his girlfriend as a young man) left him for his brother. His lucid memories always revolved around her. She always appeared youthful and pure…..
There is this scene representing his heartbreak when his daydream merges with a memory. It’s the woman he loves torturing him with Truth, even if he finds it unbearable. It really got to me. It hit me coldly in the gut. Of course, my eyes almost watered.
I mean, the audience knows how jarred his heart was when she forced him to face himself and see how lonesome he truly was and how his love for her had been unrequited. He assumes she didn’t care.
There’s lots and lots of pain and talk of hopelessness and death in this film. Isak knows that he will pass on soon and possibly be a worm buffet.
I REALLY want to watch more of Ingmar Bergman’s films because they are psychologically insightful and let you delve into the character’s mind and understand their depressing questions about existence. Oh, right! Victor Sjöström played the lead role as Isak and it was heartbreaking to see him cry and feel so alone. I must see more of his work. All these Swedish films are just fantastic! I also need to watch The Wind, which was directed by Sjöström.
Anyway, like Isak, I’ve also been lonesome as hell and bored with my current addictions, like Twitter. I had motivation to do nothing. It was either crying in bed or finding a brand new distraction. I always need one or I will despair that I am to be forever unsatisfied and bored, which is true. I am never truly happy.
I know I denounced Tumblr some months ago here because of my unjustified jealousy of people overly liking the things I have so much passion for…I wasn’t doing well at that time. Now, I’m on medication so I have a bit of self-control.
I missed how well I expressed myself in that website with my enthusiasm for Old Hollywood hunks and sirens and other interests…and I missed reigning the Pola Negri world…..Pola is dead in that website. Last time I was there, I clogged the Pola Negri tag with GIFs, rare pictures and random crap I wrote about her. Like she losing her virginity. Ah, me and my idiosyncrasies!
So a few days ago I gathered enough courage to make a new Tumblr account. I don’t really give a care for tags or followers or whatever; there was too much drama involved. I just post for the purpose of self-expression. It’s been fun, I guess. Distracts me for an hour or so. I go by the name duchessofprunes.
Other films I’ve seen have been The Grand Budapest Hotel (different from the usual crap these days! Kinda Lubitschy!), Monty Python and the Holy Grail and Good Will Hunting. They were incredible films. Monty was a bit funny, I assume. No, no. It was very funny but also very odd. Um, anarchist peasants, coconut horses, killer rabbits and knights who say Ni.
Good Will Hunting had a heavy message. Robin Williams was an incredibly talented actor. I really mean that, by Christ! He had such focused eye contact and delivered his lines as if he were speaking without thinking! Matt Damon was moody and honest with emotion. That scene where Williams told him that it wasn’t his fault made me feel compassion. I almost cried. And fucking hell, I still can’t believe he is gone. Am I ever going to get over it? I don’t know. From this film I learned one must take advantage of his talents and gifts….or, as according to Ben Affleck, it would be an insult to others.
The Grand Budapest Hotel astounded me in a good sense. It was humorous and it had an undeniably well-written script! I loved the plot and what events followed after one another. The atmosphere and the music and the way the scenes were edited was amazing. And fucking Bobby Peru! This was very different from what is in theaters these days, I am serious! It had a lot of 30s comedy influence. I read that director Wes Anderson was partly influenced by Ernst Lubitsch’s legendary comedies. Oh god, my Lubitsch. The fucking master. Need I say more? I applaud.
The voice in my head groans when thinking about school. I returned two days ago after a one-week break and I was told that I had to take some silly blasted odious exit exam. If I fail, I can’t receive my high school diploma. You blasted exam!!! I took it last year. Well, the English part. I didn’t take it so seriously. I had seen my favorite band nine days before and I was still caught in a dream. There were so many stories I had to read and there was one interesting one where a young lad was dragged to see City Lights by his grandmother. Ha, oh, ha. In my science part, I ended up drawing Jim Morrison’s face and a speech cloud with the word “what?” in it. But that was last year and I failed and I had to take it again.
Oh god, I fucking hated it. I have huge issues with reading and my comprehension is faulty. I mean, I had to read some simple article about a Native American woman and the words would not make sense in my head and I kept forgetting what I read. Soon I lost concentration and I looked up around the room and kept jumping in thought per thought and I forgot what the hell I was even thinking after ten minutes. I spent five long fucking hours in the first part of the English one and I was the last one in the class. During those hours, I became so frustrated with reading that I lost hope and thought of death and thought myself stupid. I was hopeless because I thought I would never read again. I really did love reading until I became depressed. But, hell, I pushed myself and read the crap over and over again and carefully answered the questions and peered through the dictionary. I also had to pen an essay about convincing some judges of a contest I won of what place they should let me visit as a reward. I wrote a thoughtful persuasive essay about how Pola Negri, Jim Morrison and I should go to Finland and have loved it since childhood and we have dreamed of it and given it a great deal of time and thoughts. I even wrote about how Finns think of the point of their existence when they are in the sauna. I was about to do the second part when my mother had to take me somewhere else. Now, the fucking simpletons are going to make me take it again. It wasn’t my fault she was in a hurry!
And I don’t even like to remember the math part. I am hopelessly terrible at math. I see no entertainment in numbers and letters and big squares and decimals and fractions. I attempted to do some of the work but there were so many fucking graphs and variables and fractions and I had to guess in some questions. I can still graduate somehow if I don’t pass this ridiculous exam and I am really hoping to get into film school. I read the other day that when Jim Morrison went to film school in UCLA, he fell in love with Josef von Sternberg’s movies and would imitate Marlene Dietrich in his leather pants after he watched The Blue Angel. And there he met Ray Manzarek, who was a big fan of Ingmar Bergman! My beloved musicians liking cinema? YES. Because of reading that, I went to the store and bought Morocco, which was Marlene Dietrich’s American debut film. I’ve never seen any of her films and I am excited.
So after I took the test, I obtained my lunch meal and sat alone on my preferred table. I spoke with my sister on the phone and told her about how I abhorred that fucking exam. As I rambled on and on, this idiot and his friends walked past me and said, “loner”. And giggled. How cute.
I mean, even though I am so damnably sensitive, name-calling such as this would not have any effect on me. But I had had a long day with that exam and I phoned my mother and she drove me home. Then the word “loner” with that bastard’s voice kept echoing in my head and I started realizing how truly lonely I have been all my life. I was certain I was to remain alone and be a spinster at age seventy. All my good friends have walked away and left me and I realized how better off I am amusing myself. Damned immature teenage brats.
My mother took us bowling and I refused to play because I felt very down. She then took the family to watch that new Cinderella movie and I begged her to take me home. I was in the verge of tears. But everybody else really wanted to see it. And so I spent one dreadful hour of my life attempting to sleep as I quietly cried.
Arriving home, I threw myself on the bed and sobbed. I thought of suicide and was inconsolable. I couldn’t fucking take it. I thought it wouldn’t bother me. I really did. But I am fragile and even the slightest tease can crack the glass protecting my feelings. They were right. I’ve always been so moody and difficult that people have grown tired of me always talking about the same usual crap. How am I to please if I am not fun? I can’t even please myself. I bore myself to tears. The brats didn’t even know me but they guessed right. I’m alone and I want to be alone.
But my sister helped me alleviate my sorrow. I don’t need people to succeed. I have to focus on myself. I deserve to believe in myself. It’s my right as a being in this planet. I have too many dreams and I am not going to let some pubescent pricks put me down to their level.
I may be homeschooled again next year. Public school just has never been my style. Then I could be off to film school and watching silent films as an assignment…
This week may have been loaded with emotion but I know I will live. If I leave early, there will be no one like me ever again. I will be extinct and I haven’t been to Finland yet or left any legacy in the world to remember me by. I am to breathe and watch Ingmar Bergman.