All my creativity drops to the floor when faced with its relative permanence, enabled by the internet. When I was writing Livejournal posts as an (ever) depressed teenager I didn’t think that ten years later I’d forget my password and my tiring and cliched fragility would be in part immortalized to anyone who might ever want to see. So now when I write poems and stories I write it on paper because I can throw it away, I can keep it. I don’t mediate it and I don’t want to. It’s not confined to a clinical keyword or a neon white screen that gives me a headache. But then there’s also no permanence which is difficult when you are in transit and packing your life into boxes every month.
The Punk Singer, 2013 (dir. Sini Anderson)
Today I worked 3 hours past my finish time. I was nearly in tears over some formulas I didn’t understand and a powerpoint slide that looked sloppy. I finished at 10 and just after ten I got the message that my grandfather had died. I was hit with an immediate reaction of shock. I was shaking and convulsed with silent tears and suddenly everything else - those unfinished spreadsheets and those clients in LA seemed very insignificant.
I can’t shake off the image of my grandad pressing his panic button and then being found by the police. Alone. I can’t shake off the sadness of this image and of him being found in such a sterile way and the possibility that he might have known that this was his fate. I wonder if he thought of anything or if he was in pain or if he really knew that this was it. I can’t really believe that he’s gone. I haven’t really outgrown the childish mentality that everybody whom I love around me is in someway immortal. It’s true I bury my head in the sand and don’t deal with these emotions because I can’t or don’t want to, understand them.
I didn’t see him in three months, I didn’t live in the same country and I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t see him in his eternally and meticulously well pressed suits, shirted and fastened to the last button and held in by a similarly and decidedly formal tie. He was always philosophical about death and his ardent Catholicism led him to believe that it wasn’t an end-point, but a new beginning. I don’t believe this but I like that he had the comfort of it. His time was nigh and he’d decided to die himself. At 88 it’s alright to give up and go home to rest and accept that this rest is a final one.
A ripe age and a beautiful spirit. RIP. X
Here’s a Los Angeles Billboard for Back To The Future 1, counting down to the film’s original release
Edit: This is for Part 2. “Synchronize Your Watches, the Future is Coming Back!” was the full slogan. h/t Bradley T. from Facebook
“The day he moved out was terrible –
That evening she went through hell.
His absence wasn’t a problem
But the corkscrew had gone as well.”
You always said that you thought I was only dating you so that I could write you into my story and I suppose I never realised your swollen sense of narcissism which led you to believe that you were interesting enough just for me to date you on that very virtue.
Prude - a woman who won’t fuck you
Dyke - a woman who won’t fuck you because you have a penis
Slut - a woman who fucks other people and not you
Tease - a woman who won’t fuck you even though she smiled at you
Feminist - a woman who won’t fuck you because she has, like, thoughts and stuff