[Charm of the Defeated]
There are things I am proud of and things not so much, of the things I’m least proud of, most are held in the trust of my friend Alexandra Warrick! If this piece is just for her it makes sense therefore to make the centerpiece a sexy story, well, sexy to some, not me. Hopefully not to my closest few, because they know me.
Literally it’s about a long walk on the beach.
I should add—if I ever find I have a single “fan” other than her, then all the above says more about what I’m proud of than about Alexandra. She’s the only person whose judgment of what’s potentially great or a lost cause I would trust enough to still-hide the worst among my failings.
In my premed program for career changers at Columbia which is the same school I attended for undergrad, I’ve begun telling people I want to be a nurse anesthetist, after a store clerk told me it would be a good fit in a way and on a day that felt prophetic and in sync with my destiny; and though I’m obviously skeptical that the feelings of attraction there weren’t just fleeting (they were), I think it could be right! That career for me. It just sort of covers how I might still come across as tradesman-like in public at, say, Trader Joe’s where I met the guy (also I’m feeling quite “chill” as it were, not feeling hot hence my approachability at the food store), and, there is actually a sort of cinematic moment to assign the epiphany that I wanted to be a blood doctor as opposed to mental health professional or neuropathologist. The morning of aforementioned “long walk on the beach”: I’d just fought with my mom, a horrific fight, unmelodramatically, all the worse considering it was 7 or 8am. This was literally standard by the end of our quarantine, together — the horrible fight with cussing and tears, it’s not just like one climactic moment in my life’s movie. I left the house a mess.
Usually I’m dressed like some sort of crazy man. This walk adopted a different method of crazy, I was wearing depressingly tight Nike workout clothes; too tight literally by a size at least. Like figure it out Morgan. It’s what I sometimes wear to sleep. It was a hot day, I was sweating with my hair up, I’d never walked this far from my mom’s home near a New Jersey beach, I didn’t love this part of New Jersey. I saw a fisherman approach me, and I gave him eye contact unbiddenly—it was awkward for me.
The quarantine’d bit me up. So when he said quietly that I was “beautiful” I, don’t know what was up. I’d never judge someone’s odd taste for lady bugs. Or it was a working class thing, I’ve always been aware of those things, and how the best way to describe them is to not really describe them: I just couldn’t see this thing he saw in me ever since like 2015. What was probably certain is that I let my guard down too soon, when I said it was fine if he walked a ways in the direction back home with me. The cinematic epiphany and breakthrough I mentioned before re: my new career, not my old life’s movie, happened back in the closet at my mom’s place. I was going through some old suitcases, with more diligence than I’ve ever done when packing up for a moveout just because I had more time. I wasn’t running. By then I’d found the tempo of my days had slowed discernibly, in a way I could live with. By “live” I mean not-die. I found a bag on a shelf that contained sterile needles, not used — except a dull one tipped with blood, which I got rid of, safely — and the rest of this paragraph would only go into a published version of this project. Not like on a blog that’s already got non-writers thinking the worst of me!! I actually don’t think people who encounter this slipshod sometimes incoherent text in heavy blocks, will read. But it’s been hard to gage these things from the black hole I’ve existed in for some time.
Looking across the water I heard from the fisher guy about his own years of life indisposed by toxic waste; it sounded like he was exposed to exhaust fumes constantly and had to wear a hazmat suit, at work in “the tunnels” (I assumed he meant the New York City subways, when he kept talking about tunnels), and he used to go home feeling sick. He did this for years, and years, and years, until he finally moved away and now he was allowed to go fish sometimes. I took it this would be the highlight of his day, maybe week. (It reminded me of an analogy Trump once mentioned in an interview with Playboy magazine, about men who worked in coal mines. Some people just don’t have “it,” he said in the interview. **need to add to this quote.**) The man with me; he kept talking about how he wasn’t as strong as he once was.
He really lamented getting older, so much, I was like how many times are you going to say that, but some days I already feel it my self as I reach age 30 and wondering if I’m aging faster than my friends seem to be. Like it sucks. He was probably like 50 years old. When we reached a boardwalk paved with cement, some other people walked by. As soon as they were out of sight, he looked left and right, and there wasn’t anyone around, and then, he hugged me like he was about to die. It’s not like, the first time I’ve had something like this happen with a guy older than me who I’ve just met; then less than an hour into our chat he gets a bit touchy about where the conversation’s heading — but I just was kind of like “okay” this feels like my fault and I’m unsure how to proceed.
So yeah, as mentioned. Usually on my walks I’m not sporting white stripes or a swoosh, literally I’m wearing massive jackets and jeans and glasses and clowny ‘do. I said this already but it’s true!! At some point only a psycho would dress like that, and I know clowns of one sort or another have been trendy in the arts. For me it was more messed-up, than when an artist dresses like The Joker or something. I was stuck and a stranger to anyone who saw me like that. It was undignified to be wearing clothes like that. I’ve been down toxic time drains, in my mind, trying to escape from horrors in the present tense. I think the dress code I’ve assigned myself has been part of that—it’s been abhorrent, more or less. It might feel, necessary.
If I were literal Joan Didion, who in all ways was stunning and had worked for years at Vogue by my age 27— I might have an easier time fathoming how “just living” is enough, when all I’ve known is survival, for periods lasting up to half decades. It’s just like time is sand running through a sieve, and the holes in the sieve I got assigned from birth were much less refined than someone else’s.
To be at peace with my innards which believe still in artistic integrity, I’ll say it’s never been intentional, certain outfits that I think my friends have judged, certainly my Grandpa Wilcock who even noticed a change in my shape and gait [and I’ll come back to him in chapter 6], because my friends tend to have style and their style isn’t broken and lame. I could have chosen that, instead I like, worked out; but yeah, I’m not going to pretend I’ve never like, regretted that because I’m basically like 40% male now and if I’d gone the waif route (a choice for someone like me, in some ways, like the ways-of-life decided upon by the protagonist in the great 2020 film Shiva Baby, in which it’s made clear that the lead character sort of starves herself—sure, I’ve done that and felt the power over guys). Currently and hopefully from now on, I’m less vain than a lot if most most of my guy friends; vanity though is distinct from clinical narcissism, and I’ve struggled with the latter for phases. These days I don’t think about clothes beyond what I need to leave the house, I care less about outfits than I did in high school or for certain years of college. If it were intentional then I’d know for sure whether or not I was acting like a freak — whenever I chose that outfit and cap with my hair up in it, to hide inside. Whenever I’ve overeaten, for a woman? I don’t know, at some point I don’t even want to think. I wonder if that’s the problem or the solution, to not think too much about the little things, or try to forget them, especially when those “little” things (mistakes I’ve made that brought me to this point— is that the word) are basically horrifying.
My claim to fame for a moment in undergrad studying film at Columbia was that I managed to get an email response from Woody Allen. I was having a psychotic break, under serious stress during my first finals week, and wrote a one-page letter which I promptly sent to a professor who knew him. She forwarded the email and, to everyone’s surprise, he literally responded to me and CC’ed the professor (a Holocaust culture historian). I am not sure I’m glad it actually happened, looking back. What if everyone who knows of me and that story then makes some unconscious link between me and Woody Allen.
(Yeah, that’s me..) [the old me! Bleuch.]
Looking back I’d say I gave the comedy thing my best from about age 20 to 25, and I never had much of an income or audience to suggest it would take me somewhere. Those years were characterized by undiagnosed mental illness and ended on a hospital stretcher weighing like 99 pounds, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Swaiggggg ehhah. But it’s not a joke, none of it: officially I can write it off as a self-subsumed young person’s trip. To those fans or former fans like me, who know of Woody Allen’s complete works (actually I don’t, but I’ve watched the better films a lot— “Manhattan” included), it’s no secret that he and his mother had a tumultuous mother-son relationship. I’d say the same of my relationship with my mom Rose Ellen—it’s been tumultuous, either tremendous or tremendously tough. I think having a Jewish mom can feel like having a lot of pressure on you, not to F it all up. And then it’s always hanging over you. I should only speak for my self.
What have I done, why did I like, throw my life away in this chemical wasteland called great America. There’s so much opportunity!! Why not be taught to fish by a man very willing to spend that time with me. I gave him a fake number. But there are pics on his phone. Why this. It’s basically not the same life, I had growing up, I’m basically not human. To be fair to my ma, love can be expressed in strange ways. Maybe sometimes when we fight, she just intends to help a young ho survive or even get up a leg.. That was a joke, not sure why I felt the need to follow it up.
I fundamentally don’t believe in melodrama (though I find that it plagues my writing, like a bad TV commercial I don’t want in my head — then end up barfing onto the page and by page I mean computer screen), because I think it confuses people in their actual lives.
In their actual lives: the stakes of preserving narrative clarity over some exaggerated version of what truly happened should matter, even when the plot is dull, but it might be offensive or painful to just expose the true, true story bluntly and barenakedly to those who are out of touch. Ask me what I mean, I might gesture gently at adults throwing tantrums to serve the same purpose as smoke grenades in the military. The purpose of throwing smoke grenades by the way is not for the pretty pastel colors. Chaos serves as a distraction that gives a space for those more protected and less injured by it to tiptoe away or turn the other cheek, if not to the pitfalls of human nature then, to any mirror which reveals those pitfalls in them. I don’t mean everyone should be perfect, far from that, but by 2021 I could roll with a year that doesn’t make light not ever dark (adjectives I should try to avoid, not actually antonyms; though I might want to ask a painter), of how everyone in my generation thinks, in their own histrionic lifestory, the world has done them terribly. It’s not that funny to me, all these TV dramas stealing Golden Globes. Actually I felt The Crown deserved it this past awards cycle but I May Destroy You for its subjective realism (i.e. truthfulness and ruthlessness), deserved a nomination: and, it was more fun to binge-watch.
To those with histrionic lifestories to share, it may well be the case that your life sucks but the rest of your life and God and other people won’t be sympathetic, unless people want something from you they might pretend to be. Or if they love you enough to offer sympathy in place of pity. I should be careful just saying these things, knowing that they’re limited by own life experience. Morgan, stf up *someone slaps her, she falls to her knees screaming.*
I think Alex could also direct and act, not just write, although I’d personally dissuade anyone from doing all three at once unless they’re willing to lose hold of intentionality when it comes to what shows up in the project, for everyone else to witness and feel unable to critique due to (or thanks to) their respective sensitivity in response to someone else’s loss of it toward them self. The thing about comedy as opposed to much finer arts is that, you can easily tell if you’re good or not, by whether people are laughing — or I suppose in these times, hitting the like or share button. (It’s not the same as laughing. But, except for some live shows, it’s probably how comedy works now.) I take laughter seriously, I think, because it’s proof: people are trying to get the jokes, therefore even listening. Therefore interested at all. The thing about rarely going out with Alexandra despite talking to her frequently is that I’ve sought refuge entirely from other humans, like the ones who I used to think saw others as subhuman, though Alexandra has resussed a dead belief in me that trust and intimacy in friendship can have healing properties, like, clinically for one’s brain and stuff. (Probably, also, for the circulatory system—in premed school I’ve only learned a little about the heart, the muscle not the love thing.. mh!) Regarding A’s searing kindness to literally everyone, though, including people who I daresay DON’T deserve it: I don’t want to lose my footing, say, with inaccurate compliments projected from a tender place inside Alex’s heart when I wonder if her +/- delta H has a much narrower range than what I felt while working the night shift at a Minneapolis Target. Which, sucked, but it’s not a contest, never can be a fair one in USA so why not embrace the charm of the defeated.
I’ve done it. At least for now in 2021: I’m scared of artists, honestly *screams and cries like a strange baby.* 😱 Scared of visual artists who I feel take a modicum of loveliness in their surroundings and social interactions, every day, for granted in a way that’s foreign to me. Hopefully I’m wrong. I acknowledge some bitterness about it, any times I’ve felt too ugly to fit in with people better-off or just luckier (?) than me. And some might call ME a brat, I’m like yeah I guess I can take that. And then I spend another month alone and probably unwell; feeling, ugly.
I once had a woman who owned a Tarot shop in Chelsea tell me not to worry (“you’ll be very successful,” she said), but since turning from the arts to STEM subjects — also, leaving behind a phase of street lady worship including an obsession with Heaven Knows What, a fiction feature in which I could pin down a few “characters” as real humans I’d met — I don’t give credence to people who think they have superhuman talents. I’d respect their own beliefs (e.g. in the self) but keep self-protective distance. Including from the Safdie brothers, who are good artists. I just don’t know how they’d behave [or misbehave] toward like, throwaway chicks.
Anyone who is friends with The Weeknd is a little bit suspect, but. I have to remember. These are artists. And smart ones. Even The Weeknd who called me a loser. In his work.
Whether or not the psychic knew it, she must have been another screw loose in the American dream dumpster, or I was, and she unscrewed it for the cash. I was desperate to bust out of my working class roots, standing there in a skirt and ill-fitting top and she sensed it on me. The worst shame I have is not about, like, a bad outfit one night or day. It’s about the years I ever spent (after like a few bad phases of getting picked on) fighting to convince myself that becoming hot is what mattered, enough to just, lose so much time, to those stupid ways of thinking and experiencing reality. I almost left school literally because my senior thesis, or the act of writing it after nearly leaving undergrad before my full ride would have expired, was making me fat. Anyway, I don’t know what other problems the prettier girls — who cyberbullied me, then gaslit me (they might not even remember it themselves, or want to remember what they deliberately decided to do, to get my attention; or actually, in reality, turn my attention away from them finally [boys too])—are dealing with, every day. It’s just like Morgan stop talking about your weight in numbers and how you’re working out too much and need facial plastic surgery, in hidden posts somewhere, you have no idea how creepy that’s gotten. *falls to knees again, this time.. all silent..*
When Alex wants to believe in the best for everyone, including people who are struggling profoundly (which happens to be most humans but there are levels, relativities—I shouldn’t have to say), I’ve heard her talk people up without pausing to pull the rug out and dust it off for inconsistencies; definitions of low-key greatness that would never apply to a scene beyond just her friends. Like they might adore you but I would never necessarily want to know them—I’ve been over this—I know how people are toward me, who are confused, not unkind just unsure how to I guess talk to me; and I’m not playing the victim, I just need to be careful. We’ve already had issues haven’t we. My mom who hasn’t even met Alex (which says enough, I’ve kept my life out of the picture) has told me a few times not to fuck it all up, with “my only friend left in New York,” if I did then I’d just come to regret it.
In writing—not doing things—about reclaiming identity, maaaybe sexual identity, not quite gender identity since I’ve never hit the “male” button on any questionnaire, I run into a problem based on my beliefs; that I shouldn’t ever be making it, about my self.
Why not? Because in doing so I’m making the perhaps-narcissistic assumption that anyone cares whether or not I decided to be straight or gay, or trans, though I’d not ever get surgery if I went that way—because, these identities might influence whether people want to know me at all for their own righteous ends. Or to shit-talk me, that’s the main thing. I don’t know what desire has to do with it; I just like, don’t. I guess that should be part of it. I feel like I’ve just like, turned that off or defined it as someone else’s. The fisherman’s. People bullying me! I’m all like, how can I leave the house, ever again.
I don’t know whether I reject myself in my brain’s CPU, or if people for years have been rejecting me, out in reality. Why would they reject me? Why’d that Dude on the street look me up and down and say (in a mean voice though), “wow.” The clown outfit? Chill! Like should I go home and really change everything about me. Maybe it’s like what my grandpa was saying, I’m a freak now, my gait. I’m muscular as shit, for now.
I don’t know, how to think about it, actually I just can’t. I fight.. how I can. I’m not that ashamed of being fit, I just doubt I’ll always work out quite as much as I felt I had to, for my brain. To get my mind back.
It seems, for now, unlikely that I’ll ever forgive the people who I fell stoned me in the head. That was a metaphor for how I privately experienced cyber bullying and gaslighting. Some might call me a hypocrite. I don’t get it. I don’t think I lie to people, true friends who I talk to, about what I’ve said and done.
Have I said some shit about Alex?
I love being invisible—but much like describing good and evil as light and dark, that’s no solution, or for me it probably is not. It’s just a form of not-doing and not-thinking and letting oneself off. It’s like wearing a ghost outfit. Staying invisible, ha ha. Basically a way of keeping things how they are, when “letting things be” is bystander syndrome. Speaking up is just, hard to do when no one’s listening, or when the dominant language (to keep good people safe) literally needs to be broken or tampered with. That might just be my opinion! It’s not just my opinion though, poets greater than me have said this in words and then, taken the painstakingly slow and arduous step of actually-doing-it, and then they’ve taken another step, and another. You could call them “baby steps,” but that wouldn’t be the right term, it just wouldn’t.
In talking about racism with Alex in mid-2020, from Minneapolis where George Floyd was killed, I had to start asking myself what Common Sense is—and why it’s telling me that “murdered” is a more appropriate term than “killed” even though when I wrote this it hadn’t been proven yet that an officer from my hometown, a hometown I know quite well though I’ve dealt more with New York cops thank god for me, absolutely intended to take this man’s life, it could have been unconsciously, but still absolutely —on one hand because I think a lot of people try to disabuse themselves of racism by saying that it’s just-common-sense not to loot a Target, on the other, because “common sense” on an instinctual animal level (common sense that only a commoner might possess from growing up basically if not liiiterally, on the streets) would allow someone to understand hitting a threshold and cracking and doing something regrettable. Everyone thinks they have street smarts but I’m talking street genius, not everyone has a PhD or is born with an aptitude for it. The brain has a remarkable capacity to rationalize what isn’t rationalizable; but the thing is, maybe everything’s rationalizable. Actually though I’ve had teachers warn me, you can argue like, anything. And that’s why being an intellectual—who talks about her beliefs, openly [like this!!] (or say if I did have a life and readers)—is potentially dangerous, evidently to me. It might be dangerous in that it’s a waste of time. People’s lives are happening. Writing and writing doesn’t do that much to rewire people’s brains in a more animal state or position or however you prefer to talk about gut instinct that helps people not-die or in George Floyd’s case use his last moments to probably live forever.
It would take some GREAT f****** art to make an actual difference.
I’d prefer it if that “art” weren’t a video of someone dying. That’s literally not art, it’s someone dying, how can a country treat it, almost like a performance and watch it like a film. I just take issue with that being what it took, for people to notice what everyone’s been writing about in words for years, and demonstrating in their actions collectively (and sure: saying in films or other art maybe melodramatic bad art but occasionally good stuff too), because it suggests that nothing’s considered real until there’s blood on the streets.
I know there wasn’t blood. I saw the video, everyone did.
Post-March 2020 I think everyone started reading and viewing art through a somewhat different lens; for better or in some cases, for worse. Like putting up blinders so you could just get through a horrible time. Then getting comfortable with the blinders up, on the sides of both your eyes. (You’re ignoring the harder challenges, when is it going to be time to get to work on the harder stuff.) In the past when I was doing just a little worse, than now, I’ve been cautious to my own detriment about the self-subsuming will to prove how unracist someone is, my self — and/but I’d be hesitant to adopt the BANNER of pop culture anti-racism when (let me finish: or literally don’t) it might for me specifically be a concern of what is or isn’t practical if I intend to ever get picked up as a writer, albeit a controversial one, and then I guess if all goes according to plan, to someday live a somewhat stabler life than the manically depressed one I’ve led violently toward myself when I guess that felt appropriate. My failings still flare up and tempt me to relapse on (say) substances or to fall into slightly less unhealthy acts like overshopping on Amazon, when I actually can’t afford it, less than someone else who actually 100% can’t at all, but anyway, I don’t currently believe it was ever anything other than clinical narcissism which convinced me that buying the right junk at the right moment would make me, a better person. This paragraph is probably the most misunderstandable and problematic but I have a lottt of other work through which, if I’m not cancelled which I already am, I might still have time to rebuild a somewhat decent legacy though my goal is probably more just to keep my own Self, or I guess a sort of revised version of me that at least feels, human. That’s my priority.
It’s why now I feel drawn to the idea of learning a trade, instead of trying to make it on my own, as an artist. My friend Jane would say I’m “casually becoming a doctor” but, I might be a nurse and also; it’s not casual. It’s an immense commitment. The side of me who wants to make films, though. What happened to her. That side of me has been a critical section of myyy identityyy I’ve sort of, put on hold while living in certain areas of our great nation in a fog of some many hundred million unrealities. I’ve set it aside, to merely keep my head on and survive; my will to engage with great art, a masterpiece, and understand what went into it.
For most of 2020 I couldn’t even stomach anything fine. Any art that’s actually deserving of the adjective, stunning.
My Jewish mom, a therapist who has some clients near my age, says that every one in my generation is walking around like “what’s going on.” If I can find someone who isn’t and who also pressures me to be a better person, and somehow gets along with my mom maybe even better than me, as I myself (unlike my mother, a terrible optimist) have a tendency to be bitterly logical to stay sane at the cost of any hope that humanity can do better: I’ll marry him even if he’s not like the manliest hunk. I sometimes feel like a female hunk myself, honestly. Do I contradict myself throughout this project on whether I’m LGBTQ or just S for straight. Yeah, but Walt Whitman suggests in his poem “Song of Myself” that it’s probably fine to contradict oneself? I’ll figure it out when I fall in love, again. God damn.
If Alex herself has ever once thought or spoken negatively about me Morgan Wilcock it was probably more or less well-meaning (like along the lines of, “why is she damning herself like that, it might actually be unnecessary,” the d-word) or maybe she’s been oddly protective, building the types of smoke screens steeped in cleverness I’d truthfully need to be fine, perhaps I don’t want to know but ultimately: I won’t allow my paranoia to influence this piece or, like, my choices too much—I should however mention the paranoia up front, so that it’s not surprising when it surfaces as a motif I didn’t intend for, in our friendship again and again until hopefully the trust flays it bloodily to shreds, yielding NOT pain but, flowers and good parties, a wedding or two, and sometimes happy moments????
No one gives a good pep talk like Alexandra, but I’ve seen her tap people who I don’t like as much as she does, namely her exes who treated her cruelly!! 🔪 Alex will never be the Cruella, in those tales, even though she’d look just fine in that costume I’d dare damn say ha. I am not schmoozing though I should also be up front about the following: I envy her beauty.
And P.S. I wrote this before all the Emma Stone Cruella posters showed up like every few steps in the city; the second I wrote it they started showing up. So, like. I’ve always been a step ahead of what’s trending..
Alex, Warrick, I used to tell her, those boys (her exes or sort of exes), were selfish and unkind, though they billed themselves as heroic via their own internet profiles, self-subsumingly [btw: that’s just a pretentious term I made up] (self-subsuming means “selling out”), lending themselves to popular sentiment and never questioning whether Alexandra was the good influence on them despite her well-meaning bitchy remarks now and then.
As for my role as Alex’s underground friend, the literal savage beast who always told the TRUTH as brutal as it might seem; and my need to explain why we got along right off the bat despite being so different—maybe despite how I’ve genuinely lost faith at this moment in true love because my history with guys has gotten increasingly crappy each year, at least, I can say this much for sure about me and Alex: there’s chemistry! Yes she wears stripes in her hair, better than me and scored slightly higher on the SAT, on the ACT I got a 33 I could have done better. However, I’m proud of my work ethic and improving ability to work with numbers not numerology which I think is pseudoscience, garbage, yuck. The moments I’ve hurt Alex were sourced from an unchecked resentment toward others, now foregone, toward all People but especially people who maybe aren’t, like, struggling as much as, I don’t know, my lovely fool parents?
My parents! I hhhhaaate them! Sorry this piece is so long it’s literally all necessary. (It’s not.) Another “P.S.” you should know: I have poor executive functioning, in my head, at some momes. I said this in the last chapter but it’s true. Like I’ve been diagnosed yeah and I don’t tell everyone because uh. They don’t need to know all that. I think, if Alex and I could stay lifelong female allies and proverbial whores—the proverb I’m thinking of is “whores before hims,” isn’t that, the right one—ultimately, it would be fairly spunk of us to pull that off, because it’s true we come from opposite ends of various spectrums including the spectrum, of love. Not that we’ll end in different places. Team building tip from where I’m at, like the furthest edge of the spectrum about to faceplant again: yo girl not a lesbian-thing! Let me tell you, it’s a good thing not bad to be different, as long as you can forgive the occasional misunderstanding and become a cooler (correction better) person from developing: sensitivity toward, a will to honor, slash intimacy aided by—those differences. If you’re really close frands maybe you can make jokes about the various differences and stuff. But let’s not be d-words or c-words from now on, I mean let’s not be c***s. Because we’re not and people like, notice fraudulent shit.
I know about all of Alex’s screenplays, I’ve read them and don’t always understand the brattiest New York jokes like legit, but I could learn-to-understand the way I learned over time from Woody Allen’s films. That said: until the day I learn to talk some hard smack, to the bone I am kind. I am Minnesotan. For a while I woke up early to dance alone, I am nuts; I am not that graceful, I frequently regard me in the mirror with self-disgust. True mee is a stranger to most everyone. I am not sure why I keep mentioning the dancing bom chikka wa throughout this project, or what I’m saying so I’ll just keep talking, I think we’re almost done here.
Bing bang bum. I’m having clang associations.
The fiction feature screenplay of Alexandra’s that I think is most potentially powerful also has the most potential to get her cancelled is called “Baby Baby” which isn’t actually set in Manhattan. It’s set in America. Like a road trip. Anthony Bourdain thought his good friend Darren Aronofsky’s best movie to date was “Mother!” and though I used to be a fan of Darren Aronofsky, I’ve let my pure obsession go for some of the same reasons I lost summa cum laude my respect for Woody Allen. I judge by the work but what if the work has weird stuff, impure. Ulch. By the end of “Mother” I have to say I wasn’t sure, the point of certain blood all over the sidewalk. (The “Where’s My Baby” scene literally, wtf … who on earth needed to go through that, I thought it was too much.) Anyway I my self didn’t have much fun, watching Jennifer Lawrence give the performance of her lifetime, supposedly, but really just like get dragged or something — within the film? — and she didn’t deserve that. I thought he [the director] deserved, to get just a bit more well-meaning flack than I actually witnessed; not within the film.
But whatever, I used to say JLaw was my favorite actress. She already has an Oscar so like do I feel BAD for her or him. Okay kiddos, call it a masterpiece if you want.
No one is going to say anything about how fucked up that was, a film about a baby killer with that particular ending, but *shrugs, with emotions off* I missed the part where that’s my problem. The reason however that I believe “Baby Baby” might be solid is for how it might start to deal humorously and precisely with at least some of said weird stuff, including the internet and social apps and the evil it’s probably incited for 99% of young women and others.
Of identifying and surviving online abuse, Alex is probably a seasoned vet by now. I’m probably kind of browbeaten, maybe pitiful but like narcissistic about how pitiful I am which is off. My mind, is presently half-gone: I’m literally just being honest, people can and will call me a baby for whining about what happened to me from about 2015 to 2020, l’ve reached a point where I’m self-pitiless. They might be right.
It was hard for me to write this somewhat cogently. If that’s not obvious then I’m proud of myself. But I think it’s pretty obvious.
Lol, I could probably try to stop dressing like a strange clown.
Perhaps perhaps, my high values of uncertainty will sway in the positive direction for our friendship. Why are Alex and myself old reliables? I like to believe, we’ve each endured the worst. I think Alex can go beyond the [white?] (red and blue) trash values the internet has helped compound for us all, and help take some people with her to other ground, while I remain a loyal female compatriot and ally across the aisle and on the opposite side of a veil, doin’ my things and confusing people enough to like, have things, like like, be a discussion. Someday there will be no discussion, just my legacy or lack of one. In the meantime—I’ve learned to field projection from a bunch of unseen skeezes, also ****s.
My method has never been to seduce, the skeezes, it might seem like the right method for someone else, a very hot female actress who has no other choice, or has that choice, to seduce people, not myself. What ever happened to when “great” men were protectors of the meek, not older guys who rationalized destroying lives for their next massive work of Art which isn’t even close to a masterpiece. Chill, get off your white horse. Get back down to earth, and help a few other people out.
I don’t like to use the word “loser” because I’ve always felt like one, and I feel quite honestly like I’ve gotten so comfortable with feeling like that, it’s become violent; a way of rationalizing some bullshit, e.g. that I can’t do better? Maybe I’m not a loser! I might look like one, I look like a gay female person lately.
But it’s possible, I’m the only one who can see it.. I swear I can’t help but see certain people as gay-looking, I’m not homophobic. I might be bisexual but I don’t look interested in both sexes. With that haircut?
My wisdom right now is: all the women worth being with are going to see you as losers, good sirs, all you cis Male Artists—at least if you still by grown manhood aren’t sometimes humble, toward your writing, film, music. (Lover?) Right—especially especially especially, if a lot of your art sort of syncs up with your real self.
WTF, is she even talking about. She’s really gone nuts..
On the internet? I’ve never done well, at all.
I’d prefer to be judged by my official finished art, if I ever have the privilege—not just handed—to carefully edit then release some, taking feedback from bold and intelligent, not arrogant people, who I’ve come to finally trust for their critical impressions of what’s good work, or, not actually worth the cost.
Alexandra is one of them, she can manage online; it’s literally a new world that older people don’t understand, no offense to older people. I can’t manage as well as Alex does.
But anyway as I’ve tried to demonstrate here (Alex has read a fairly recent draft of this whole thing)—and, as I’ve done unhealthily in the past, in terrorisingly private, unsobering work, done alone, affected by clinical narcissism as well as paranoia about who I could trust, with my first book, and separately and non-fictionally with some darkest secret—Alex and I can still stay forever in platonic love and wear some good outfits, maybe not matching ones I just don’t know how I’d look in a gown, right now not great. (Whether I’m doing great or, hardly even okay, literally for better or worse: I am here to stay.) We’ll figure out something other than a gown, if it comes to it, babes; I’m not worried about you so don’t ever worry about me. X