I am an introspective slut, a bookish whore, a maudlin tramp, a Magdalene blurred into Mary, an unlikely amalgam on her quixotic quest for the Philosophers’ Stone.
No wonder he had to go onto the cross…
These days I cry at least once a day, over the very fiction that I pen myself. When my mind gives up, I will be found crying while hugging an ass Nietzschean fashion, maybe in some public square in the Middle East, where asses can still be found in public squares. With my mentally-impaired logic, asses are still much worthier animals than horses if I have to spill my precious tears. Don’t know what that Nietzsche was thinking, but he was definitely not thinking very straight.
I can’t get over this photograph that we snapped last weekend:
I think I’m going to work on a mini-series based on this.
Reading Rousseau these days and working out the conundrums of life that I seem to find no solutions for. Is there a teleological basis for erotic desire?
With Platonic seriousness, Rousseau states:
And what is true love itself if it is not chimera, lie, and illusion? We love the image we make for ourselves far more than we love the object to which we apply it.
I still haven’t found time to finish the last blog that I was writing – I’m bad at philosophical treatises. I hate all books. I love the book that I’m writing now.
Going to NYC and LA at the end of the month for some much-deserved, long-awaited, and oddly synchronistic visits. I am actually doing great at the moment, it’s just that, eh, for those who have forgotten, crying can be very draining, even if it only lasts 10 seconds…
© Post-Modern China Doll