#5: Philip Seymour Hoffman
I paid $2.99 so my internet would think I was American, just so I could get pandora, just go I could listen to that Joanna Newsom station I had so dutifully constructed late at night the year I freaked out so badly and university I had to drop out and have since been able to pin point exactly what happened in a. Reasonable way.
So now my ipad thinks I’m American and I want it to think it so true it takes away the Russian YouTube commercials and the Russian advertisements for tits or green cards or whatever that shit is. Sometimes I hate Russian so bad I run out of the room when Ben gets a business call or the tv gets flipped on for like a second, a second. I hate it that much.
It’s not even that I hate Russian, I just feel so childish in its presence. It’s mature and honest and broken but it has it’s name and it’s sounds and everyone everywhere knows it except me.
Some song came on from my past just now, but I can’t really figure out if it’s from my own time and my own memory and my own inner dialogue or if I stole it from some movie and just told someone about it.
It’s like I remember being somewhere on the day before something happened. Never quite feeling the blowbacks, never quite getting the full effect. Just knowing I was close enough to miss it. Something… This song„, I missed something. I just can’t remember anymore, I haven’t heard English in so long. You’d forget things too.
I stayed wake for hours telling Ben everything I could remember about the guy who showed Philip Seymour Hoffman and made me feel human and smart. He took me to movies in the city and didn’t ask my opinion, knowing his was better. He quoted things flawlessly and teared up when he felt passionate. I was young and treated him badly, but I remember him fondly. Not that that matters.
But when he showed me PSH films and told me why they were important I felt whole and heavy with messy life. And when you’re seventeen that’s a nice feeling.
To be honest I don’t really think he’s dead, but this post is as close to an RIP as I’ll ever give, so whatever.
#4: I don’t know about you
but gifs just fucking confuse me.
Like I got all high so I could sit here and wrote something cool and then I was just distracted for an hour watching the same two seconds on loop of Taylor swift like not be sentenced to prison at the Grammys or something.
So now what. It’s 2am and I already called off work tomorrow because I got sick yesterday. Or maybe I’m just still hungover, I’m not sure and I’m trying this new thing where I don’t care.
So the worst fucking part of like, my life is, is that I moved to fucking RUSSIA without any interest in Russia, any desire to learn the language, with really no reason at all except I thought someone told me once that living abroad for awhile made your writing better even if you went home and just wrote the same fucking-the-neuroscience-major-on-your-dorm-floor shit you were writing before. Like you’d be all holier and changed.
And I really thought that. And it’s been a year now and I have half a sci-fi novel written on my computer that I’m pretty sure I stole from someone and some watercolor a of robots getting dusty in my cabinets. And it’s been a year.
So I don’t know. Dick jones is dead and if you want to be my new pen pal, step right up and send me an email filled with honest things. Or lies. Whatever I won’t tell either way.
Do it. But don’t laugh at my email address. Just send letters to it and I’ll write back, I promise.
So, I was going through my tumblr and unfollowing people I didn’t know. I saw your old tumblr and for a moment forgot that it was old. And I clicked it. And then there you were: exactly as I remembered you.
In love with me. Red haired, and in love with me.
You stopped writing there before you really got to know me. Before we started WRITE OR DIE, before the tattoos, before you getting off the bus-unshowered and excited- running towards me in a parking lot in rural Wisconsin. Before I gave you that book of poems “please don’t let me be lonely” and you called me crying and promising that you never would.
It was before we got drunk in my dorm room and told each other secrets that felt like jokes. Before I kissed you because I was too nervous to wait any longer. Before you stole your parents car to visit me in the snow. Before the time we got pulled over by a cop who made us laugh when he asked if we were smoking weed.
Before you broke my heart in your “final essay” that read like truths I wasn’t ready to know. Before you’d ever made me cry. Before you ever made me look at myself in the mirror and ask what was wrong.
Before we happily moved into that apartment of magical thinking. Before we bought that mattress and promised that when we had to discard it, we’d write PEOPLE FELL IN LOVE ON ME! on its squishy satin moors.
Before our crazy summer nights. Before you cried in my arms in some tent at a music festival, high on acid. Before I started messing with those pills. Before you knew the bad parts of me and I the bad parts of you.
It was your blog from before we started drifting. Before you told me you really we’re going to move to LA. Before I started sleeping with a Russian major who lived on my floor. Before we went to that wedding we were already over at and had the most beautiful, saddest sex to the rain drops outside your window.
Before we ever even had sad sex. When I was just a girl, an idea, a whispering promise, because that’s how things start. They start with hopeful blog entires in the form of letters and you forget about them and now, after all these years, I’m the one looking and I’m not even sure where to put my missing.
If you see this, call me please.
#2: Lend me your eyes, I might change what you see
It was probably nothing, but it felt like the world.
It was probably the recycled air, the feelings of everyone around me being soaked up into the air, coming up through my nose, reaching into my private veins, bringing me their aches, that caused my eyes to grow twice their size and melt pools into the spiderwebs of my eyelid.
I travelled across countries and on the flight “home” I wept into my arm rest and whispered into his ear, “I don’t want to go back.” And I dreamed of the plane landing somewhere else, somewhere tropical and forbidden, and we could just get off there and wander through their world. And we could hide.
But the plane brought us back to Moscow and I kept my head down and spoke my Russian softly and sadly.
I feel endlessly young and endlessly lost.
#1: Feel Good Lost
I want to start new.
Dear Diary, Dear You, Dear tumblr screen. Dear deep blue background and newsfeed I need to clean up. Dear changing days and dark skies. Dear, my dear. I wish you could etch your voice into something hearable, I wish we could become one.
I am Joyce, I can write without thought. No, no I can’t, but the only place I can try is here, to you. And I do mean you.
There was a time, before I was a writer, when I would come to blogs, kind of like what mine was in it’s lightest days, and I would read these broken girls words and I would wonder about their lives. I’d google their names and search YouTube for their voices.
Who are you and what is your sound?
I was writing on a piece of paper at work earlier that whenever I come here, I have no love in my body. Which is not to say that my days lack love, or even my nights—when I retreat here to write—are void of such feelings, but when I sit in front of this computer screen it is just me with my bare bones and wine-stained teeth.
Most of this blog is me and Dick and it hurts my heart to travel through the archives. We don’t speak, but we weren’t speaking even before we had it out bad enough to make it official that we weren’t speaking. It made me sad then, but now it’s just a small dull ache whenever I really think that he was probably the last real person to know it all. That there was once a person I could casually talk about the truly terrible and dark moments of my life with and that will never be so again.
I had to change my about me because it said I was twenty-two and I am, in fact, now twenty-four. I am newly twenty-four. I should be better than I was before, but I can’t make any promises.
I want to start posting here again. This blog has been in the dusty corners of my bookmark bar for far too long-you used to guide me. This used to be the outer extent of everything that was thrashing inside of my heart. Beat me, move me, you know more secrets than the boys in bed with me, the girls I drink cocktails with. This is my diary, and while I remain only translucently anonymous, I have confided in you, brought myself to you, asked you over and over, is this okay? Am I okay?
Come back, we need to be together. So much has happened, and yet nothing has happened at all.
I am 24 now and I live in an old soviet apartment in the Southwest of Moscow, Russia. Stranger times, I’m sure, have been had. But I am sleepwalking and I need someone to hear about it.