Dinner with Anna in Los Feliz. We discussed how focused one has to be to make a film… how determined. More importantly… we both really have to want to make film. Neither of us are motivated by studio films.
I am in perhaps the most ideal position ever to make another film yet without a script that I really believe in what’s the point?
The same goes for my book. I don’t want to write it. I was writing it with him and now he has gone so my interest has burned off like the marine layer over the Malibu Mountains. Oh fuck.
The problem with the last script? It is really two films crammed into one… like Siamese twins I have to very carefully separate them. This requires me being meticulous and I can’t summon the interest. Where did all the energy come from before? How did I muster the enthusiasm?
I have lost my enthusiasm for film, for love, for life.
I have been asking normal people about falling in love.
It seems that most people believe that they are worth loving. I have never felt like I was worth loving.
Tonight I saw a gay couple leaving the restaurant. One of them was much older than his boyfriend. My heart sank. They looked so happy. Both of them probably believed that they worth loving. They didn’t come from a damaged place, they hadn’t had their childhood ripped apart by shame, violence, lies, resentment. I hope not. I really do.
I wouldn’t wish my early years on my worst enemy.
I wanted to kill myself as soon as I understood that it was possible. I tried when I was 12, then again when I was 17 and finally gave into the interminably slow suicide that alcohol and drugs offer the committed self hater.
At dinner (crispy crusted pizza) Anna and I discussed pornography.
In search of that authentic moment in the narrative. Isn’t that why so many people go to such dark places on the internet? Looking for a moment that is indisputably real?
How could any man ever measure up to what I see there? Whilst love makes a fool of me I seek solace in pornography. I prayed again tonight for some sort of deliverance from the obsession.
Send me somebody kind I say-but would I know how to let them love me?
Oh, I have been loved so much-so often. So many men. Yet, until recently, I thought that anyone who loved me was a fool. If I couldn’t love me how could anyone else? So I thought again about the long sleep-longer than the one I have been awake for.
Down the dark corridor.