Fuck Fiction!

The only thing I’ve put in this poor body today is a coffee, the toxic fumes of half a cigarette, and some of my own blood from a scab I picked. I’m hungry. I’m on a train bound for The Falls. I am playing host to my funny friend Pierre from Paris. We get along more like brother and sister. We bicker, we tease, and we laugh. He is not an ex and he never will be. What we have is unique and wonderful.

I have given up on fiction. It’s just not me. What sealed the deal was something my current and latest literary crush, Fran Lebowitz, said. She said that when she wrote Metropolitan Life, her publisher told her that it wouldn’t sell and nobody had published a book of essays since whenever way-back-when and her response was simply: So? Well exactly. Just do what you do and pay attention to nothing else. How could it be any other way? How could I not have realized this simple reality before/on my own? Anyway. I get it now. Be yourself. Oh, the brilliance.

Today marks three weeks until Paris. I will stay for eight weeks. This is my third summer in a row and though it might seem redundant what else should I do? Poor me, another summer in Paris. In fact it is a great blessing that Paris has become normal because now I have perspective and settlement and perhaps I can tuck myself away from the social circle that was so important for me to create and the drama that is unpleasant but inevitable amongst humans and sadly happened and the drugs that were too strong and that were delivered to me so exotically at Montmartre and many places elsewhere all about my precious home away from home and also the inaugural fascination and instead just create a routine which I crave and thrive under and run in the mornings and lunch in the afternoons at some petit café with a writing project afoot in a coin perdu where I don’t crave to explore but to finally and narcissistically EXPEL what’s inside imbued by my silly naive love to write and wistfully, romantically imagine my idols, predecessors in these very parts nearly a hundred years earlier reading and writing and living and painting words so beautifully that I wantonly hurt in reading them and my simultaneous desire to emulate, join, continue, empathize, repeat, start anew the amazing and long lost tradition of pen to paper, a circle of likewise impassioned artists, writers, visionaries. I know I see SOMETHING, something THEY don’t.

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À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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