by The Lingernots
A few weeks ago, to wind down from a frenetic sleep deprived hurricane of a film shoot in Death Valley, we accompanied our visual mastermind Juan Azulay (of MTTR MGMT, a jack of all trades as long as those trades are completely engulfing and mind bending…) and Kate Arizmendi (whom I speak of often) to capture a glimpse of Lydia Lunch and record her monologue.
We met at one of those old Hollywood castle like apartments and she squished us all in the elevator, cigarettes, cameras, fur coats, heels, fluttering heart beats and all and pushed the button for the 14th (actually the 13th but they don’t make 13th floor elevator buttons) and sent us up to Jonathan Shaw’s apartment.
I didn’t really have much to do and I love seeing what makes a house a home for someone.. I wandered from room to room while Lydia spoke up a storm, and looked at book after book and he maybe had every word Henry Miller has ever written.. (No Nin, or Durell for that matter) There were books hidden everywhere. I felt at home, I wanted to leave a note but felt weird about since I had no idea what to write.
It’s my birthday tomorrow. I miss my books in Austin, I miss my little furry cats and art supplies and paintings and rug and all those things that we carry around that make us go to sleep at night, but most of all are books.
It’s my 26th birthday tomorrow and sometimes I think hard about everyone around me and wonder if they truly know anything about me. Sure, kittens, glitter, champagne, books, doing things backward and vintage dresses.. But those are just charms on a heavy charm bracelet jangling on my wrists..
I guess, (and since Shaw had none in his pretty apartment it struck me to find my favorite quote from her) the most vivid verbal portrait I could present, is not my own words.
“It is impossible to make my portrait because of my mobility. I am not photogenic because of my mobility. Peace, serenity, and integration are unknown to me. My familiar climate is anxiety. I write as I breathe, naturally, flowingly, spontaneously, out of an overflow, not as a substitute for life. I am more interested in human beings than in writing, more interested in lovemaking than in writing, more interested in living than in writing. More interested in becoming a work of art than in creating one. I am more interesting than what I write. I am gifted in relationship above all things. I have no confidence in myself and great confidence in others. I need love more than food. I stumble and make errors, and often want to die. When I look most transparent is probably when I have just come out of the fire. I walk into the fire always, and come out more alive.
I am apparently gentle, unstable, and full of pretenses. I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself. I wrote, lived, loved like Don Quixote, and on the day of my death I will say: ‘Excuse me, it was all a dream,’ and by that time I may have found one who will say: ‘Not at all, it was true, absolutely true.’ ” -NIN