cellini's Diaryland Diary

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Isn't It Possible

Isn't it also possible that I'm just gradually becoming sort of retarded due to spending most of the last year alone or in the company of small children, and that the hot Swedish filmmaker is not actually all that hot or interesting or worth bothering with?

Isn't it possible that I have simply lost proper perspective? That she isn't worth bothering over? That I'm just a hopelessly alienated author who has lost contact with the human race to such a degree that I am mistaking a very ordinary interaction with an ordinary person for something special?

Yes. Yes, this is entirely possible. I don't know that it changes anything but it is entirely possible.

What I like about her is that she is very pretty, has exactly the right figure, is extremely intelligent, well-traveled, speaks many languages, has meaningful creative goals that she wants to achieve, and she actually has an interest in who I am and what I do.

Again, I live in a fucking cave. I step out of this cave now and then to be presented to the world in major print media and television, so it looks like I am part of the same world as everyone else is. But I'm really not. I go months sometimes without seeing other people socially -- against my will. I don't have co-workers or neighbors. I live in the middle of nowhere.

I realize that in an abstract sense there are people who are interested in what I have to say and in what I do, because they are buying my books and writing me weird fucking fan mail. But most of them are dudes. And she actually showed up at the train station.

And I like the fact that she isn't really part of that world that I dropped out of. She's not American in the first place. She's Swedish. And she doesn't watch television or take part in that passive consumer culture that I left behind.

When I came home from a busy day of hunting p1geons in the city with a net and filming for a documentary and then hunting geese out at a w1nery and so forth, I sat down on a stool in the kitchen.

Trish was aware of the general gist of the day's plans. Now the thing one would expect would be that she would ask me how all of that went and what sort of hijinks ensued. Because hijinks always ensue. Nope. She launched right into some shit about a wikipedia article that she read about Shinto and went on for 20 minutes before I left the room.

This is what happens every time I come home. I've literally spent almost 2 weeks in a fucking swamp hunting giant r@ts with alligators and snakes and shit and almost got killed three different ways and came home and she never asked how it went.

Trish knows almost nothing about me. She just doesn't care. She has not heard even 10% of the stories about the adventures I've gotten into in the last year. I sent her drafts of chapters as I was working on the new book because I really needed feedback and she never read any but one of them.

1:12 a.m. - 2011-09-15

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