cellini's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I regret everything No new prospects on the job front. Just things I've applied for. From the screening in DC last week, a Jewish group wants to arrange screenings but has not so helpfully suggested that I provide 30 and 40 minute cuts of the film to allow more time for discussion. How the fuck do you take a 95 minute film and turn it into 20 minutes? No fucking thank you. Not that I even have a budget for such a herculaean editing task. I feel badly about this situation I've gotten into where I'm accidentally dating this very nice woman who is not at all right for me either physically or in terms of what she wants out of life. She's tall and skinny and only 39 but has aged ahead of that. She doesn't want kids. Such a good person. She just showed up and was there and I was/am lonely and I've been shitty to let her get attached to me. Last night I came inside of her. I know better than to do this to someone who isn't right for me. If there's a reason it's that I've been isolated for the last six weeks or so. Isolated by poverty and by the friendship break with Natalie and the sense that I am too dangerous for anyone to get close to me and that since Natalie's betrayal I don't feel like I can trust anyone. I'm immersed in this insane neo-Nazi shit as a journalist and I have stalkers and threats and it's felt like it makes more sense to just stay away from people while I do my work. My work. Fuck this. I am so fucking sick of this. I got into this because I thought I was telling these important stories and fighting for people at risk from fascism and white supremacy. Nobody gives a fuck. I have no idea who my readers even are at this point. What I do will be of interest to a handful of historians 50 years from now. Right now, nobody fucking cares. I have 2.75 months until my personal deadline. And I'm ok with that. I feel better knowing that deadline is there. This isn't indefinite suffering anymore. I know that I have a hard stop coming up. Either I get a salaried job and my life gets better or it just stops. This week I have to get serious about my checklist. Updating my living will to make sure my kids get the rights to everything I've written or produced. Organizing hard drives. Figuring out where I'm going to get the fentanyl is the hard part. I have a few too many lingering injuries to join the French foreign legion. Also I don't speak French. There's so much shit I wanted to do. I wanted to hike to gr@sshopper glacier in Montana and gather the frozen bodies of extinct American locusts. I wanted to visit Tahiti and listen to music and write stories about how they are dealing with sea level rise. I wanted to dissect a giraffe. I wanted to go skin diving again and spend a day with my face in a tide pool just watching sea slugs and little fish dart by. None of that is likely to happen. I've tried for years to have the kind of life where I can do these things but it just ends up being this constant struggle for gasoline and pawn brokers fees. It's not fun anymore. I'm so isolated and just sad all the time and after years of this I don't see why I'd want to inflict more of this on myself. I could be offered a job by N@tional Geographic or the AP or Propubl1ca or whomever tomorrow. And that would be fucking great. But that isn't a given and I've got to be realistic about the fact that I might have completely fucked my resume by detouring from science journalism into civil rights bullshit since last summer. There's a point where I'd have to accept that I'm blocked off from anything resembling the life I wanted to live and late July is a pretty good place to establish that point. If I had a salaried job, with a living wage, I could have a proper place to live. And I could decorate and take all my shit out of storage. And set up my china and put my books on shelves. And date for real. And get married. And have a baby and a dog and plant a garden. And be a real human being again. I'm not a proper human being right now. I am sub-human. I'm a fractional almost-person who doesn't count. My work is valued at 'go-ahead-and-fucking-starve-and-die' by society. I picked the wrong shit to do. If I could send a message back to myself in the past, I would implore myself to never write any books, don't make any films, don't write any articles. DON'T FUCKING DO IT. Everything I ever created was a mistake. Effort for causes that were greater than me and completely disconnected from anything that would allow me to live. It was all fucking stupid and I regret all of it. I regret everything I have done and everything I have created and I wish I could renounce it and start all over again and live selfishly and be a normal person with a home and a family and a life. 1:37 a.m. - 2018-05-08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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