I'm sick. Sick of odorizers and deodorizers. Cheese and rice. I eat too much cheese as if compensating for my not eating animal flesh. I no longer eat animal flesh and have not yet decided why. My shoes may be constructed from hide but I haven't taken the time or effort to find out. The hypocracy is nauseating.

I live in a constant state of nausea; not because I sit on park benches and a wall of existential crises smashes down on me and I find myself to be the savior of the universe but because of smells. The smell of my room, for example, is nauseating even though I can't really smell anything at all.

I'm sick of cleaning. How much of our lives is dedicated to cleaning? Washing every flat surface down with antibacterial wipes, removing earth from our floors, and wringing the grime of our own bodies out of clothing; pissing and shitting and flushing it all down with chlorine water...

I'm sick of happiness. The vague unobtainable idea looming over my head or in television. I think about quitting television to add another pointless restraint on myself; pointless restrictions are spiritual BDSM. So I think of unhappiness and how it should be embraced. How can someone not be unhappy when we live in a constant state of unknowing and depressions and unexplainable feelings? I think about writing a movie about unhappiness and making it a comedy. Then I think about what a stupid idea that was.

And boredom. I'm bored of making choices. Red water or white water? I'm bored of the size of my thighs and mulling over what that circumference means in society. I'm sick of biochemisty, of lunar cycles and sex drive, of looking at partners and projecting the future I will have with this person, of analyzing them as I would a novel or movie. My mind goes back to a conversation I once had with an intimate friend. He once confessed to me,

"All the things I do, I do to find a perfect partner. School, work, clothes, everything I do I do to be attractive. I do it to find love."

I got angry with him. He seemed callow and stupid. I said nothing but my uncomfort simmered and the culprit of my bitterness was his honesty. His honesty reflected the secret I kept hidden and repressed, the question I catch myself asking, is my existence dictated by such stupid desires, too?

I write journals to be heard. By whom? Maybe God. I watch movies everyday when I can. I am searching for the perfect movie; one that makes me feel the way I feel when I am daydreaming or staring out a car window. Not a dream-like movie: a surrealist art project or a melancholy romance. Not a dream but a daydream.

The closest example of a daydream is a print that hangs over my bed. [link] It is a simple grainy black and white photograph shot by a fairly unknown photographer. There are hints of watermarks and stains where she was careless scanning the original. But somehow the imperfections add rather than distract.

It is a quiet photograph. Depicted in it is a grand piano and a pianist, barefoot, playing...a sonata, perhaps. In his lap is a woman. She holds him as he plays; her cheek rests on his shoulder; the contrast of her white naked limbs, the curve of her back, and the shape of her breast add a feminine beauty to the piece. You look at the photograph and you feel love. Not love for the models or the love that possibly passes between them but love for the quietude of the moment captured before your eyes.

I think about Three Vignettes and wonder if that script could be the perfect film I am looking for. I think of my characters and their situations and how I will depict them all. Three Vignettes is a product of my daydreams. I hope that the production of the script will be those daydreams captured and that when I watch it I can feel love over and over again. I hope it will be the only film I will ever have to watch again. Then I get sick of hoping.

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