The autobiography of Montgomery Clift

You know, I didn't understand your text message until 2 seconds after I'd sent my reply. Then when I got your meaning, I realized how awkward and inappropriate my response was. It wasn't inappropriate enough for it to make sense for me to send another text message to say "Oh, so that's what you meant", so I just had to sit here and live with the fact that I'd replied in such an odd way. I was in hell. I tried to get over it, because it was totally and radically unwise, pointless, and a waste of brain energy to be in hell, but I couldn't, I just kept feeling disproportionately bad, and I had to leave the apartment for a while and go for a walk to get the pain to subside.

This despite the fact that I know how bad you're feeling. It's unbelievable that my brain can focus on something this small for longer than 10 seconds.

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For the past week or so, every time I've gone out I've felt like my eyes are a bit more widely open than they used to be. I mean in a very physical way. The weirdest thing is that when I try to stop it, it just gets worse. It brings to mind Montgomery Clift's eyes:

I wonder whether that expression on Montgomery Clift's face was somehow due to the anatomy of his face, or whether it was because he was always feeling something that makes a person look like that??

Some months ago, almost every time I went out, my mental image of myself started telling me that I had Russell Crowe's face. That's stopped now. I can't quite grasp the inner experience of being Russell Crowe anymore. Really, to be totally honest, it's a shame, because pretending to be Russell Crowe actually was a lot of fun, such an easy source of pleasure and excitement for my brain, even though I probably looked really stressed out while doing it. I guess it will come back if I ever need it again. Of course, it's perfectly possible that my various movie star modes (Russell Crowe, James Dean, Buster Keaton, etc.; most recently Montgomery Clift) all look exactly the same on the outside – that I just always look like me.

But each of them feels different, and that's the point, if there is a point.

This nonsense may be nonsense, but it can be very useful, and it can heal.

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I'm rereading Twilight. (Yes, I'm the same person who's written about the importance of thinking of time as a "limited resource". As Walt Whitman said, "Very well then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes.")

Twilight is not great, but it's not horribly bad either.

Meyer can definitely write pretty decently when she's not writing about Edward. Aside from Edward, the people she imagines feel quite real. Strictly writing-wise, I feel that the book gets noticeably worse every time Edward appears. (Still, Meyer clearly had lots of fun writing about Edward – there's enjoyment in every sentence. And I guess that's why she wrote this. To have fun.)

Edward's behaviour is profoundly unbelievable, the way the behaviour of people in porn is unbelievable; he's simply the embodiment of somebody's fantasies.

For example, there's this scene where Bella and Edward are sitting in Edward's car, and Edward is very serious and angry, explaining to Bella how dangerous he is and how she can't fall in love with him. Then, 5 minutes later, when Edward pulls over in front of Bella's house and Bella gets ready to step out of the car...

"Bella?" I turned and he was leaning toward me, his pale, glorious face just inches from mine. My heart stopped beating.
"Sleep well," he said. His breath blew in my face, stunning me. It was the same exquisite scent that clung to his jacket, but in a more concentrated form. I blinked, thoroughly dazed. He leaned away.
I was unable to move until my brain had somewhat unscrambled itself. Then I stepped out of the car awkwardly, having to use the frame for support. I thought I heard him chuckle, but the sound was too quiet for me to be certain.

What the fuck, man?