record

A girl told us in class that for her, journaling always revolves around giving an account of her social engagements. She went to this party. She met this person. They said this. She said that. No one really expounded upon how or why she chose to edit her life as such. Instead, they all just sort of nodded and spoke out in agreement. It hasn’t been the first time I have looked on with huge question marks in my eyes. The time before the students spoke about living in New York. From their experience and judgment, they believe the only way to survive living in the city is to be numb to the external stimulus, to block the majority of it out, disengage and (this is the best part) never engage in eye contact. Are those really ways people successfully carry on here? I have always thought the only way to even approach having any “game” in New York was to make suggestion through eye contact. In fact, the only way to attempt making an engagement with all the hoards of people you walk amongst in the city is to look them in the eye. But then again, this is my opinion versus theirs, and it isn’t to say I am correct or better off. Lets be real, these girls probably have been more socially successful than I have been in New York (but that’s another story). I just can’t imagine myself doing these alternatives; recording the actions of my day, rather than attempting to explain the feelings or give notice to the observations. I have pages and pages from journals throughout the years, and I don’t think I have ever successfully been able to jot down social happenings or just blatant and unquestionable details that occurred. Early on I probably just figured, what use could they possibly make for? Reiterating actions feels mundane and appears flat. They shape nothing and give perspective no coloring. But, of course, people are fascinated by such recordings. Professors love Virginia Woolf’s day diaries—claiming how simple and assuring they are. Whereas, I am an Anais Nin fiend. But that, too, is a whole separate discussion.

I will try to give an account of the two former days: Tuesday, I began my Independent Study called Disguising the Self/the eye’s I. We sat in a corner that “felt like a café.” Discussed Kristeva’s semiotic vs. symbolic plane (the vast sea of languages), Woolf’s breakdowns that placed her in another world (the theory for moment’s of being), Barthe’s theory on linear literature vs. scriptable text, the ambiguity of poetic language, the portrait of an artist (all of our experiences we draw on to ourselves & the painting is about the paint, not just the surface). Came home to write a piece but digressed and wrote something off topic. Walked next to Cory Kennedy for the fourth time down St. Marks. I don’t get it. She wears plaid, eats pizza, turns around often to see if anyone is taking notice of her—and yet, is infamous for this. Sometimes she’s with Agyness Deyn who is shorter in person, lounges outside at Starbucks, goes to the always-bubbling-Veselka, lives on my old street and am often stopped and likened to (probably only because we both have this notable ability to change our hair colors from one extreme to the next) but all in all she doesn’t take herself too seriously, has a field day with her image, being British and the popularity it has brought her and for this, I give my respect. Was surprised with a gift from my professor: a brand new copy of Nadja by Breton. I hope to remain close with her for years and years to come. Went to Mud café. Watched one guy laugh at his coworker’s mistake of letting the beer drain out for 5 minutes (and let it remain being drained after taking notice). Tried on old glasses (folded frames, too). Went to my old apartment, felt so different. Saw Bill who still is convinced that when he doesn’t see me for long spouts that it is because I “went home to London.” “Get engaged, Chelsea!?!?” and he gives me a nudge and laugh. Ohhhh Bill. Ate crabmeat. Played Jack Johnson’s new album for my sister as she sat drawing on my bed. Stayed up after 3, acting as a relationship counselor and then, frustrated, tried to fall asleep. Wednesday, I went running. Bought 10 rolls of special film and two cameras: Diana F+ and Lomo Smena 8M. Hurried through the villages of Manhattan looking for confetti for the film (who would expect the only place that carries it is Party City). While I was there, reconsidered the career path of event planning, just so I could bring back to life Social Chelsea. Swore NYC was experiencing Florida weather. Talked with a woman about her apricot poodle (that I want!) Walked through the rain in a t-shirt and gold boots. Rented Agnes Varda’s Le Bonheur. Could only physically watch half. Felt like I was beginning to finally die of exhaustion. Couldn’t nap. Ate peanut butter. Picked up boxes that were shipped to me. Old luggage case in one. Popcorn styrofoam everywhere (when will UPS put that stuff in extinction?) Half watched Project Runway with friend. Watched behind the scene videos of Leibovit’s photoshoots. Read recipes for salmon and soups. Still up at 3. Began applying to Vanity Fair. Took half an Ambien.

Yet looking upon it, those were only a few hours out of the 48 (which I was actively doing things in, yet somehow got edited out). Reciting my actions actually humors me—I could kind of see myself doing it for some sort of delirious self-indulgent side project/excuse to explain myself more (just kidding). I still find myself going back to the question of what does one get out of that type of journaling? Is it a way of reminding yourself that you did indeed do something/was active? After all that, I remain even more eager to write about the tiny observations/recordings on the actions of others (not myself). For example, how all the tiny Asians on 8th street manage to run down the sidewalk by barely picking up their feet from the ground and making it spring through the air, even a centimeter high. It’s like The Genius Shuffle. Now that is a secret I want to hear more about.