Canal Deux

Milton and I have been estranged from doing “blog things” together. It’s been a while. A few years to be more precise. In that time, we’ve both grown a lot, as men, and been on numerous personal adventures. I simply figured that we could get back to kickin’ it, the way that we used to do, while also giving you all something new, in the process. Since I have been writing a fair bit, in the past few months, and posting some of what I write onto the blog, I thought that it would be cool to read something straight from my journal, in the video that we released. The issue that I had, in doing so, was that I didn’t decide what I was going to read until we started filming and there were specific names in my journal entry that I had to try to avoid using, out of respect for those people. So if the final product doesn’t make much sense to you, I apologize. It was also a bit windy, at the beginning, and so if that’s too much for you, I apologize for that, as well. What was nice about the entire thing was the fact that Milton sort of blindsided me with the questions that he asked. I answered some questions about “Le Chiffre” and “Francois Toulour” and what they mean to me, on my life’s journey. We also talked about the origins of the blog and the reason that I feel more comfortable writing these things out, rather than expressing it in other ways. Milton doesn’t usually do those types of things but it was nice to see him delve a bit deeper. After we decided to stop filming, we had the deepest conversation that, I think, we’ve ever had. It was a very introspective moment for the two of us and I got into some things that have bothered me, recently. It was supposed to have been recorded but, alas, it didn’t turn out that way. Maybe it was for the best. Milton is one of the very few people that I consider a real friend and I vouch for him. It’s great to see him doing well and going forward.

I hope that you guys like what we did.

Love,

Frankie.

 

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In Defense of the Fluid Self

Dear Leo

[…]

I see myself and my life each day differently. What can I say? The facts lie. I have been Don Quixote, always creating a world of my own. I am all the women in the novels, yet still another not in the novels. It took me more than sixty diary volumes until now to tell about my life. Like Oscar Wilde I put only my art into my work and my genius into my life. My life is not possible to tell. I change every day, change my patterns, my concepts, my interpretations. I am a series of moods and sensations. I play a thousand roles. I weep when I find others play them for me. My real self is unknown. My work is merely an essence of this vast and deep adventure. I create a myth and a legend, a lie, a fairy tale, a magical world, and one that collapses every day and makes me feel like going the way of Virginia Woolf. I have tried to be not neurotic, not romantic, not destructive, but may be all of these in disguises.

It is impossible to make my portrait because of my mobility. I am not photogenic because of my mobility. Peace, serenity, and integration are unknown to me. My familiar climate is anxiety. I write as I breathe, naturally, flowingly, spontaneously, out of an overflow, not as a substitute for life. I am more interested in human beings than in writing, more interested in lovemaking than in writing, more interested in living than in writing. More interested in becoming a work of art than in creating one. I am more interesting than what I write. I am gifted in relationship above all things. I have no confidence in myself and great confidence in others. I need love more than food. I stumble and make errors, and often want to die. When I look most transparent is probably when I have just come out of the fire. I walk into the fire always, and come out more alive. All of which is not for Harper’s Bazaar.

I think life tragic, not comic, because I have no detachment. I have been guilty of idealization, guilty of everything except detachment. I am guilty of fabricating a world in which I can live and invite others to live in, but outside of that I cannot breathe. I am guilty of too serious, too grave living, but never of shallow living. I have lived in the depths. My first tragedy sent me to the bottom of the sea; I live in a submarine, and hardly ever come to the surface. I love costumes, the foam of aesthetics, noblesse oblige, and poetic writers. At fifteen I wanted to be Joan of Arc, and later, Don Quixote. I never awakened from my familiarity with mirages, and I will end probably in an opium den. None of that is suitable for Harper’s Bazaar.

I am apparently gentle, unstable, and full of pretenses. I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself. I wrote, lived, loved like Don Quixote, and on the day of my death I will say: ‘Excuse me, it was all a dream,’ and by that time I may have found one who will say: ‘Not at all, it was true, absolutely true.

– Anais Nin

Anais