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As announced, I start this diary
I hope so without taboos
Slept badly. The unbearable Relationship to others agitates me and torments me. That's the subject. For years: alone or accompanied? Defending oneself from sweet and sour relationships. How can I do that? Just yesterday, they want to make me lower my offer by making me believe that it is my offer that is indecent; that I am being offered a skill that would be worth so much more. We dig a little and nothing; nothing; where is the heart and the talent that are touted?
Every exchange or conversation that engages my interest fucks me dry; fucks me in the face despite considerable effort and feverish agitation to defend myself. The feverishness, of course, is where the problem lies. My indecency is there. Indignation is fashionable. I'm only indignant in the most banal way about misery. It's too enormous. I should be indignant about life itself, about the injustice of death and suffering. No, I am indignant above all about the daily abuse; the little lies one makes to others and to oneself in order to keep one's ass safe; to privilege one's views, but without openly risking conflict and claiming one's interests. It is legitimate to defend one's interests. What's rubbish is to 'generously' boast of the opposite. So, in turn, I ask myself how I can stand up and defend my interests against the best-intentioned people.
The director's posture finally disgusted me one day. Fortunately I have more or less managed to get rid of it over the years; to change my desire and my status, to let them do more, to take over, to leave the place empty and go and dream somewhere else while they think I am there. As long as I went along with everyone's wishes, everything was fine. I asked for so little and gave so much that it was grotesque. And they were happy to let me think I was the boss. And they felt like they were giving, even though they were not required to make any effort other than to have fun; not even to memorise a text, which I didn't care about and never demanded.
Free, fast, naked and with text in hand; we were going. All we had to do was.
Instructions and cupcakes were served on a platter. My ex-partner once told me in a fit of self-sufficient bullshit, being an actress herself, that I didn't like actors. Fuck her; I've never liked anything in a person other than their acting potential. That doesn't mean that I like her insufferable narcissism. Everything else is indifferent to me, doesn't concern me, bores me. It's so much the only bearable aspect of these fucking human relationships that I announce it to the audience with big signs: come on; be actors! Be my playmates since the others, the real ones, the professional players, the whole nice staf of the show business professionals are so conditional! It will always be like that; on their terms.
Mr. Hyde takes hold of me. As usual, the work overload is so great that I would vomit. My hatred is an atomic bomb. I spare everyone, especially the stupidest and least deserving. I hurt my dearest friend, Any, who, because of her kindness and unfailing love, gets my vomit in her face and my beastly screams in her ears while I drive alone. I'm sorry.
The rest of the world wants me to believe incessantly that it is doing me a favour; that I am asking for so much; that it is granting me so much more.
