Blander Candor

Sarah Jessica Parker & Robert Downey Jr. circa 1983

“But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it always happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of those lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. You will remember having conversations with this person that never actually happened. You will recall sexual trysts with this person that never technically occurred. This is because the individual who embodies your personal definition of love does not really exist. The person is real, and the feelings are real-but you create the context. And context is everything. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet first time you really, really want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.”

— Chuck KlostermanKilling Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story 
Ulay, S’he, 1972.

“The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn’t thought about it.”

— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar 

Being 18 is strange. You know you’re 18. Popular mythologies dictate someday you’ll look back and romanticize being 18. So you know you’re supposed to be living out some kind of idealized freedom. But being 18, you’re able to block out that pressure of expectation and get on with the business of idealized freedom. Or is that just how i now remember being 18, lens smeared with vaseline? I think even the deep confusion of being 18 felt good, romantic somehow.

You don’t know yet that being 19 is stranger and 21 stranger still and from now on every day will seem stranger than the day before until suddenly you’re 30 then 35 and you’re divorced and broke and some people you know die and everyone else has babies both of which reveal life to be truly but a dream and you have no choice but to continue and the shit job you had is the shit job you still have and you wonder if people don’t age like Russian dolls, each year a shell over the last restricting access to past senses of wonder and the hangovers are worse and hardly make hanging out at all seem worth it and if you drink now you’re just another drinking jerk and if you still smoke pot now you’re some adult drug-addict which is very different than being a daring young psychonaut and the impossible trick becomes learning how to best tread all the strangeness which gets stranger every day in a manner that suits you personally. And personally, i am still working on it. But i figure continuing to work on it is my only option.

— Tim Kinsella (via prunejuicedoyle)