I switched over to online blogging in 2004.
At that stage, self-pity and spontaneity were evident in writing—phases of not capitalising ‘I’ and not capitalising after a full stop. I remember the exact path that I walked and danced on.
Online blogging (or diary-keeping) is revolutionary. When looking at the entries from 2004, I noticed that I never mentioned his name once, whereas I did in my written journals from 2002-2004. How much I hated him and how he had caused me trouble every day (if not his life). In my blog, I was (and still am) self-absorbed, oblivious and probably unlikeable. I feel tempted to give you the link, but I’d rather not let you know because, in one entry, I talk badly about the elderly.
When reading the old blog, I realised that something was always wrong – every day, something was out of order, something needed fixing, but I just never had the appropriate tool, except music. I used to make music compilations for all sorts of moods. Let’s call them mixtapes of the moods–starting with an equilibrium, setting scenes, or illustrating a feeling.
Unusual but true. A piece of writing never starts without the ideal soundtrack that incites me to dance at the back of my head.
I have Tindersticks on repeat. Even before the beginning of this blog post. I shot a music video in my head. It’s a black and white video set in Paris. Couples are kissing; some are crying, but you can’t tell why. A woman smokes a cigarette while gazing into the abyss of the Seine. The couples are parting, still, arm in arm. The woman’s hazy eyes are observing the inconsistent city lights shimmering in the Seine. Just as the song reaches its climax, the woman bends her body over the barrier. Her feet are now in the air. She takes one last drag before letting go of her cigarette. Then her body rolls forward into the river. As she sinks, she watches the shimmering lights from the other side.
If music isn’t another form of fiction, then I don’t know.