The Savage Girl by Alex Shakar has incited some sort of hidden rage in me. About marketing and advertisements, about fashion and labels, about the very nature of people in general. Last night as Dhara and I sat by the window at the Mudhouse and watched the Cinco de Mayo aficionados saunter drunkenly by, I was half tempted to run outside and through the streets screaming, “What’s wrong with you fucking people???” all the while stripping off all my clothes as the only umbilical thread left in association with myself and Adam and Eve. Call it an existential breakdown. I found myself completely bereft of any sympathy or love for my fellow man. And in that moment, I didn’t want friends or a boyfriend or a family. I wanted complete isolation from the modern world. I wanted to be Thoreau. I wanted to dig myself a hole and avoid the media for a year and inject myself with heroin and invent things. All of this I told Dhara, except with the addition of the “fuck” word thrown in just loud enough for the gay boys on a date with their moms (which also fucked me up a bit) to glance over a few times to try and catch a piece of what had riled me so.
But I’ve calmed down a bit now. Trying to find a middle-ground between the now Jeff and the really quite insane existential Jeff.
Dhara and I also went to see Annie Get Your Gun with my parents for my birthday. Where the hell did my mother get the idea that I would want to see Annie Get Your Gun? It was quite amusing, the clichés and such, all of which the audience of 80-year-old Midwesterners, complete self-proclaimed sophisticates, found fucking hilarious. But I’ve definitely become a bit disillusioned with the theatre as well. It’s sad how I eventually stop loving everything I once loved.