December 21, 2002 - 10:12 p.m.

I watched the film Frida. It ain’t a great film, but the subject... Frida - how can you go wrong? I felt so fuckin frustrated seein it... just the artist struggling to believe in their own worth, to get the work out of themselves and into the world.. and I wish I got a 16th of the stuff I write in my head, down... I distract myself... I wound myself, I've been hurting myself with the usual viciousness that I muster. So trapped within my skin… so much I wish I'd put down… sitting here goin round and round in my head… I am so lonely so alone. I wish I could put down half of the thoughts, ideas that come into my head, I don’t and they choke off on my, in me like twisted intestines. And I destroy myself… And just stay in my world and the energy saps me, the slow leak of it. And I want to create, and writing is such a solitary act and I crave attention, love and to be surrounded by folks and yet it is what terrifies me. And I destruct. I realized how much I have to create, and how I stop myself… Music books articles, too spread out. I just pick up the phone and leak it all out till I am deflated enough to sleep... but it is not what I was meant to do. I want to leave work that lasts beyond me and I am leaking it out in emails and phone calls, and it is all my fault and I can not seem to stop.