Saturday, July 24, 1982
Why do I write this? Some of it must be due in part to feelings I’ve already noted. Everyone and everything is impermanent: the relationships, the fleeting impressions, the thoughts, and tiny events happening all over the world in their billionfold but are so quick to be given up and lost. Reality is incredibly complex. It's this unalterable fact of existence which first made me consider a journal necessary. If life is worth living, it mustn't go unrecorded, however boring, mundane, or pretentious that life might be.
These thoughts occurred to me as I read a biography of Helen Vaughan I got from the library today. The question of what drives true artists—those who aren't interested in money, fame or even whether or not they'll be read—makes me think about how I do write here with a constant yet usually unspoken regard for the future, as if in some ridiculous and insane way I expect these words to be read by someone other than me. I must have some sort of egotistical delusion about my own worth.
All I can work out from this lunatic prattle is that I’m the biggest, graspingest self who ever lived, and a conceited bore, to boot, but I did begin from honest motives!
I bought a strange 12” by 23 Skidoo and also a single by The Nightingales. I find the Helen Vaughan biography morbidly, intensely fascinating. She had a Zen Buddhist view of life and death.
I watched Psycho for the first time. Antony Perkins as Norman Bates is incredible.