my blog my blog my blog

I used to write a lot on this blog, in fact I’ve had marianissimaairlines for more than 10 years now. In the beginning I would pour out everything that was happening in my life since I’d left home. I remember a friend saying “you have a very interesting life, you should have a blog”. I think I’ve always been very personal on my blog-writing style, specially during a certain phase of my life. For a few years my posts were full of confessions about love and sex, filled with pictures from orgies and parties and after-parties and after all the parties when the excitement was coming down, really down, and I would write about those feeling of confusion and loneliness and my friends back home would be worried and my mom would tell me “I stopped reading your blog because it’s too hard for me, I don’t understand it”, I guess the s&m was a bit too much for her, seeing her daughter being spanked and full of bruises. I was happy, though, in a conflicted way, experimenting and pushing myself into find where the limits were. Then one day I got tired of everything, because that’s how I do it, like listening to the same track over and over again during a whole day until I can’t stand it, to the point of anger. I wish I could handle better some of my own personal features. “Think about those sayings about having the power to control your own mind”, but it’s not easy at all and some behaviours seem to live in the house of the irrational, beyond understanding and proper management. So I decided I was done with the blog. I know a lot of people was reading me at the time, some curious people from the town I grew up who wouldn’t talk to me when they’d see me in person; some curious people from the city I was living in who admired my brilliant friends and probably me as we were so outspoken and active in our crowd (community just sounds too organized and established). People would call me Marianissima instead of Mariana, they would come up to me asking if I was her. I deleted everything. I was quite sure I had saved some texts but I could never found them, lost in some old hard drive, lost in a CD, burned of old digital age. My new blog was white, the other one was black. My texts were shorter and shorter. For a while I did a lot of collages with self-portraits included. I’d spend much of my time inside my room, my new room which I had for 2 years or so before changing countries again. It was big and modernist from 1860 with a lot of light and a balcony, not like the previous basement in an artist studio with a stupid macho Argentinian painter and a crazy woman who was obsessed with me and would get into my bed in the middle of the night and then kicked me out because I was rude to her annoying son. It wasn’t like that other interior room with a window to the lift and a landlady who forced me to clean the oven I never used the day on I left on my knees in front of her while her boyfriend who cried silently at the door because he kind of liked me. One day I had such a horrible come down of speed I feared I would jump out of the balcony which led to a pool of rubbish and hard concrete, it was a terrible place that house. Inside my new big room I’d take pictures of myself with the timer and then put my body in all sorts of landscapes with added elements, very camp and fun and melancholic. There’s always some sadness in the work but if I think about it, in all the works, there’s always some loneliness in trying to figure out the personal, even when it’s made public. And then what happen? The new city had totally different rules, the time was brutally different and so was the sky and the air, so heavy. I guess I was so turned up inside I didn’t manage to reach the keyboard, I lost the words for a while. Then got them back again, but the time and the sky and the air were still the same, different. So I don’t know, between there and here and my new airs I sort of lost touch with it. This year I made a facebook again, tried one back in 2008 and didn’t like it so deleted it. Last month I got an instagram, really like it. I also have a tumblr for photos and videos where nothing happens and another for references but only the ones I can reblog from other accounts, never the content I find myself. Because otherwise what does stay private? I do have that fear of exposure, not as strong as to not use the internet, not as strong as to create an account with a different name and never tell anyone, but still present. I wonder where to put what and when and how to manage it. What is each account for? But this blog, oh this blog inspires me such tenderness! It has seen so much, felt so much. It feels cosy and I’m pretty sure by now I lost all the readers I ever had and that feels so calming, like when you can come back home again because the after party at your house is over and they all left because it’s already sunday night but good for you you’re not having a come down from speed, you’re alright and it’s all magically clean, no cups no bottles no smoke, just a few details here and there, like little memories. It’s not false modesty, I lack of that, I really have practically no readers now, I only know of a friend (hi klau) who was following me, now you can follow me and see when I put things, but when I started and had readers that wasn’t an option so maybe by now they all forgot. In light of that empty cosy house I came back tonight which in fact a sunday night and because I’m going through some insecurities I thought, and my girlfriend said, write about it, “be secure about your insecurities”. I’m not talking about those specific troubles now, they are work related and I obsess over them, another behaviour from the house of the irrational. I press new post and I write, I’m fucking spitting it out free from anyone looking at me, free from a paper from school, training this bravery of exposure to be thicker. I’m not correcting it, not going back and forward, I don’t want to care about my imperfect English right now, lack of articulation and not so wide range of words, fuck it. I’m not even pausing to think, just did it now a little because I don’t know how to finish this. Well who cares.