Your life is not an episode of Skins. Things will never look quite as good as they do in a faded, sun-drenched Polaroid; your days are not an editorial from Lula. Your life is not a Sofia Coppola movie, or a Chuck Palahniuk novel, or a Charles Bukowski poem. Grace Coddington isn’t your creative director. Bon Iver and Joy Division don’t play softly in the background at appropriate moments. Your hysterical teenage diary isn’t a work of art. Your room probably isn’t Selby material. Your life isn’t a Tumblr screencap. Every word that comes out of your mouth will not be beautiful and poignant, infinitely quotable. Your pain will not be pretty. Crying till you vomit is always shit. You cannot romanticize hurt. Or sadness. Or loneliness. You will have homework, and hangovers and bad hair days. The train being late won’t lead to any fateful encounters, it will make you late. Sometimes your work will suck. Sometimes you will suck. Far too often, everything will suck - and not in a Wes Anderson kind of way. And there is no divine consolation - only the knowledge that we will hopefully experience the full spectrum - and that sometimes, just sometimes, life will feel like a Coppola film.
Highlights of Bonnaroo:
-Paul McCartney having six times the energy of bands half his age: He told stories about Hendrix and The Beatles, ran across the stage waving the Tennessee flag, caught a stuffed walrus thrown from the audience, and had a 3-song encore.
-Rolling with Drew to Animal Collective, which played a late night—or very early morning—set from 2-4 AM; or, That Feeling When Your Heart Is an Orchid That Won’t Stop Blooming. After the show, we watched the run rise over the southern fields, the grass and tents outlined in curry-yellow light. The smell of mud and weed and bacon. Dirty skin you can’t stop touching.
-Feta and artichoke quesadillas
-Chinese lanterns rising and disappearing into the purple night—like church lights that never go out
-signed screen prints.
-Being without a phone or Internet for 4 days
-The inspiration like an endless flood of serotonin rushing through me. This was the revival I needed.
Leaving for Bonnaroo tonight
—I just had the last shower I will have in a long time.
—we’ll be driving through the dark, all night maybe. However long it takes to reach Tennessee. I miss the endlessness of southern highways, the neon flash of Waffle Houses.
—I told my mom I was seeing Paul McCartney. “I turn 64 this year,” she said, alluding to the classic radio hit. She handed me a roll of money and an old concert tee. “Anyway, tell him I say hi.”
—This morning, i went shopping for provisions. There are far too many brands of bottled water in the grocery store.
—I bet Paul McCartney drinks Fred.
—For some reason, I found it necessary to buy two bottles of Flinstone vitamins.
—“Don’t buy any fake drugs,” my friend Kelly sagely advised. “Better yet, bring your own.”
—How much of life is hard chemicals and how much is placebo?
—“Buy the ticket, ride the ride”—-Hunter s. Thompson.
—Really, I’m just happy to be moving again.