Existentialism | Chloe Blossom's Diary

I often think about writing, yet the amount I produce is far less. At what point does the sacrifice of work and the duties of being a mother outweigh the fragility of the soul’s needs? Things are not bad or sad here, although some thoughts compel me to write beyond my own excuses why I shouldn’t. How many loads of laundry waiting are the cost of a diary entry?

‘Loss of Innocence’ by Josie Rivas. A postcard given to me about eight years ago in 2015.

I will tell you I am a maximalist with a slight bad habit of minimalism. Perhaps the reality is I am just bad at committing to one or the other. I am talking about aesthetics and art here. A little, big art affair of the mind and heart. My goal is to cover my walls as much as possible with art. Art that fulfills me in one way or another. That’s the maximalism. When I was little, was there much of even a slight inch of wall allowed behind all the treasures on my wall? At that time, ripped from magazines, ragged edges, taped and placed. A collage of my mind and values wallpapering my bedroom.

When you are an adult, you can expand the art to many more walls. Except, you have to consider the aesthetics of what your guests would want to lay eyes on. Or, if you are like me, and film at home, what the algorithms will get moody over and deem unacceptable. Sorry, Vargas pin-up girls, you get shoved in a box for now until I can figure out where to place you in my crowded bedroom. The stronger the death grip of censorship becomes on social media, the more eagerly I look to art for comfort. I remember a time when my ignorance was at full force, and before more legal changes trickled down insidiously from the control of social media giants and banking systems.

And do you ever get a damn bug in your head, seemingly out of nowhere and you can’t shake it out? Tonight mine is about a postcard. I used to collect postcards, then friends would give me them. I have kept most of them, even throughout my minimalist bad habits. They deserve to cover a wall at some point, I am not ready for that yet though. This postcard is secretively in plain sight, carelessly sharing a magnet with a health pamphlet on the side of my fridge.

Nobody notices it. The front is adorned with all the usual suspects, alphabet magnets, little drawings, a mommy calendar, phrase magnets, and a few random other cute magnets. This postcard, sits above the health pamphlet, yet is shielded partially by a burrito recipe printed out months ago under its own magnet. I forget about it often, until once in awhile, there it is. There she is. I notice her. I notice myself.

My secret postcard in plain sight holds great emotion to it, I cherish it, despite it having ambivalent meaning to me. Given to me by a then bestie, the kind of bestie that is maybe a bit too close. A sisterhood that is both toxic love and forever-by-your-side there for you. The postcard goes beyond her though, I think a lot about the meaning of this postcard. A longing for a loss nothing to do with her, then a loss that is to do with her, while a loss of the future that has not happened and is unknown. An everlasting grief encapsulated in a piece of art.

That’s just it, that is what art is. Visual queues to evoke emotions with the deeply set associations. I can’t tell you what or why my associations are, before I even knew what the painting meant, it got to me. I think to myself, when did I lose my innocence? I can tell you some memories, certain events I lost some. Is it a bunch of events, or is it one profound event that you lose your innocence?

I think even if you have lost more innocence than you meant to or had innocence stolen from you before you were ready, I think it is possible to gain fragments of it back. I feel art can help you save parts of yourself you thought were lost.

As written to me from my friend at the time:

I’ve been keeping this particular postcard for…3 years? I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. That would be you! I have moved perhaps 6 or 7 times and met so many people, but none have warranted that ‘occasion’. You’re a special person and I want *you* to have this. I got it from an art gallery opening…there was a piece Josie Rivas had that was interactive. He got everyone to write on this piece when they believed their innocence was lost. It was called ‘innocence lost’ actually, I think. Anyhow. Onto the next step. Awesomeness found. <3 you

Home

That song’s about not having to deal with the real world by getting out of your mind. It’s saying, ‘you take your real world and I’ll just sit over here with me guitar and me absinthe, thanks.

There is a type of magic in making a decision. There is a lingering grief that rolls forward and backwards, with you, without you. A possibility of happy grief, if two words could ever not belong side-by-side. These two are that pair.

When you realize the next steps are sooner than you were ever prepared for. It still brings me a heavy sadness wrapped in warm contentment. Is it this painful for a butterfly or a phoenix?

For me, songs are like time capsules of emotion. I cannot, I will not listen to certain rhythms, lyrics or favourite songs unless in that state of emotion. Hearing a song from old important playlists is a time travel too fast for me to realize what position I placed myself in. Nostalgic, riveting, how could I forget this or that?

Apparently every time you access a memory you change it depending on your emotion at the time of accessing that library memory card again. You remember that birthday party sad, once again when you’re happy, again while angry. What details are reality? Your reality is real.

I do not pay attention to the lyrics of a song obsession until one day I have the courage to discover the answer, and then hits home hard. What does it mean to me? I do not know. Perhaps you can relate, perhaps not. Often enough songs of escapism, dreaminess, and ethereal tranquility are my chosen obsessions.

Absinthe is a special drink to me, it doesn’t belong in this reality. This universal peek into another life. The ritual of preparation, the journey into which it unfolds. What is it about ritual that is so profound?

This sugar cube means everything to me in this setting, not remotely the same as a sugar cube dropping into a cup of coffee. It’s cheap. What? This little styrofoam cup of coffee, and the tiny brown plastic stir-stick, that perfectly square too-small napkin, somehow ruins that same glorious precious sugar cube I once held in high regard for absinthe? Yes.

Okay, it’s contextual then. This same sugar cube is worthless, gross, meaningless in that work or conference setting. This same sugar cube is the precious stone of the earth, consenting to melting slowly, under the burning fire, to further enrich that glorious crystal glass of absinthe. God, those beautiful, green drops of ecstasy. In this very moment, that is how I feel and relate to regarding my industry. I have seen the same sweetness be degraded, beneath, forced, non-existent, objectified. She is worthless.

“Wow. You are so sweet.”

Is the insult. The sickness. The vile warning that you are about to be battered. Her choice of course, physical or emotional? Why did he even put that sugar in this cheap styrofoam cup of coffee? This sugar is useless. That same evening the same person sips the absinthe in crystal glass, after patiently waited for sweetness to melt. Respected the fire, gently gliding into the absinthe. Gentle into the poison. A choice. Without her, the drink is not the same. Without her, the entire experience is worthless. She is not worthless.

The inspiration for this song came to Kasibian guitarist and lead songwriter Serge Pizzorno in the summer of 2009 when he found a £20,000 bottle of antique absinthe on a German website. He told Q magazine that it was the stuff that Hemingway and Piccaso used to drink, and though tempted, he eventually decided not to buy the vintage highly alcoholic beverage. The previous time he drank a lot of absinthe he nearly destroyed his relationship with his veterinary assistant girlfriend, Amy.

Pizzorno described the song to Q: “It’s a psychedelic tune about those moments when you look around and think the dream is over, and the only thing left to do is pull out the absinthe and head for oblivion. The whole X Factor, celebrity culture thing. Dogs in handbags.”

Absinthe is a distilled, highly alcoholic beverage, which achieved great popularity as an alcoholic drink in late 19th- and early 20th-century France. It was particularly associated with artists and writers, and may have provided a creative spark for their work. Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Vincent van Gogh and Oscar Wilde were all known drinkers. By 1915, absinthe had been banned in the United States and in most European countries. The song title comes from the fact that it traditionally has a natural green color and is commonly referred to in historical literature as “la fée verte” (the “green fairy” in French).

The song originally appeared on the soundtrack for the 2010 William Monahan directed film London Boulevard. The version heard in the movie is different to the one on the album.

Pizzorno explained the song’s meaning to Q magazine: That song’s about not having to deal with the real world by getting out of your mind. It’s saying, ‘you take your real world and I’ll just sit over here with me guitar and me absinthe, thanks.”

Pizzorno told Q magazine: “There’s a few little private jokes in that song to some of my pals. The line, ‘I met Dali in the street.’ Dali is (English comedian) Noel Fielding. And he is the modern-day Dali. That man is a precious jewel.

La Free Verte – Kasabian

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