Lucius Bod | Rogue Diary

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It is of the utmost importance to not be important. On my daily commute to work I see hundreds of faces on the trolley, all without a smile, hiding behind a persona these anonymous beings created over many years of over-exposure to Culture… or lack thereof. Appearance is now the reality in contrast to empathy. My aim these days is to enter the homogeny of egos surrounding me in the new Drone Economy.

Ah, the perverse joy I feel when my visual experiences are distilled as I carbon-date other people’s outfits! You can tell when someone was at their happiest in the ’80s by nullifying the pride with which they wear shameless copies of apparel staples in the magazines and on the telly during that decade. Such is my banale sport of late. Perhaps I’ve become just as boring and care no more.

My eyes are not hazel by coincidence because there is something behind them other than you, my former lover. I feel something more than a golden and rotten envy as I look out the window from my minuscule office at stunning bodies across the street from where we used to gape at the homeless.

Other people's stable lives are no longer Bourgeois to me. I’m an activist against homelessness who has lost brio and regained a tranquil lust for the uncomplicated sexual acts of the young adult animal. What makes me who I am? Desire.

No one can explain why it’s hard to write when happiness is all around me and no one has a bottle of booze at hand. I’ve tried to write my observations and epiphanies in the diary whilst very happy and found myself powerless, pitifully emasculated and certainly not in the mood to write dark prose. Shock and chaos usually pull me out of a depressive cycle and into anger, but what is left after the fury overwhelms my body and mind like a warrior’s thirst after a nasty battle. No writing for me this evening.

Well, what do I seek in earnest? Rebirth. For this to work out I need to meet a gently-used soul. I am in desperate need of falling in love with someone who is experienced in Life as I am but still optimistic. I’d like to fall in love one last time. I wish for this last love to also be my last story because nothing I live in those moments will be shared with anyone. Save me from the collapse of my faith.

This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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Fashion photography by Jannis Tsipoulanis

She resisted the conventions of her craft and the politics of her business for one year. Every new film propagated her image of beauty and lust with unrestrained promiscuity. Every man who watched her became enamoured and jealous, possessive and demanding. A saviour to all, she was. The women saw a threat, but none could forget the agency of her ingenuity in the few moments she was allowed to show it.

Her range of emotions increased auspiciously with every new middleman she dealt with and all the ambitious female allies she made. Fame was almost close enough to touch and she could feel it. One, two, then infinite lies took her to new levels of achievement. I watched, amused.

When she bowed out of her screen self at the end of rehearsals we used to meet at my flat between Franklin and Ivar Avenues and do shots of Jack. She would always ask: “Lucius, do you think I will be a star someday?” In the Oracle of my mind my answer came back as multiple distorted echoes through barely-used synapses to help me understand she belonged to her public and the end of our intimacy was nigh.

In the spring of ‘89 she entered the elite group of actors who can control their public image and projects after a masterful performance that earned her domestic and foreign awards. She mentioned me in her acceptance speeches! I was proud and full of joy for her.

One night, after celebrating yet another award she turned to me, still smiling for the cameras and made me promise never to tell anyone about her childhood. She had finally entered the safe haven of wealth and its power to intoxicate her out of sad memories. Our friendship was dangerously becoming a part of the past she had been relentlessly escaping from because she was being born again.

The last time we met she chose Grauman’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. We walked in the afternoon arm in arm. We laughed and then quarrelled over Champagne memories and stopped on the corner of La Brea and Sunset Boulevard. Tears fell from behind her cat’s eye framed dark sunglasses and gave me one last kiss to remember what we were. She called a taxi and left me in the final act of her wondrous live performance. I was in the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

Model: Siri Tollerød

This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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https://www.facebook.com/luciusbod

Lucius Bod | Rogue Diary

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