My Eyes Are Up Here
Nothing much to report here. I’ve been coming up short lately. No one knows what to do with me. I could’ve been a leading bird. I could’ve played Lear (Farm Version). Things were supposed to happen for me in Stratford-on-Avon in the 17th century, but Billy had to take everything I had and make it “his own.” There weren’t cell phones back them, I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t tattle on William Shakespeare because no one would’ve believed me; more likely, I would’ve been killed or elaborately tortured. People used to think that I was possessed by a demon when I spoke, or some kind of monster not of this earth; ever since 1945, people don’t care. They notice, but they quickly ignore it, as if I had a disability. My small, feathery body reminds them of their moral compartmentalization—I know that you know that I know that you and your kind like cooking, frying, and eating me—and, indeed their mortality. They see me, somehow still alive, and they ask how can there be a God? It’s a good question; I’m sad that I don’t have the answer.
Quentin and Mr. Fincher are working something out with a speedboat. It sounds complicated. I’m trying not to indulge in old, bad habits, so I’ve started smoking cigarettes again. Just two a day, and always with seltzer water (good for the tar); after a nutritious meal, a smoke is nice, I must say. Filthy habit, though. I feel bad. I’m already smoking an ounce of poundweed a day. Two cigarettes already feels too much. But I keep my eggs open. No I don’t lay eggs. I’m not a hen. But I do keep them in my pouches (various). Last night I was reading The Guardian, and a writer asked if “too much hate broke Lena Dunham.” What does this mean? No one can break that woman. She created Girls, and the character Mimi Rose Howard (“Mimi Rose is my first name. My middle name is Eleanor.”) She’s kind of a ledge in my book.
Moving on: a volcano in Alaska started “rumbling” for the first time in 100 years. Don’t worry, I’m on this. It’s not a problem yet. It won’t become a problem until… okay I just checked and I’m obligated not to say, but, um… it’s sooner than I remembered. Like, by five years. I’m going to have to go to Alaska soon. I hope Quentin doesn’t get mad… I don’t care what Mr. Fincher thinks… David Fincher… fuck him… Lazy mothafucka only does one take of me and 100 of Brad Pitt yeah I lied to you I wasn’t in those takes I was standing in the wings, watching like everyone else on set… nobody cares about Bennington…
Volcanoes really piss me off. Why are they there? A volcano does nothing but fuck shit up, like Pompeii. I had a shorty there. Then the top blew off. For real? Come on. We shouldn’t have to live in fear of featuring in a mediocre disaster movie starring Charlton Heston. I’m taking care of it, don’t worry.
My claws have been hurting lately. Maybe I’m developing early onset diabetes… I’m still young for my kind… joints are beyond stiff at times, feels painful. Maybe I need to buy a new ottoman. My trailer isn’t as decked out as Quentin’s, which is confusing, but okay, I’ll take it. I’m not going to cause trouble. I know this is my first studio gig in years, even if it’s for Netflix. Maybe they won’t even exist by the time this movie comes out; maybe Rian Johnson leaving and other filmmakers demanding theatrical releases will eat away at their appeal; maybe artists will avoid them, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll slip off the face of the Earth. Then we can all watch movies together again.
I want you to see The Adventures of Cliff Booth in theaters. Not just once, nine times. It’s only right and natural. My friends The Frogs made an album about that once. You should check it out sometime. Kurt Cobain was a fan, and he’s doing just fine.
—Follow Bennington Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits