Week 8, Theme 1

Prompt: A journal entry describing a single day written by another person actual or imagined, contemporary or historical. (This might take the form of an imitation or parody of a famous diarist like Woolf or Boswell.)

Jamesday

Today was normal. I woke up at 4 and grabbed an orange, then started in on a few books of Chaucer. Vince – best agent ever – called me at 5 and told me that Dior Homme wanted to do another shoot, that the sweat on my forehead was “beading up oddly” in the first set of photos. Shrugging, I maintained concentration on Chaucer’s use of onomatopoeia. I decided to do an art project in which pages of books that use onomatopoeia would be suspended in a wind tunnel into which would be piped classical music. Refocus: at 6:30, I woke up the blond still sleeping in my bed and told her to shoo. Throwing on my heavy, patched cotton jacket and making sure that my eyes looked tired but not exhausted, my hair messy but not greasy, I walked out of the Study and to Starbucks and ordered hot water. I caught a cab to Union station and took a quick train over to RISD to check on my paper-mâché project. I remembered that I had a flight out of Logan at 10. Ahh, commercial aviation: the airline companies had repeatedly rejected my requests to conduct a live-art project where I arrange their schedules to fit my daily routine. By 1pm Pacific time (4pm James Franco time) I was at LAX. Vince picked me up and reminded me that I had to practice my lines for the Oscars. I ran them over once in the car but soon lost interest. I put on a tux that Vince gave me and then hosted the Oscars with this non-blond girl. Midway through the show Perez let me know that people didn’t really like my performance. I decided that I wasn’t feeling LA, so instead of going to the afterparty I’d been planning, I hopped on a United flight on standby. I fell asleep in seat 19B in the company of little pretzels and Chaucer.