7/28/15

I dreamed I got my hair dyed to look like that girl I hate. The girl who Hates me. Black in the back bleached blonde in the front. We don't hate each other we just don't understand one another. I just know she'll hate my outfit and she'll have something to say about it too. She doesn't get it. She just doesn't get me.




7/17/15

notes



1. I was explaining to someone recently about this easy thing I did, in the midst of losing my mind. I went to a friend's party. We used to date many years ago but then we became distant friends. I like him and he likes me and the possibility of us as a couple remains so much better for being unrealized. I went to a party for him by myself feeling really terrible and out of place and I hit it off with a cute boy there. It's like we're all exes. We're all the same type, and we can hit on each other. I had someone recently try to explain the different pokemon types to me, it's similar. I was telling someone though, how easy it was to flirt. How familiar and easy. That muscle is stretched. With this skill I do not doubt myself. I don't worry. But standing up for myself? No. Taking myself seriously as a person? No.

2. Thinking about the recent pathology of "Low T". How men feel that they lose so much testosterone late in life that they have to take it as a drug. It's taken, often, using this topical gel. The thing about the gel is that once it's applied you can't touch anyone or you could accidentally spread your hormones to them, and fuck them up. It's as if Daddy needs to take his special Daddy medication to become more male, to staunch the feminizing forces of aging (the three fates were, after all, beautiful ladies), and in order to take this medicine, he has to cut off physical contact. Retreat to the man-cave. To recuperate. To become a man alone. To fight this battle for maleness by yourself. PLD brought up a good point-- that queer people subvert these kinds of gender paradigms. Two people who both wanted more hormones could use the gel and touch each other. They could use androgel as lube. Love or sex or desire could be a matter of having the same diagnoses. Needing the same medicine. Being fellow-travelers on the same or at least intercepting paths towards (y)our resolutions. What happens, I wonder, when you realize that these paths diverge. We shared a nice slimy maleness together, dear.



3. So boy crazy all of the sudden. Maybe it's the heat or the increasing desperation to feel like something/someone. Maybe it's my own medication. Maybe it's my chemicals. I've been noticing this cute blond boy I ride the train with in the mornings. Dyed blond. Buzzed. He's very cute and he dresses nice and he sometimes carries a big black BaoBao Issey Miyake bag. Do I know him. No. He of course avoids me.

4. Questions that come. Are you a ghost. Are you becoming a ghost. Are you becoming replaceable. Do you want to be replaceable. One of many.



Same songs different day. Same dances different floor.

Was thinking about something recently-- do you turn into ore. Are you golden. Am I buried.

7/14/15

7/8/15

I was gonna invite people. I was going to say you should come but really you shouldn't. I can't in good conscience say that I'd love to perform because I don't know if I would. I'd love to be asked to perform. I'd love to feel like I had something that someone wanted. But in a way I do: presence right. Like I can be an audience member. A punching bag. All the world wants from me.

I want so badly to be part of something, to feel like I fit in or I might not be such a waste of space but I can't. It seems like everything I try just fails and gets harder and turns people off. And I know it's creepy and I know I'm belaboring the point.

I wanted to be okay and to have fun to participate but I can't. It feels like something years ago happened I don't know what or when but I've tried so much, pills now and spirituality or whatever. being patient, being nicer than I ought to be to people who don't deserve it. Nothing makes me feel like less of a loser. Nothing makes me excited. Nothing wants me. I don't have any ideas. I don't have any longings.

All I see is everyone around me moving forward, getting recognition, being invited to participate, being encouraged and being able to believe in themselves and all I see is this happening all around me and I try and I try to act like it's okay

but really, it's not going to happen for me. It probably never was. I never really acted like I wanted it to. But I got punished it felt like. And I'm still being punished. For what I don't know. But it just seems like I'm caught in this loop and I can't get out of it and it just gets worse and worse and harder and harder

and I was making it felt like a little progress. Like I wouldn't spend the same amount of time (days, weeks) brooding as I used to. But maybe that progress was kind of a delusion. I keep sliding back. And it gets harder and harder to screw up my courage and act like everything is okay and to be the fun and funny and laughing person that the world wants from me. I can't exist, I don't exist. I know it sounds dumb but I feel like I'm just this fucking black cloud of pain and I don't know what to do.

I don't want to write I don't want to perform I don't want to be an artist I don't want to fuck I just want to stop hating myself please

7/7/15

So don't get me wrong. I love my new snail cream, I switched to the Black Mizon kind.




I woke up the greasiest I've ever been in my life. Went to the kitchen to make coffee and was immediately drenched in sweat.

I tried to nap for a few minutes on the floor as I've often been doing lately
Compulsively.

And I woke up five minutes later not only greasy and sweaty but in extreme pain from a new round of mosquito bites.

Sunday I went to barneys' and Zabar's and Central Park and talked to my Mom and got bit by one million bugs and went windowshopping and came home and went for a jog and ordered takeout and finished the wine I had bought to take to parties and watched that stupid fucking chef's table show. My god. Everyone's so emotional. It's rare that displays of emotion gross me out, but there you go.

Saturday I yknow exercised early in the rain. As I said I did laps in the park. Then spent much of the day like pacing my room. Met up with Erin and Becca and Horsey and we want to Jiddy No-No's roof to watch the fireworks and saw Paps and Ben and Maggie there.

It was such a nice night That we went to the park to walk laps. They shut off the lights on us though. Went to Metro ran into buddies it was packed. As we left there was a line down the block to get in. I was mortified. We had run into Pailo so we went to a new bar around the corner, where Cheers Thai used to be. I never liked that restaurant so I'm fine with a fancy beer bar opening. I had fancy beers.

The very real threat of possibly having to someday move reared its ugly head again. I need to be a grown up and accept that someday I will have to move, change, etc. this is all to say I'm recommitting to my new project of rearranging my room and drastically paring down my belongings. I have lots of cool stuff I've collected. But the collecting was the thing. I don't need this. So I want to give lots of it to good new homes.

What is the best way to do this, do you reckon.

7/4/15

Another Late Start

GOt another late start this morning. I had wanted to wake up early. Yesterday I got a late start, I woke up at 11am. I woke up at 11am again today too, somewhat shamefully. I went for a jog, when it was raining. It was great. I listened to Ivy.



Then my headphones broke and I think a bug flew into my mouth. It's okay. Another sweaty morning before I really wake up. Another late start. Another painful skin infection, right. Another immune system response. Another wake up call! Another love story. Another boy. I'm making food, sort of uselessly. Just because I like it the thing of cooking. I'm making collard greens and black beans with curry and coconut and lots of garlic and brown rice and I'm hoping to cure myself through sheer force of will. I mean I'm not like sick sick.

Another holiday. Another weekend. I'm worried that one of the trees in the backyard is dead and needs to be cut down, or else it'll fall over during a storm and take out our internet or electricity or something. I'm worried they're going to sell the building or tear it down or kick us out. I'm worried about pests. Real ones, imagined ones. I'm worried about laziness.

I rarely wonder what would happen if I didn't have something to worry about.
I think it's cool to talk openly about taking drugs, in the sense that I think it's cool to talk openly about anything you're enthusiastic about. I was saying this recently about people who consider themselves exhibitionists: they seem hotter somehow because they're really into it and being really into it makes you hotter. I'm not an exhibitionist but I am I guess an enthusiast. That's like all I have, right. Is that enthusiasm.

Is there a way to brand or monetize this.

The fanboy brand. Is being nice market able?
I was talking with Logan at his show recently about identifying with Generation X so much that he notices a difference in the values with the current culture of, say, startups. And I agree. I also feel like selling out is inauthentic at best and dangerously exploitative at worst and failure and destruction is the only truth in the world, right. But I guess some people don't think Kurt was right, or something. Our Icarus. I loved in Girl In A Band how Kim talks about --- she makes the salient and often under-recognized point that Courtney and Kurt weren't together for that long before he died. But she doesn't share the fact that she believes Kurt's death was not a suicide. Which I think is cool and I think it's important to have critical thoughts whatever.

Kids these days don't care about kurt and courtney. To be honest I never did either. I didn't care about anything. I guess I cared about Belly. I've been thinking lately how Star was so important to me, for some reason. Why? I think because of the Tank Girl soundtrack? Which is how I heard of Belly (even though the song on the soundtrack was "Thief" which was a King b-side). And that soundtrack was organized by Courtney Love.

But no one thought Belly was cool with me. Not in 2000 when i was first getting into them. Not now. I remember finding Baby Silvertooth at Amoeba Records in San Francisco and being so excited and no one would ever know or care.



A guy I knew in New York who I promised I'd stop writing mean things about obliquely on my blog used to complain about how he liked Hole and some people liked Belly and I wonder if he meant me. If he knew that I like Belly so much. Did I tell him that? I rarely tell people that. It rarely comes up.

I mean it used to apparently be a thing to make fun of Belly, right? Like Free Kitten titled one of their tracks "Feed the Tree" for that Rock Stars Kill comp.



And I feel like other people make fun of them too. Like it was a running joke to be like "Well at least we're not singing 'Feed the Tree' you know?" But I dug it. I thought it was really deep. It's funny because I don't even listen to or like pretty much anything else other than Star though. I like the Muses okay but I haven't gotten into much of Tanya's solo stuff or the second Belly album.

I do like this though:



I mean I like them so much. Sometimes, more than once but not so much that I'd say often, but like... no, often. Often when I find myself writing (poetry or fiction or songs or thoughts or whatever) I'll feel stuck or like I'm struggling to express something and then the thing that comes into my head that's perfect is a Belly lyric. Maybe you know the feeling.

Jess is an Angel:

7/3/15

It feels as though I need to put some distance between things. Like I need to make more, be around more, in this other register. Something between public fawning and self-destruction. I don't want to seem disingenuous or seem like I'm pretending that everything is fine or horrible. I mean it doesn't matter, but it's a thing of having multiple conversations at the same time.

Sometimes I think about this, about different registers all happening at the same time and how that's chaotic. But that's also harmony, right? There's resonance there. Is music a metaphor.

The healing power of the erotic, right? I was so wrong, I'm still wrong.

A lot's been going on. I have a lot to do. I've been doing a lot. This week I went to go see Sister Pact perform in Long Island City and they were FANTASTIC. They have a new tape/album coming out soon and it's going to be a big thing.



It felt kind of familiar. This type of music, or this experience of music as being like: they wrote these songs super intentionally and they sound like this on purpose and it's not like what is getting played on the radio right now but it's valid, it's beautiful, it's strong, it's important. It's just what I needed. Like we need this right now, intellectual cute-boys post-shoegazers just diligently making art right. It's so unselfconscious.

I'm trying to really latch onto feelings of inspiration and be really cognizant of when it strikes. This is all to say that there are some shows I'm doing soon. Well, in August. But some other things too and I want to be able to feel excited about them and invite people.

I'm working on it.

6/29/15

spending a lot of time on my floor.

spending a lot of time alone.

spending a lot of time in pain. afraid.

don't really know anything.

6/25/15

updates:

- Such a gross thing happened to me last weekend. I made some iced coffee and set it on my nightstand and took a little nap. I woke up from the nap and gulped the iced coffee and walked to the bathroom and as I was walking I realized I had some coffee grinds or something in my mouth so I spit out the little piece of grit in the bathroom sink and it was grit. It was a fly and the fly was alive. I was mad.

- I'm really into teal. I want to wear only teal. My new iPhone case is teal. Maybe I should change my name to Max Teal. I bought some fancy nice new teal clothes this weekend. When I was 13 I dyed my hair teal and my dad helped me. It didn't last long the way things tend not to.

- I'm super excited to be featured on this new website DANDY DICKS (NSFW). It's a sexy website and they are featuring a version of my story "ANGELS" which is excerpted from my new zine DOOR GIRLS (which you can buy HERE -- I'm gonna keep harping on this for a little while, sorry). I want to write more for and about them and am looking forward to doing so. OK!

- Finally, this friday night I am very excited to be part of EVERYBOOTY at BAM, where I will be hosting a reading featuring myself, Kayla Morse and Tommy Pico. You can see the full schedule and info on tickets below. This is going to be epick and you definitely have to come.



After sold out events for the last three years, Everybooty returns to BAM to take over the entire four-floor Fisher Building (including an incredible rooftop!) for one QUEER night that mashes up performance, bands, art, DJs and readings and brings together SPANK, SARAH JENNY and BIG ART GROUP for an over-the-top not-to-be-missed sensational event.

TICKETS AVAILABLE NOW!!
http://www.bam.org/everybooty

A radical night of multi-arts mayhem to celebrate Pride!
++ PERFORMANCES ++
Will Sheridan
Mizz June
The Feath3r Theory
Turnt Up Trifecta (Untitled Queen, Horrorchata & Merrie Cherry with special guest Lady Quesa D'illa)
I AM A BOYS CHOIR
Bianca Dagga
BB Heart
The Incredible, Edible Akynos
The Dance Cartel

++ CONCEPT GOGO ++
Addys Gonzalez
Nicholas Gorham

++ DJs ++
DJ Sean Be (SPANK)
DJ Matty Horrorchata (BE CUTE)
DJ Deputy (XANADUDE)
DJ Sveta Spins

++ MC ++
MC Ariel Speed Wagon

++ PHOTOGRAPHY ++
Tinker Coalescing : Queer Photography
Ned Stresen-Reuter

++ READINGS ++
Max Steele
Tommy Pico
Kayla Morse

++ VJ ++
Kevin Ramser [Honcho]

++ VISUALS ++
Big Art Group

++ INSTALLATIONS ++
Jeffrey Owen Ralston

++ KARAOKE ++
Heather Litteer

++ TAROT ++
Lorenzo Estrella

++ HOSTS ++
Sarah Jenny (Hey Queen)
Jason Roe (SPANK)
Scott Nevins (The People’s Couch)

++ GUEST CURATOR ++
The Brooklyn Community Pride Center
JP Howard
Women Writers in Bloom
Azure D Osborne-Lee, and Joanna Hoffman
Music by Hi Tiger (Derek Jackson)
Dance by John Zullo/ Raw Dance Movement

@BAM_BROOKLYN
BAM FISHER
321 ASHLAND PL
BROOKLYN, NY

Celebrate Pride, Brooklyn Style
#EVERYBOOTY
ART + DJs + DRAG + PERFORMANCE+ MUSIC + PARTY

This event is 18+ with ID.
BAM Fisher is a wheelchair accessible venue.

6/24/15

Notes

Ashtray art. Make art of ashtrays. It's the last vulgar thing to do, really. Anything can be an ashtray.
A person could be an ashtray.

I'm not just trying to console myself. I really do think success is sort of silly. Selling out and all that. Attention. I think it's a little... Immature. This artist this person I really like said something recently about how in order for them to realize their artistic vision of the world or something, they need a lot of lonely and power and fame or something. And you know far be it from me to question anyone else but I don't know if I need those things for myself. I certainly don't think I need them.



But even in general. The big gift of being a person is that you get to know this shit right. The like, fallibility. Everyone's a person. Even movie stars. Even celebrities in Hollywood and inmates in jail. Anyone has it. So it seems like on one hand to know that and then to know some other truth.aybe I'm stubborn. Or something

Boards of Canada. So obsessed right.



Most private thing I'm willing to admit: I don't believe in God. Is that fucked up to say.
Most private thing I'm willing to admit: I don't believe in secrets.

Saw Blonde Redhead perform, they were pretty fantastic, I must say, but didn't play "Here Sometimes" which I'd hoped they would.



I feel like that, here sometimes. I'm trying to be both a person and not a person. The negative aspects of both and the positive aspects of neither.



Drinking a lot. Not a lot, just often. Smoking a lot and often. Eating poorly but trying to do better. Something is making me sick, I don't know if it's the medication or what but I am gaining weight, a little. Which is okay I guess. What bugs me is that my body feels weird I feel bloated no matter what I do or do not eat. I feel better. Maybe it's from over eating. It seems like everything is either too much or too little. I can't focus.
“A firm sense of one’s own autonomous identity is required in order that one may be related as one human being to another. Otherwise, any and every relationship threatens the individual with loss of identity. One form this takes can be called engulfment. In this the individual dreads relatedness as such, with anyone or anything or, indeed, even with himself, because his uncertainty about the stability of his autonomy lays him open to the dread lest in any relationship he will lose his autonomy and identity. Engulfment is not simply envisaged as something that is liable to happen willy-nilly despite the individual’s most active efforts to avoid it. The individual experiences himself as a man who is only saving himself from drowning by the most constant, strenuous, desperate activity. Engulfment is felt as a risk in being understood (thus grasped, comprehended), in being loved, or even simply in being seen. To be hated may be feared for other reasons, but to be hated as such is often less disturbing than to be destroyed, as it is felt, through being engulfed by love… It is lonely and painful to be always misunderstood, but there is at least from this point of view a measure of safety in isolation. The other’s love is therefore feared more than his hatred, or rather all love is sense as a version of hatred. By being loved one is placed under an unsolicited obligation.”
— R.D. Laing, The Divided Self
Like I am a broken system of rewards and punishments, stuck on punishment. Honestly making time to paint my toenails the other night, which I am very glad I did, took me days. That's not a social interaction. It takes me a long time to write back to people. It takes me a long time to do anything. Sometimes it takes a long time.



This is the Le Corbusier house where Ann Demeulemeester lives and works. Worked. I went to Century 21 this weekend and they had a bunch of AD from when AD was still designing AD on sale but even marked down 75-80% it's still outrageously expensive. But like who really wears Ann Demeulemeester anyway, you know? Patti Smith? That's not saying a lot. PJ Harvey did that gig for the Ann book launch at DSM with Patti and that was kind of cool, but even PJ at this point... Apparently the new designer for Demeulemeester, Sebastien Meunier is a genius so maybe it will be one of things that it doesn't have to always be so cult-ish. Maybe it'll get better and cheaper with time. There's already a new cheaper (allegedly) shoe line? Why am I worried about this when I need to be worried about paying bills on time.

I wish it was my job to worry about this more.

6/14/15

It's Brooklyn LGBTQ Pride today and it's also Puerto Rican Day. I like Puerto Rican Day because it was the setting for one of my first queer experiences in New York. In 2005 when I was 20 I met a really cute boy at a nightclub in the East Village and we hooked up and the next day we walked to the train station together to say goodbye and he is not white and were holding hands and wearing our nightclub outfits in the big crowd of people celebrating and I was worried, you know, if we'd get negative reactions from people in the crowd but we didn't. We had our sweet goodbye moment at the train station in midtown and it was one of the first times I felt like New York was like the place where that was possible.

6/9/15

Everything I touch I ruin

6/8/15

Me Never Being

Thought about dragging the TV the big one I promised to get rid of (and then never did anything about) into my room and hooking up the sega genesis. One last time. And having a night like I would as a kid, playing video games. I had been to the video game store and I am going to try to sell the sega and the nintendo and all the games etc. and it made me nostalgic. But I haven't played them in years. I still have a gameboy.

I had two glasses of wine at the Howl gallery space, which used to be the La MAMA Galleria. I was there for the closing of the Lydia Lunch show So Real It Hurts. She performed her spoken word piece Conspiracy Of Women which has just been reissued.



I remember looking high and low and eventually finding a copy of the original CD in the late 90s, when i was first getting into Lydia Lunch. This is amazing, she was and is amazing. It was literally a trip to see her perform this work, in 2015, in a gallery on the Bowery, for free. It was sort of updated, of course. The list of occupations, wars, genocides, terrorism and atrocities has grown. At one point she was talking about pop stars Courtney Love or Madonna or wait-- and then she pointed to herself and said "I'm Lady Gaza. Get it?"

This is an example of an increasingly rare experience I've been having where I think "I am so glad I live in New York. This is totally worth it." Because I got to see Lydia Lunch perform a mindblowing set for free on a Friday evening and get drunk for free it was fantastic. All I had to do was sacrifice my sanity, my youth, my future and my memory for ten years hacking it out here but it was worth it as it so rarely is, increasingly rarely. But still meaningful.



Anyway I sat next to Stephen who used to run QxBxRx, it was nice to catch up. The performance was amazing. Lydia Lunch is truly like Cher to me or like David Bowie or Judy Garland. I mean I'm into any of those people, but the way people worship some artists or celebrities as icons, I feel about Lydia Lunch and have for a long time.

When i turned 17 i was so upset because I thought: I'm washed up. By this time Lydia Lunch had already started Teenage Jesus and I haven't done anything.

You know who else worshiped Lydia Lunch apparently is Courtney Love. But lots of people did. She is iconic. I mean she does have what she said the devil (who is certainly a woman) blessed her with: "a celestial body and the face of an angel." I realized how influential this piece was to me, seeing it tonight. The way she talked about the Big Bang, and how violence and chaos is the nature of the universe. At another point she said "Y'know I hate fuckin' God. Because God was the first cop. God was the first cock." The way she used sarcasm but not necessarily for humor. It wasn't about applause. She did not like the applause. Right after the show she grabbed her purse, headed over to the merch table and lit a cigarette and started hawking CDs and posing for photos. I met a friend of Stephen's who was saying that when he saw her perform it originally in 1990 he felt like he immediately wanted to know everything about her work. She's incredibly charismatic. She's cute yes. But she's also compelling. She's hyper-verbal and confrontational but not in a way that's, like, mean spirited? She's hostile, sure. She talked about that she said "Hostile?! You have no FUCKING idea. NONE." Walking away from the microphone, in front of it (out of the light) and into the audience. I think so much performance art in theater and music and whatever kind of came through this, either directly or indirectly. She's in this weird position. She's outlived the thing, she can remember it. She makes these connections. It was scintillating. It's no secret that I have not been feeling very good lately but this was really heartening and made me feel a bit better.

I came home and watched Lovelace because of Vogue magazine. I got a basically free subscription through the reward points my corporate bank "gives" me, and this month Amanda Seyfried was on the cover. The artocle talks about how the really great serious actress moment of Seyfried's career, so far, was Lovelace, but people didn't see the film when it was in theaters. It's actually pretty great. Seyfried is fantastic, Sharon Stone is wonderful as she is at literally everything. And who else is in the film, playing a slightly older, sad wizened porn actress? Debi Mazar.



Just saw one of the mosquitoes flying around my room, one of the big ones that bit me so many times Friday night. I think, like, 8-9 different bites. Terribly painful. I woke up swollen, rummaged through my nightstand for antihistamine gel and put it on. IN the morning there were just tiny little bite marks. Hard like pimples. All over my body. But still I slept for 11 hours on Friday night. The mosquitoes ere silent. The one I saw this morning was silent too. Big and red and quiet.

Out of my window I saw a teenage boy get arrested across the street. The cops were handcuffing him and his friends he was with kept asking something like where's the weed though? The cops have been on the corner all weekend. Last night when I was going to the city I saw a pair of white people painting a mural on the chicken shop. I wonder.

I went to a bunch of art openings, and they were pretty okay but nothing too special to write home about. I want things to be better. The Kim Gordon show at 303 Gallery is great. The group show at Rachel Uffner is fantastic, go to those.

I feel like I am a crazy person. Sometimes (like today) it's not so bad. It just feels like a dull ache of dysfunction. Other times it feels very hot and urgent.
And shameful.

I don't know what's wrong with me. How every thing keeps stimulating this nerve, the nerve that reminds me how worthless I am, how horrible, how unlovable, how fundamentally shitty and bad and deserving of pain and punishment I am. I can't map it out -- I don't know what this is about, where it came from, how to assess it or change it. My analyst asked, last week, if I was in pain. I said yes. He said are you in pain right now? I said yes of course. He asked what it felt like.

How, dear reader, do you describe emotional pain? How do you describe emotional pain if nothing even happened?
Isn't loneliness a kind of pain? Isn't boredom a kind of pain? I'm not lonely or bored, per se. I feel very excited and hurt and taut. I told my analyst it feels like I have a fever, like I am on fire. If feels like I am caught in a vise and something has to happen yet I know there is nothing that can happen, so I feel as if I am just stuck in this painful position. My analyst said "Why do I have the feeling that you've been abused?" I can't answer that question. I don't feel abused, I said as much. I said if anyone is abusing me it's me because I'm the one who knows, deep down, how much I deserve the abuse. My analyst said maybe, but it seems like I've been dealing with someone else's abuse. That doesn't make any sense to me.

Then we talked about how embarrassed I am. How I let the crazy out on Twitter and someone got upset and told me to get off line. I think they were trying to be helpful but all it did was make me feel like I'm an idiot for being in pain to begin with. Not only am I deserving of pain, but I can't talk about it because it annoys people and just makes people hate me. Everything is an opportunity for an indictment. Everything is another example of me not being enough, of me being too much. Me being wrong. Me never being right. Me being no one's favorite. Me being no one's pick. Me guilting people into love. Me tricking people into putting up with me, but only for a time. Eventually every body will come to hate me as much as I hate myself. Almost as much-- I'm better at it than everyone else because I have more practice.

After therapy Brontez came over and he brought me a rose which was very sweet. We hung out a bit. Friday I saw Lydia and came home and slept for longer than I usually do. Saturday I hung out with Markey for a bit at the Brooklyn Museum then went to Gag at Metropolitan. Cute boys don't care. I don't blame them. Sunday I went to my group meeting and felt like a loser afresh, did some errands and slept early again. Watched bad TV. Bad books.



I don't know how to wait anything out. Can't something change? Why does everything feel so painful and exclusive and mostly fresh. How can I be so naive, still. Why does it still feel like the first time when I get rejected, ignored, slighted. I have no sense of myself. I have nothing to fall back on. It's not "I don't care if you don't like me because I like me." I don't know that. I don't know or believe that I am worthy. I feel that I have nothing to offer. No ideas. No art. No Magic. Nothing.

6/3/15

Which traps

I don't know how to listen to music anymore.

Molly Pope tweeted recently about working on another of her brilliant new shows, and she said that she felt like she'd forgotten how to listen to music for fun as opposed to when you're writing a show and learning a song.

It's like everything is measured against that: either it's me or it's not. Either I can imagine myself singing it or not. Not just singing. We imagine how it would feel to play that song, to make a dance to it. We fantasize about putting he record on when we fuck. We listen to the song at the nightclub and we feel we are the singer, the subject of the song. I can't listen I can only bleed. I can't stop pumping.



Maybe it's like my frustration with drag, my drag jealousy. Miss Green Eyes. Which I smoked into this thing I wrote called "Sodium" which a remixed version of was published by Blunderbuss. The original mix is published in the new zine DOOR GIRLS.

I can't listen to music except to think how I would perform the song. Even without singing. How I would lip sync to the song, how I would perform it as a drag queen. Where's the ironic subtext of the song. Where's the hilarious shocking messy pathetic edgy fuck-up landmine of the lyrics. Of the attitude: where in the diva is the pitfall, pothole and how shall I express myself but to choose, onstage which traps to fall into and which to fly above.



The thing of I wish I made that. I wish I felt that way enough to make that. I wish I thought that. I can't listen. Anymore or right now. It's as if, as I think I've said before, subjectivity is salt-water. The death-drive of our moment in white supremacist patriarchal capitalism is a kind of nutrition, a nature of insatiability. We call it a tension, we call it balance but the whole thing is rigged.



Justice. She's not blindfolded to be objective she's blindfolded to become inhuman to be above humanity. They should have given her wings, a weapon or something but no she's so old school like with a spinning loom, an hourglass, a scale.



I know it's silly. Or seems selfishly misguided or something. I'm trying to find a way to explain my way out of it. I don't know if I know how to feel. I'm thinking about that scene at the end of Young Adult where she says something like "I need to learn how to be happy" and then the co-dependent person immediately suggests a much more attractive version of reality. Am I so clueless? I don't know if I think so. I think maybe slippery. Maybe less slipper than I realize. Maybe more, sure. But maybe it's behind me.



That clip from that Chicks On Speed record where one of the Chicks is on the phone and you only hear her half of the conversation and she says how sorry she is about missing the Underworld performance. How was it, she asks.

5/29/15

Target Practice

Last night I was talking to my Analyst and he asked if he had ever told me about the five topics. I said no. It seemed strange, him volunteering any information that way, seemingly apropos of nothing. Also I've been seeing him for several years now and this has never come up. But the five topics, things to talk about in therapy are:

- Sex life
- Dreams
- Your past
- What you're feeling/thinking when you're on the couch
- Thoughts/feelings about the Analyst

I told him I felt at a bit of a disadvantage because I don't have much of a sex life and do not have any dreams, but he explained that these can refer to fantasies, even non-sexual fantasies, and that I do in fact have dreams I'm just blocking them from my memory. I very rarely speak to or about him, directly. I was a little bit miffed because he hadn't brought these things up before, and I've been quite vocal about sometimes not knowing what to talk about, or how to 'do' psychoanalysis. But he did make a good point last night. We were describing this predicament I'm in right now, or in general, and he described it as being a situation in which I cannot win.

The situation is that I do not know how to be angry or feel disappointment without a) lashing out and projecting it onto someone else and telling them about it and starting a fight (which is rare but becoming increasingly and troublingly common) or b) directing the anger back at myself. I have no right to be disappointed or frustrated or angry. It's because of something I did or did not do. Everything seems to come down to some failure on my part. Choosing wrong, or not choosing right. Everything-- my inability to feel or my constant feeling bad, everything comes, it seems, from inside. I don't know another way to think to explain it. Everything arises from some fundamental dysfunction within me. Something about me that is abhorrent and which everyone else seems to react to but which I am incapable of locating. All I know is I drive people away.

He said it sounds like I'm stuck in playing smear the queer. He mentioned this because it's a memory I often return to in analysis and something that feels really real in the present tense.

When I was little my family moved to the suburbs and I was queer but I didn't know it yet. But the other kids at school definitely did. I remembered early on wanting to play with some kids in my fifth grade class after school, they were running around and I wanted to play with them. It was after school, during a baseball game, so the younger kids and parents were nearby at the baseball diamond but we were on the blacktop, the slightly older kids. I was a new kid I wanted to be friends. They told me I could play with them but they were playing smear the queer. I said okay, I must have agreed. I did not understand that this meant that I had to be the queer. I didn't even know what this game was. Basically it's that I'm the queer and they all take turns jumping me. it was like football but without the football.

I'd roughhoused with my little brother for years, so I knew how to scrap. I was totally bewildered. I quickly ascertained that we were fighting dirty; that the game as such was to just hurt each other as much as possible. I think I kicked one of the boys in the crotch and I think I may have bitten another one. They were furious. This was against the rules. I didn't understand. They doubled up on their efforts. I don't think it was a matter of punching me in the face, per se-- I wasn't bleeding or anything, but it was a lot of tackling, a lot of actual smearing on the ground. Lots of arm holds. I remember being overpowered and running away to try to find my mom who I think was watching the game.

This is a pattern that I feel like has continued throughout my life. I'm deeply skeptical of the narrative of "only one thing happens to you over and over again"-- I'd like to think that a couple different things happen to you all the time, with gradations of change, of course. I very much feel like I am still playing smear the queer. I don't feel like I know how to be if I am not a target. Even as much as I resent being a target.



This is a photo of me and Betsy Heavens right before I did a performance, probably in 2004. It's funny to think that I've been harping on the same stuff for so long. Probably that was a clearer, if messier, way to get at what I am always trying to get at. I painted a target symbol over my chest and I tried to do my eye make-up to look like I had a black eye. I wanted to look tenderized.

I feel like the world only wants me as a target. The world only wants me as queerbait, fagbait, crimebait. Deathbait. I feel like I exist only to prove the limits of more powerful people's aim, range, and force. Even in ideal circumstances, where I should feel good or welcome, I need to make myself a target. I need to be more flamboyant, obscure. I cannot accept that someone would actually love me; I need to immediately, repeatedly and forcefully throw myself against the edges of their love to prove its boundary. I know, on some deep dark level of my most mistrustful heart, that all love is conditional. I can see other people only as they are not me. You can love me only if I know that you love someone else more than you love me.

I went to the bar last night and I felt kind of out of it. I said hi to some people but mostly I avoided people. A couple people stopped me to say hello, which I kind of felt bad about. I feel like I'm sick, like I'm a sick person and everyone can see it.

I need to tell myself another thing. I wanted, I was telling my analyst last night, to try a different thing. Why is it always that my fundamental make-up is the problem? Why is it so bad that I naturally want to be a target? Why is it so bad that I either lash out inappropriately (fight dirty) or else resign myself to become the object of my own rage? Isn't there a place for me to have these qualities? Isn't there a job that requires this exact skill set? Maybe it's not being an artist but that seems pretty close.

I just want to feel a different way and I guess I can't feel a different way until I think a different way about it first.