Like It Was Nothing

In my week off of work I've had a pretty fabulous time. I went shopping, a lot. I went to acupuncturist, her name is Famous, to help me quit smoking cigarettes.
Ties, weaknesses, crutches, addictions, boyfriends: who needs them!
Famous put needles all over me, it was different then when I used to see her before. This time iot actually did hurt. She taped tiny little magnet beads inside my ears for me to rub when I have a nic fit. Made me a potion to drink. I've been chewing on Juniper berries. They're bitter. I'm tough. Now I have a chest cold, tar wants to come out of my body. Funny, since so many things want to go or come into it. My Body Is Sort Of Like An Intersection In A Farm Town. Lonely but people come through.

I've bought a lot of herbs and witchy ingredients. I've been getting to work. Grocery shopping. I'm reading Space Is The Place, a really fabulous biography of Sun Ra. Exercising almost every day. Gone out to some dumb bars with Sister Pico, but got some practice. Hunter and Dan came over to watch Sondheim. Bobo and I hang out all the time, generally. This is all to say that I feel pretty great, I guess.

And when I'm looking for a reason why everything in the world seems to attack me, why I pick at things until they bleed, why there are plans to in fact run off to Bellevue, I have professional help. People sit me down and talk to me about it all the time. Alright.

I finished my new zine. It's a collection of short stories about sex. Either in form or subject. we can talk about it if you like. It's called Scorcher. Give me your address if you want it. Last night I went to an art opening with Jiddy and Danielle and we saw the best NYC celebrities ever (David Byrne and CIndy Sherman). Celebrity sightings are just the best, aren't they? It's my favorite way to interact with heroes. Proof: you exist and you're so short! You seem so nice! Who knew you were so old! You exist as a real person, just like me and my neighbors! Let's all go off on our own existences, newly empowered.

It does, though, make me sad too. To run into famous photographers. Because then I start thinking of all the folks who don't exist anymore. Like Robert Mapplethorpe, Gertrude Stein, Abraham Lincoln, David Wojnarowicz, Jesus. All these dead folks. My friend Charlie who died from Meningitis when he should have died from being a junkie since he was twelve fucking years old, saying goodnight to me when he crashed my house in Brooklyn after the cops literally chased him through South Dakota for finding a bag of coke in the back of his car. Folks who should by all lights still be here and still exist, but don't, can't. Then, y'know, there are the folks who don't exist but they're not dead. They just don't know they don't exist yet. I'm speaking of a singular group here. Unfortunately they know who they are and what it tastes like to kiss me. (It tastes hopeful).

I got a haircut yesterday.
I'm off this morning, to go back to Famous for a progress report on my cessation. Then I'm going to eat Chinese food and walk around and buy clothes. Have coffee with Spencer and Emma. avoid, i guess, the rain. Encroaching. I'm going out of town for the weekend, to Bobo's house in the Catskills.

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