Soap Operas Before

When we were juniors in college, my friend J who likes to do fancy and far-out things (she's real adventurous) told me about the colonic she had. How wonderful it had been. How it wasn't even shit that they pumped out of her, it was just black stuff. Things that had been lodged deep inside of her from years ago. Ancient toxins. She rhapsodized about how sweet the woman who administered the colonic had been. How she'd smiled knowingly and made J feel so comfortable, massaging her stomach with her left hand while holding the hose in J's asshole with her right hand. J told me that after the colonic she'd felt so different. Lighter, but weak. She said she was sweating profusely. She was shaking. She immediately had to shit, right after the colonic. I thought that was kind of funny. She said it was just the best experience ever, and I was so jealous.

At one point, I felt like I knew what you were doing, but we didn't have to talk about it. It was just, I knew what you were doing, to whatever extent. And you knew that I knew. There was this unspoken agreement that you'd let watch you. Actually, not even watch. There was nothing of observation. Just sensing. You let yourself be noticed, intuited by me. You measured yourself out to me. I thought that my enthusiasm was (like, duh) thanks enough, but now I can see that I should have praised you much more. I should have let you know that I thought you were generous. That those fistfuls, counted-twice and grudgingly given, meant so much. More than enough. I could not have asked for more. I just wish my timing had been better. Now I do not know what you are doing. Knowing you to the extent that I do, I can only guess what you are up to. I can infer, assume, deduce but not sense and still not notice. And I'm no longer so sure of my ability to do these things. Now you do not want me to know. You want me to not know. I'm sure it's not even anything particularly secret. It's not me, particularly. It could be. Maybe I didn't listen enough, or for long enough, or in the right way. Maybe I didn't sit you down and say: "Hey, I'm listening, too." That would never have worked.

I think so often of the idea of transference, projection. I don't really know what these words mean, clinically, but I feel like I "get" them as concepts, in my own life. I'm deeply committed to my Analyst and I absolutely refuse to draw any conclusions about it, for fear of judging it. It's like: I never got into soap operas before, but. So that we are what we are afraid of. That something we find abhorrent in someone else could be something we fear to be part of ourselves. This seems fundamentally true. Of course. It follows that the thing you love is something you wish you had in yourself. You're jealous of someone else, you wish you were them, you love them. It's totally a kind of loving. I thought for a time that the thing to do was to become the thing you love, right? Be someone you would want to fuck and then fuck yourself. But I guess I was being kind of silly. Now I know that it's a matter of looking. Of paying attention, getting involved with the plot, like you would on a soap opera. It's a matter of engagement. Of viewership. You need to be caught up. You need to pay attention. You need to tune in.


Merry Christmas. The world didn't end, I guess. I'm at my parents' house in Alameda and I'm totally sick. I had been feeling like I was going to get sick all last week, but my circumstances this month didn't leave for a whole lot of down time to take care of myself. And now I'm totally sick. Probably yesterday was the worst. I really resent being sick while I'm on vacation, because I should be out having fun or giving all my focus to relaxing, but I can't do that. I guess staying at my parents' house isn't really vacation either. To my mind, it's not vacation if I can't pick what to watch on TV 100% of the time. Is that spoiled of me? Probably. My parents are adorable and dote on me constantly so I am very lucky to be sick here. I've actually never been on a vacation where I got to pick what to watch on TV 100% of the time. That's an impossible goal.

Thursday night I went to the Uptown, this bar in the newly swanky downtown Oakland, to see the Younger Lovers perform. They were so great! I'd only ever seen Brontez perform in New York either by himself or with a band of New Yorkers. The full Younger Lovers experience was so good! He said that they have a third record coming out soon. If you haven't heard it yet you should definitely get their newest record, Rock Flawless. My favorite parts of the show were probably the parts where the guitar and bass dropped out and it was just Brontez wailing over the drums. The drummer was sooo good.

I saw Loren Hell from the New Earth Creeps at the show, and I haven't seen him in YEARS. I've been thinking so much of the Alameda kids I knew as a young punk. Loren's Twitter Account is maybe one of my favorite's ever. HSe gave me copies of some of the newest New Earth Creeps LPs, I am so excited to hear them. I remember seeing them play at record stores, backyards, living rooms, punk clubs all, when I was younger. And being so impressed. I still am, I guess, but the whole project of punk rock.

After the show Brontez and Cotton and I went around the corner to a bar called the Layover, where there were those ubiquitous green lazers, along with some red lazers, which we both thought was really christmassy. We danced to salsa remixes and ran into Victor from Alameda, and then we all hung out in his friend's car outside the bar and then Cotton had to get the last BART train and I had to get on the bus to Alameda so that's what we did. Such a fun Oakland adventure. This new redeveloped downtown Oakland is such a trip. So much of my youth was spent riding busses through the bombed-out wasteland of abandoned department stores in downtown Oakland. It's totally bizarre to see these spaces re-imaged as upscale cocktail lounges, microbreweries, etc. I like it, but it just makes me feel a little disoriented. I think that making peace with feeling disoriented is a very Californian philosophical agenda. Probably not even refer to it as disorientation, I guess.

Friday I did some window shopping in San Francisco and Berkeley. It was raining the whole time, incredibly stupid of me to be walking around outside. Waiting for the 51B in Berkeley I had the really clear thought: "This is such a bad idea." I came home to rest for a minute, then my parents and I went to Cafe du Nord to see my little brother's band perform. They were so good! They opened for a David Bowie tribute band with three really rad girl singers. I liked it a lot, but I was feeling pretty ill by then. My darling elderly parents got to the club about an hour before the doors opened, so we had some time to kill. They came with me to the Walgreen's in the Castro to buy cold medicine. There was a really angry junkie there, screaming at the staff lady that none of the pills on the shelf were strong enough for him. He asked me what to take if I had pain and a fever. I said: "Aspirin?" He didn't believe me. I bought some decongestant and ate it with whiskey at my brothers' show. I had wanted, so much, to go to my brother's show then skidaddle over to the Mission to see NGUZUNGUZU and oOoOO and Boychild perform at the Elbo Room. But I felt super shitty, and I didn't want to have to hustle to the last BART train home, while I was so sick. And I tried to console myself by thinking that Nguzunguzu performs in NYC a lot and oOoOO was I imagined just DJing and Boychild comes a lot. Not a once in a lifetime opportunity. Still, a bummer.

Yesterday I did actually intend to do a lot of hanging out. Loren and Victor's new band Party Animal played yesterday in Oakland but I was too sick to go. I spent most of the day on the couch. I walked around downtown Alameda for a while. Bought my dad some leather gloves for Christmas at the hardware store. Went to a bunch of the fairly disgusting thrift stores. I used to find some T by Alexander Wang at the Salvation Army down by the bridge. So many gross 1990s prints, it was like a Rihanna photo shoot. I didn't buy anything. I came home and ate lots of cold medicine and stayed inside. I slept a lot. I guess I feel a little bit better today. There's so much I want to to do while I'm here. Mostly hang out with people. I hate being sick.


The Apocalypse Comes From Within

I felt so successful waking up this morning at 5am to get my cab to the airport. I packed in a rush and got there just barely on time. My flight was done boarding when I arrived. I drank a lot of coffee. I felt sort of sick. I still feel sort of sick. But it seems less like an infection than me just running myself ragged. Anyway the flight was boring. It seemed to be half cranky, disorganized elderly people who screamed nasty things at the stewardesses and dropped the books they were reading, and cups of milky coffee they were sipping, and half crying infants. I was infuriated, but did have to admit that I located myself squarely between the two. I got to San Francisco at 11:30am. I felt insane. My dad picked me up and he made me my favorite meal for lunch (sausage and peppers). I went for a jog along the beach in Alameda. The streets are lined with palm trees, which, for the Holidays, are decorated with red ribbon. It was surreal. I took a little bit of a nap, but I still feel jet lagged.

Already feeling ambivalent about New York. I feel so weirdly possessive of some things. Feeling sort of frustrated, the way I did when I was 21. Like I see a lot of shit happening, and I'm not part of it, but I feel like I could do it so much better. But unlike when I was 21, I don't feel this inevitable need, necessarily, to contribute? Just for the sake of doing something good? What fulfills isn't the same as what is fun, for me or for someone else. I guess what I'm saying is, like: I know what you're doing. I'm not impressed? That sounds mean. I'm grumpy! I'm under-slept. Like, what's so great about being special. You need to insert yourself into the world, that is an art project that will never be completed, will take you at least the rest of your life. There's another project hovering just above the one you're doing, and it involves less talking and more listening. It's less fun and exciting, and more interesting, sad, slow. Get on my level: the Apocalypse is not tomorrow 12/21/12. The apocalypse starts with you. The apocalypse comes from within. And I've seen it, and it's great. And I can show you, I can tell you all about it, if you just let me get a word in edgewise.

Anyway. I'm drinking gallons of coffee, wearing sweatpants at my parents' house. Going to have some dinner then get ready to go to a show in downtown Oakland, at a place called the Uptown, to see Brontez' band the Younger Lovers perform. I roped my original homegirl Cotton into venturing to the East Bay to join me. So I'm excited to go see a punk show and take the 51 bus home, just like I did when I was a teenager. I hope I can stay awake. Coffee, guide me.


Getting ready to get on a plane tomorrow morning for California, where I'll spend a week with family and old old friends.

I also need to work on a grant application next week. And I also need to write an article next week.

And I also need to write my show.

I need to sleep. I feel like I haven't slept in a long time. I'm seing my best friend BOBO for dinner in a few minutes. I'm really excited.

So much work to do. I like traveling because I use it as an excuse to a) buy magazines and b) wear only black (why?) and c) eat as much candy as I want.

OK I'll be there soon.


Mink Coat in the Seventh Grade

I had a pretty good weekend, I went to at least one Holiday party every night. I ate tone of really rich food, which I would normally not be into. Kind of letting myself go. It's Monday. I feel like Hell.  So I've been watching and re-watching the Lil' Kim interview on the Isaac Mizrahi show.

They constantly mug for the camera, rolling their eyes. They seem to turn and smile with to imagined audience. There is no studio audience. There is no laugh track. There are no viewers. I mean, there's us, watching the video, but we know that we're not really there.

Isaac: "You have a real sense of fashion, Kim!"
Kim: "Aww, thanks! You too!"

It's clear that they have only the slightest notion of who each other are. Which is okay. I guess Isaac has heard, maybe, one of Kim's songs, ever. She doesn't seem to know what he's about. They're both really good painters, though.

Isaac: "Would you rap for us a little something? Would you... say something?"

Turning Out Not To Be

Can your heart break more than once? When I was younger, I would have said no. Absolutely not. I would have said that it's like losing your virginity, that it can only happen one time. But now I don't know if that's really so true. I think maybe your heart breaking is more like coming out of the closet: it can happen over and over again. It's different every time.

As Gertrude Stein said: Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
(Adding: "Now listen! I’m no fool. I know that in daily life we don't go around saying 'is a ... is a ... is a ...' Yes, I’m no fool; but I think that in that line the rose is red for the first time in English poetry for a hundred years.")

It can be the same every time and also be different every time. There might not even need for there to be something that happens. Everybody's so dramatic. I want to play Fuzzy Bunny, that game where you stuff your mouth with marshmallows and try to say "Fuzzy Bunny". Whoever can recognizably say it, with the largest number of marshmallows in their mouth, wins. I want to stuff everyone's mouths up. Even/especially my own. I always thought that there would need to be something really huge to happen for my heart to break. Despite evidence to the contrary. At one point in my life I considered myself entirely washed-up. Dead inside. Hopelessly heartbroken. Over. Past the point of rescue. And this was because a boy that I liked didn't seem to like me enough, or in the way I most wanted (thought I most needed), and that slight disparity between what I thought I wanted (needed) and what I perceived to be happening seemed yawning and immense and immediate. And the issue was not that he didn't like me back, but that he didn't like me back enough. That I wasn't getting what I wanted in exactly the way I wanted it. And I thought it was the end of the world. And for better or worse, it wasn't. It turned out to not be.

But so, y'know, you feel like you see a pattern, so you try to break out of it. I feel like my heart breaks when I get really intense with people romantically. So that's easy enough, I figure, to avoid. No romance and therefore no heartbreak. Like like how viruses are transmitted through certain foods. Fine, just don't eat those foods, right? But heartbreak, like a virus, is constantly adapting. Developing immunities. Seeking out new vectors, ways into you. I thought that my making myself as small as possible and withdrawing more and more, that I would in this way insure myself against pain. That I could somehow mitigate the discomfort I know waits for all of us, over and over again. As if telling your Gym teacher, the barista at the coffee shop, the taxi driver, your parents, your friends, the people at the dog park: I am gay. My heart is broken. Again. I know. When will he shut up about it? It's not that we mind it, it's that you don't have to make it such a big deal. There is no insurance. There are no protective steps you can take to steel yourself against pain. Steele, yourself, against pain.

And then sometimes, it's so pathetic to admit, but you realize that maybe your internal organs actually are made out of glass. Fragile and hazardous if broken. Okay, the "heart" as I am using it isn't really an internal organ. But I do feel like it's not unlike the light bulb I changed this weekend. Too hot to touch; dropped, shattered, sharp. Best wrapped in a paper bag and thrown out. Best replaced with something sturdier, more eco-friendly. Something which is not used up, something which could last for longer. It takes so little to just ruin everything. Sometimes (this is my point) it doesn't actually take much of anything. Maybe it's just someone being nice to you unexpectedly. Somebody saying "Hey I can see you" and it is unbearable. I wish people,would be as mean to me as I feel like I deserve. I think sometimes they are, but then people will be unexpectedly sweet to me, and it does, it feels like, absolutely break my heart. The inconsistency. Or something not at all a slight will seem to knock me off of my feet, and then I become a narcoleptic. I'm needed, sorely, as a witness. A seat. My opinion is required. I'm wanted but only to serve another. To introduce you to some cute boy I know. To give you the attention you think I am giving myself, maybe even here, on the blog. To be more about outwardness. I feel myself becoming invisible; disappearing. It's not good and it's not pleasant. I feel myself becoming ether. Giving up, quitting, becoming less and less of a thing. Devolving into some kind of fog. Just going away, I guess. So to be acknowledged is painful. The acknowledgment not so much, the inconsistency. That does break my heart, new, again. It's so fucked up how sometimes things feel inevitable and also impossible. Like: "I can't believe that happened" and at the same time "It could not have happened any other other way." So it is with a heavy heart that I greet each new opportunity to shoot myself in the foot. I am blowing it. I am never not blowing it. But at the same time, the stakes are really low. I know it might not work, but part of me hopes it will: this thing of becoming invisible as a way of avoiding pain. I'm not being a chicken about pain, either. I've leaned into it all year. Really tried to get my hands dirty. So now my hands are dirty. How much better to not have hands at all.

As a kid I really loved the L.A. Arboretum. I haven't been back to Los Angeles since I was 9, which was a very long time ago. I really want to go back, but I don't know how I would get there, money wise, where I would stay, how I would get around (I don't drive) or what the pretense for my stay would be. The former me would book a reading or performance, but I don't think that would work anymore. For many years know, it's felt as if the joke of me was that nobody knew what exactly I did. That I didn't actually do anything. I've never denied this. It's just so much less funny now.


Trying that Trainwreck

I woke up extra early on Tuesday morning. Spent an inordinate amount of time washing my face, with two different exfoliators, shaving, putting on the assorted creams, lotions, balms. Tricks, etc. I had a breakfast of black coffee and just barely not yet ripe bananas. It felt really poor. Sitting on the yoga ball I use as a desk chair, eating the banana over a wastebasket, I remembered in Eileen Myles' brilliant Inferno, she describes a group of dancers getting ready for a performance, and notes how all of the dancers eat the same pre-show dinner, black coffee and a banana, from a deli. Reading that book, I thought how intuitively genius that kind of dinner is. Gawd, dancers think of everything. And Eileen Myles for being both grossed out and impressed by that meal. Her birthday was this week, Myles', so here is a video of when she was younger, reading a really amazing poem:

I don't care for poetry as such, but this video, this text makes me want to try to be a poet, because she's so smart and so seductive. She says so much in these few minutes. I don't know. I had read this poem before but only saw the video last week, on her birthday.

So I ate my poor dancer breakfast and hopped on the train. On Tuesday I was part of a nominally glamorous photoshoot project. The contract I signed in order to do it does preclude me from officially blogging, tweeting, or otherwise mentioning or disseminating information about it, but it was less interesting than one would think so we don't need to get specific. I'll post the results when they come out, if I'm in them. Tuesday's project involved a lot of waiting around. Which normally I wouldn't mind, but we wore our own clothes. There were free snacks, though, which is always nice. I suppose I could have been more social. But you know, I could have also had more fun, gotten to wear cooler shit, and been paid more. Life could be a lot different. It was kind of a "seeing-how-the-sausage-gets-made" experience. And not just for being in the background. Even on the rare occasion when I've been more or less the focus (such as during the ill-fated and mercifully disappeared European denim campaign I did a few years ago), even when I was the one being fussed over, it's still not so much fun. Not as much fun as it looks. How bizarre to be, that we all are, seduced by the appearance of fun. It's not fun, but it looks fun. You have to be able to deduce, though, that it's not fun. It's the appearance. Why can't we see through it? OK here's an example: for a group shot, they wanted people to look sweaty, so they sprayed all of our exposed skin with this weird clear sticky sunblock, to give the appearance of sweat. Illusions! Anyway it was a nice experience overall, we got paid and got to go home early. I felt defeated; depleted.

I high-tailed it back to my apartment, then sneaked out to the gym. I normally want to exercise for a full hour: 30 minutes on the elliptical, and then a 30-minute run. But I didn't have time on Tuesday  so I just did the run. I wonder sometimes if that's too much cardio. Sometimes my knee hurts. Am I overdoing it out of habit? This seems more than possible. I listened to the music I'm going to use for my New Year's Eve performance, which will be a really exciting PJ Harvey number. I'll be wearing a pretty dress. It'll be so great. Please Come See Me On New Year's Eve.

So after my too-short workout, I ran home to shower and get ready for this new meditation class, taught by my longtime internet pen-pal Caroline. In addition to being a meditation teacher, Caroline is a stand-up comedienne and fantastic writer. She's read at a previous iteration of FAG CITY, and totally killed it. I try to go see her perform whenever I can (and you should too). Her new meditation class at the Spectrum is great, in no small part because of her warmth and sense of humor. It's also really accessible; I'm obviously not the best-versed on Buddhist scriptures, so I really like getting to talk to someone I can relate to about the concept of meditation. And Tuesdays are really hard for me, so I like that this class happens on Tuesdays. And it's at the Spectrum, which is right near my house. This week Erin + Thee Irish Horse came. It was a good class, and exactly what I needed after a long day of mind-burning.

Afterward I bought a falafel sandwich. I went home and listened to Dee Dee Bridgewater's Afro Blue, which I'm totally obsessed with these days.

I burnt some Cedarwood incense and painted my nails grey. I read Toni Morrison's Jazz, which is maybe my favorite book of all time. I never re-read books but I re-read Jazz every few years. It made me fall in love with New York City. It's like having a fever, and it's like going to a performance. Is this the book that made me want to be a writer? Maybe. I'm not so sure I ever wanted to be a writer.

Why does everything have to be about wanting to be something, somebody?

Morrison's Jazz was the first book that made me really excited by the power of writing to do something new. To make new demands of the reader. I had never encountered a book before that reads you as much as you read it. It's kind of insane. For example, the first word of Jazz is the sound of the narrator sucking her teeth. "STH". Dreamy. Reading, listening to music, I tried that new Trainwreck and I fell into sleep, hard.


Dime Finder

I was complaining a few weeks ago about this experience I had where I kept noticing people dropping money, and I wasn't picking it up (for whatever reason). I explained it to my Analyst in terms of me not wanting to be the guy who depends upon luck. I don't want to be an opportunist. I don't want to think that my good fortune to relies on the carelessness of others. But last week, everywhere I go, I keep finding dimes. Eventually I started picking them up. Wasn't the first or second self-released Sarah Dougher cassette called "Hand-Made Luck"? I've always liked that title. You know, in between The Lookers and her first solo album on K.

I feel quite a bit behind. I have a ton of work I ought to be doing. I did basically nothing today, I bought socks. Last night was Sister Pico and Dr. Perez' birthday party, at a Karaoke place in Koreatown. I normally don't go in for that karaoke stuff, but I got really into it. The sake helped. That was pretty much all the socializing I did this weekend. I bought some new socks at Uniqlo today.

I once used to go out with this really, really cute boy who was into fashion. And on one of our dates, we had to kind of watch ourselves, because we were getting really drunk with dinner, and neither of us wanted to be hungover at work the next day. We traded hangover cures. I told him that when I'm hungover, sometimes eating an apple helps. I don't like green apples, so I don't know if they work, but for some reason eating a red apple helps me when I have a hangover. Helps me focus. My date said that when he's hungover, he goes to Uniqlo before work to buy socks. "Because" he said, "at least then, I know it's like... okay, I did something productive today." I asked him what he would do if he didn't need socks. "You always need socks," he said. I couldn't argue with that. I did envy his seemingly insatiable appetite for socks. I bought some today but I don't feel like dropping the $10 signifies my productivity. I'm still hungover. I also haven't had any apples.

I'm going to be in a group art show on WEDNESDAY which if you're in NYC you should come to. This is a really cute group of people, and I am so excited to be part of it. Shane Shane asked a bunch of NYC denizens to take photos of our nightlife escapades with disposable cameras. I am by far the least adventurous of any of the amazing folks involved, so my interpretation of "nightlife" may differ significantly from the rest of the show, but I think it'll be a cute time. I also haven't seen my photos, or any of the photos in the show, so it'll all be new to me. It's hosted by Strange Loop Gallery and the Bureau of Goods and Services - Queer Division. Please come!


12 artists selected by Shane Shane are handed a disposable camera to document themselves as they partake in the glorious nightlife...

With work from:
Hari Nef - Reve - Trey LaTrash - Jordan Fox - Max Steele - Jake Dibeler - M Lamar - Dusty Childers - Ben Rosenberg - Stephen Boyer - Alberto Cortes - Krys Fox - Leo Gugu - Shane Shane

Finally (and speaking of hangovers), a real highlight of the weekend is another episode of Saint Mx Justin Vivian Bond's DRUNK NEWS. This is officially my new favorite TV show, YouTube project, news source, etc.

It's Sunday night and I just chugged a bunch of maté. I'm cooking my lunches for the week. I dropped off my laundry. I'm taking off my ill-planned nail polish (I have some very glamorous meetings this week, for which I'll need to be both blank and "camera-ready"). I'm going to attempt to edit a story for the upcoming Birdsong anthology tonight, do a little bit of work on ENCOURAGER as well as finish my first-ever POEM for an upcoming issue of Scorcher, luxuriate in my botanical toiletries ("Je vais prendre une douche") and order Thai food before passing out early. I barely slept last night. I feel pretty gross.

But it's okay to feel gross!


Subjectivity is Seawater

Thinking about how we all develop these really idiosyncratic and occasionally brutal survival measures. We mix up these tonics to keep us awake, engaged. Thinking about how some people (I have friends like this) have to carry an epi-pen around with them, in the event of an allergic reaction. If they're exposed to a lethal allergen, then they have to inject themselves, or have a sure-handed friend inject them, with life-saving epinephrine. The catch there is that they have to be 100% sure they've actually been exposed, because the life-saving epinephrine, injected into a body who has not yet gone into shock, could be lethal. The sick, sad irony of the fact that medicine is poisonous. What we think will save us one day could very well damn us the next. I think this is kind of a sad thought. It's one of these Universals which I know, the Wise Boy shrugs and smiles at. "Isn't it grand? To be human? To be constantly fucking up? To be constantly scared? To be constantly faced with change? How great!" Fuck that.

What is another kind of medicine? Another kind of medicine is Subjectivity. I feel like Subjectivity is a vaccine, which we prescribe to our children. (We hate the kids, they are overpopulating our planet and we can't provide for them, so we kill them slowly). I think that I am like Jenny McCarthy, railing against the dangers of vaccines. But not exactly, because I dosed myself with subjectivity too, just to see how it works.

This thing of being able to identify with the world around you. This skill, this survival technique of locating yourself everywhere you go. Seeing yourself reflected in the eyes of strangers, in anonymous internet comments, in street traffic. This, we teach children, is how you learn to survive. This is how you learn to love yourself.

MY RESPONSE: Maybe, I think. Maybe, at first. Maybe when you're a baby. Maybe it's not so important to love yourself. Maybe the world doesn't always confirm you. Maybe the sooner you realize that, the sooner your "real life" can begin. You stinking little brats.

I think of it like this: subjectivity is like seawater. You can't get enough. It's dangerous. It used to be the way to live, it felt likem perhaps the key to survival, but I can tell you, from my perch. Here, from up on high. Here, in the future, Here, on the other side of 25. Here, on the other side of interviews and weekly profiles, ass-kissings. Here, at the precipice, I can tell you how sorry you will be to wind up like me, at the edge of a volcano with saltwater instead of blood in your veins.

We think we have enough blood, that we'll produce an infinite supply. We think of infinity too often. So few things which we casually and habitually refer to as infinite, endless, unlimited, are actually just really big. The world isn't going to become uninhabitable "someday" It's going to become uninhabitable within out lifetime. It's a slight distinction, but it is the distinction between: "Everything is going to be okay." and "Everything is going to be," Guess which camp I'm in.

I've been doing a lot of thinking and writing about this topic, this feeling, lately. The slick bruising that moves you from a security into claustrophobia. It's just that when you see yourself in the world around you, when your life depends on the world confirming you, then that leaves you in a very dangerous place. Not the good kind of dangerous. The kind of dangerous where you close your eyes and walk into traffic. Sure, maybe God will protect you.

I don't want to give it all away, because I'm saving some of my best thoughts for this art show I'm working on. Isn't that funny? The idea of making art, of saving ideas. What is there to wait for? Once I start noticing this tendency in other people, this addiction to the seawater of subjectivity, I can't stop noticing it. I can see the gills. I can smell it.

I used to think of myself as something of a trendsetter. I thought people wanted to be just like me, which seemed like a cruel joke, because I've been secretly so unhappy. But then these dark and awesome realizations have been really pounding me in the last year, two years. And I'm so sorry, really sorry, to be here first. It sucks to be the first to know. It sucks to be the last to know. It sucks worse to be the second to last to know, and to have to tell you.

The risk might be so minimal. The stakes might be so much lower than I thought. Look: I'm probably never going to be a huge star. I clearly don't have the constitution to try. I've already failed. I live a secret abject life. I have a sex slave and he is me. I knew when my flippers crusted over, when I was tired of choking on dust, gasping for what you people call oxygen, I knew what I had to do, and I know it will have to occur to you as well. You will end up like me and you will, one day, find that the only way forward, the next method of survival involves locking yourself in the bathroom with a needle and thread and sewing your dirty, insatiably slimy gills shut.

I woke up this morning and the first thing I saw was Mx Justin Vivian Bond's DRUNK NEWS. It made me so happy. I love Justin Vivian. This is really the greatest.


"Kaddish for TV" from ENCOURAGER

"Gawd, I can't even remember a time before the Internet, you know? I mean, I can barely remember that time. And when I try to remember it, all I can think is: TELEVISION.

When I was a kid I lived in Los Angeles, and people used to put stickers on the back of their cars and a really popular one was a simple slogan that went like this: KILL YOUR TV

There’s such a sick irony to this slogan, to hearing it, remembering it today. In today's times. It's a shame. It's like making fun of a suicide. It is exactly that, mocking someone who is killing themselves, and that's not funny, right? R.I.P. TELEVISION. I loved her. I guess I should say VIDEO."