Yes, it ever does.

Imagine, instead of one old crone perched across the table from you, a crystal ball between you, imagine instead a pair. Instead of instructions, instead of gnomic commands and directives, imagine that instead your fortune-telling would take the form of eavesdropping. Imagine that instead of pronouncements from the undead, imploring you to remember them, honor them, keep them alive, that instead your fortune-telling was simply a conversation you had to untangle. Two old Bubbes chattering away in Yiddish-inflected English. And you have to think: "What is this about? What is the meaning, for me?" I imagine one saying: "Nothing ever changes" and another creaky voice speaking up in assent, "Yes, it ever does." That's what my fortune would be. Maybe part of getting older is becoming more intimately acquainted with the materiality of Nothingness. It's totally a real thing.

When I was 15 I heard this song for the first time, and it absolutely changed my life. it's about falling in love with nothing, and she made it when her band was still called Get The Hell Out Of The Way Of The Volcano:

So, I've been listening to this song for like 13 years and I feel like I'm finally understanding it. You know? If you're reading this blog you probably already know the song but do your psyche a favor and listen to it a couple times in a row, will you? Get on my level. get the hell out of the way of the volcano.

Anyway, there's this real tension I'm noticing between wanting to be a real person and thinking that the whole project of being a person, being a real person, is a kind of deluded and selfish fantasy which is not disconnected to the forces that are destroying the planet. Like, on one hand: I want people around me to treat me as a real, three-dimensional person. I don't like feeling like I'm just a receptacle for people's projections, like I am nothing but a service-ghost for people to use to their own ends. I don't want to be the crystal ball. But on the other hand, I kind of totally do. I think being a person, living with this ego you have to feed, is so stupid and painful and disgusting. But I guess it's not the kind of thing you can just opt out of. If only, right? The only reason not to go fucking around is Nothing.
(Because you might hurt Nothing's feelings. Nothing might not want you go fucking around. Nothing might want you all to himself).

I did have a fantastic weekend. Jumpstarted as it was by an evidently manic episode in which I accused people I barely know of starting a fight with me online. I think it is kind of important (to me) to document this kind of stuff, stuff like being a crazy person, because I want to be able to remember it when I'm not so crazy in some far-off rosebuddy future. Friday night I hung out with my downstairs neighbors PLD and Sister Pico and Lil Pony Deegs (Miss Jessica was napping). We drank cosmopolitans and smoked in their kitchen and talked massive, nuclear toxic amounts of shit. I felt fantastic. Saturday I went to Vanessa's like I do every Saturday, then Ryan and I went to the Independent Art Fair, which was just OK. We went to the Basquiat show at Gagosian and as R said, it kind of goes without saying, but you do have to say how great it is. Basquiat's art. The big stuff. You know? The scary stuff. Not actually messy. Not actually disorganized or random or cluttered. A modicum of thought going into it, a tiny bit of patience and it kind of winks at you. Like an eye or an asshole. Like: "Oh HEY!" The log/pattern/ethics of his paintings. It was so much better than anything we saw at the art fair. I came home and took a tiny nap before getting all gussied back up. I went to Miss Erin and Thee Irish Horse's fantastic Greenpoint hideaway for dinner. Irish Horse made not one but two fantastic gluten-free vegan pizzas. In addition to being one of the studliest rising stars of NYC's performance art demimonde, Becca B is also a totally amazing cook. I've been privileged enough to have dinner cooked by him a number of times and will usually drop literally anything else I am doing to eat his food. So, this is all to say I had great dinner nyah! nyah! nyah!

After dinner I met up with Teebs and Deegs and Lola and we took a very long and exciting cab ride downtown to go to Duchess' birthday/housewarming party. It was so nice to be in a cool remote apartment party, listening to music and talking gossip with homegirls from our academia days. I think I speak for everyone when I say I had too much fun. A perfect night. Sunday I went to the gym then cleaned my bathroom then walked down to Bedford with Paps and Teebs, and came home to do my taxes. I owed some money, like I often do. I kind of console myself with the fact that it means I did get paid, during the year, for my independent work. But payment is just one way of measuring satisfaction.

Last night was dear heart Walter's RESURRECTION show at Munch Gallery. I read a story from his book, Nicholas Gorham did a sort of scary and totally gorgeous performance, and Walter's art was perfect. A kind of greatest hits for the living.

I'm on my way out the door to go to the dentist then to go to the studio to work and then home, I think, to sleep. I'm so stressed out and overbusy and leaving (as always) a million things left undone. I am in bad need of a vacation or at least a day off. I am miserable right this second, and consoling myself by repeating (in my head): "It's okay to be miserable. It's okay to be miserable." I want to hold nothing by the hand.

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