1/29/15

I Break Up With Myself



I've been doing Dry January, where I don't have any alcohol this month. And this week, since Monday, I've been doing no coffee or nicotine or anything else. There're a couple of exceptions: I've been having mate in the mornings because I don't want to get withdrawal headaches, and I cheated and smoked the last cigarette from my pack on Monday afternoon, when I got to come home early from work because of the blizzard. And I'm also taking my prescriptions, duh.

This week has been kind of hard. Not as hard as I thought it would be, to be honest. I'm glad I stuck to my guns and didn't smoke pot and drink booze during the blizzard, especially since the snowstorm ended up being so underwhelming in New York. I came close to losing it though. It's also been hard because the gym has been closed all week, so last night when I got to do a very nice long workout I felt fantastic. I'm going to try to wake up extra early tomorrow to go to the gym again before work.

My week of abstinence ends tomorrow night. This weekend I will have a cocktail or two. I thought I'd have a more intense experience. I thought I'd be happier and clearer and more focused. And I suppose I am, but not to the extent that I want to keep it up. I will say, though, not drinking booze is pretty great, and I definitely don't miss it at all, as anything except a convenient and ubiquitous social lubricant. It makes it easier to ask people on dates.

And the snowstorm. Kind of a bummer. I hate this shit.

Friday night my roommate DJane Dresssage and I had Caroline Crone and her fantastic girlfriend Jessi over for dinner. I made mujadara and DJane Dresssage made a very nice Kale salad and I served girl scout cookies for dessert. It was so much fun. A kind of perfect way to start my weekend, especially since I'm not drinking.



Saturday I meant to go drop off my old computer parts for recycling but blew it off, thinking there'd be another Williamsburg e-Recycling day soon. There's not. I totally blew it in typical Mercury Retrograde fashion. And now I need to get rid of my junk.

I had the good fortune to perform on Saturday and Sunday night with The Ballez, the legendary queer ballet troupe founded by Katy Pyle, who's an Artist in Residence at BAX. I was performing a piece based on a piece based on Swan Lake. I'm obviously not a dancer and that's kind of the point. Ballet is so hard! It really hurt! I had so much fun doing it. It was actually kind of a life-changing experience for me. I could feel the tug, but I didn't open myself up to it entirely (or I would have been sobbing and that would have ruined the performance). But I felt something well up. I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to do more along these lines in the future. Wow.

Right after the performance I sneaked uptown to Williamsburg to THRUST, the fourth edition of my favorite performance night/variety show/reading, hosted by Julia Aslop and birthday gal Ruby Brunton. I was late, but I got there just in time to see Boiled Wool, my new favorite Brooklyn band/performer, singing. I love her so much. I love all of them so much. I saw Kayla read and I saw Ruby read and I had a really good time. I sang a song, a cover of the Geraldine Fibbers' "Dragon Lady" set to the music of Saint Etienne's "Nothing Can Stop Us". And like yeah, mash-ups are totally boring and old-fashioned, but the St. Etienne song is basically one looped riff from a fantastic Dusty Springfield song anyway.



I don't know if people liked or got it. I think I'm creepy. I want to be creepy. I want to be wrong, because I hate myself and that feels real to me. I'm hoping I can work through this and start feeling a different way, someday. I'm glad I did this song and I want to do it again.

I want to play more shows. Again. I say this all the time.



After THRUST I went to Metropolitan to go to my first tweet-up. That's the name for where you meet people you only know through Twitter. I already knew some of the people there from real life already, so I felt less uncomfortable. But it's ALWAYS nerve-wracking to meet cute boys from the internet in real life, right? They did these renovations at Metropolitan and they made it too chic. It's disorienting and I don't like it.

It's also awkward for me lately because online I vent so much of my personal pain and I think it grosses people out. In the way that things gross us out because of some (my theory) deep-seated recognition or identification.



I have no illusions about this-- I don't think I'm doing a service. I don't think I'm doing this (sharing, oversharing) for other people's benefit. It's therapeutic. I've thought a lot about killing this blog. Killing my online personality. But that wouldn't really accomplish anything.

This is all a record. This is all a record of a process. Anyone can do it. It's about, I don't know, keeping track. Letting yourself forget.



Oh shit I forgot. I need to make a mental note to write a short story, a poem or something, about the night I went out in Oakland over Christmas (I think I posted about it) and met a famous fashion designer.



I feel so wrong though. I feel so dumb. As if it's just a matter of me buying the right thing. I've been taught, and I don't want to put the blame on culture... but here I am a reasonably together 30 year-old person with the sneaking suspicion that it's not as easy as I've been thinking it is. I've been given to understand that one's happiness or success (since, y'know, these are definitely not synonymous but so often conflated) are somehow a function of one's willpower.

So I think it's just a matter of buying the right thing. Making the right decisions. This is what celebrities tell you all the time: they just wanted it bad enough. They just wanted it more than other people.

I've been watching this Mariel Hemingway documentary Running from Crazy. It's a little bit annoying but also kind of exciting. I couldn't finish it because it was kind of bumming me out. Part of me feels like, if you want to avoid "crazy" should you run right towards, into, and through it? Maybe that means I'm not crazy.

I can't tell, honestly, if the antidepressants are working. I don't feel worse than I did before but I do feel like I'm distracting myself.

With good and bad things! I'm not being very creative. I'm not writing. I signed up for a poetry workshop though, and I'm doing this play, and I danced and will get to dance more. I guess maybe I am being creative.

But buying the right thing. I bough winter boots and a new winter coat and of course I bought the cheapest things I could find and of course two weeks into owning them they're coming apart. I am the parable of the fashion-industrial complex. Why, Tomas Maier wonders, bother buying so much junk? Why not just consume less? I am the cautionary tale. I do have two pairs of boots that are cheap and falling apart and neither of them are really comfortable or workable. Instead of having one part of perfect, overpriced, wonderful boots. I want a deal. I feel like the world is out to get me. Because late capitalism. Because being raise the way I was. Isn't it better to have a lot of shitty stuff instead of the one perfect thing? Because you may never get the one perfect thing. And the one perfect thing eventually falls apart too.

I feel this way about love. I more or less do not believe in romantic love. Though I do definitely want it right now. But why bother. Why not try to cobble together a lot of somatic love, a lot of self-love, a lot of platonic love and hope that that's the same? Well those things fade too. I'd rather get dumped by someone else than what I've been doing, which is dumping myself.

I break up with myself all the time. Remember this Mary Timony song from her fantastic first album, Mountains?


God, remember when this record came out?

It's so funny, I was thinking today that I'm going to my analyst tonight but I don't have anything to talk to him about.

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