Asking for my own worst enemy

I feel like I'm getting sick. I feel like there's nothing important enough to write down except when I'm getting sick or something. My reactions to the new collections that were just shown in Paris. My feelings about the Presidential election. My allegiances to pop stars. My sex life.

Perpetually frustrated. I mean I guess I'm curious too. It's like, I felt like I had to trap myself. Not gonna waste everyone's afternoon describing it. But I've waffled for so long as to whether or not "knowing why" was either possible, useful, avoidable. Like I was telling my Analyst I don't really know if digging is helping. Like will I ever find a satisfactory explanation for why I'm so fucked up? isn't looking for an explanation-- doesn't that become a distraction at some point? Just another way to torture myself? I guess the conclusion we came to is that there's some amount of analysis that's necessary and inevitable and unavoidable so I might as well be the one in charge.

Being of two minds. I mean ignorance is such obvious bliss that it seems suspicious. Dying seems like a drag but being dead sounds pretty fucking cool, in a way. Hear me out: what if one's experience of the world was fundamentally suspicious, anxious, circumspect? How would you bear that? Asking for myself, asking for a not-friend. Asking for my own worst enemy.

Like does it matter why. Does the how matter. Does one how or why matter more or less than another how or why? I don't really care. I mean, maybe I should feel guilty for not caring, but no. I don't feel terribly burdened by this (or most things) so I feel free to share it (and most things) here: looking at pictures of myself from when I was a kid bums me the fuck out. That, I guess, is why for most of my adolescence I never let my parents take my photo. Some chagrin when I let strangers take them, as a 20 something, right? But like no: I don't know "what that says about me" or something I don't really care. Does paying someone to hear me ruminate on it make me feel any differently about them? No. I still wish my mom wouldn't send them to me. I mean it's sweet but it bums me out. The way everything more or less does, is. But yeah no, no shame, no regrets, about sharing here. I mean: constant shame, like white noise. Here being history. Here being online. It's like hiding, I keep saying that.

It's as if on some level

It's as if in an alternate universe, I took chemistry the summer in between junior and senior years and in some alternate universe I never stopped. Everything feels continually experimental.

I mean what else, right? What isn't an experiment to a greater or lesser extent. What even is certain. My reflex is to equivocate. My only impulse is to doubt, to freak out. I evolved to panic. Maybe we at some point needed something like this, a canary in search of a coal mine. A singer for a stage. What's the way in, to fit in or feel useful or something.

Is it a matter of knowing the right people? Wanting the right things?

Desperate for some vague abstract sense of success. I wish I had a book deal. I wish I had a book party coming up. There's nothing I want to write a book about. I don't really want to feel like or know that anyone's reading my book. I just mean I wish I could have the idea or desire to put something into the world. That's corny as hell. I wish I had the desire to be in the world? Also corny.

I mean here we are halfway between eclipses and everything else is changing it feels like I'm just not in the driver's seat. I'm in the divers seat ha ha ha. Yeah I guess I like music. I guess I like feeling good. it's okay. I mean nice work if you can get it right? Speaking of.

Not gonna talk about grudges. I was pissed this morning but then I had breakfast. Felt good. It always feels good to do something important for myself.

To not leave myself enough time.

It's just like that Bikini Kill song. It's so fucked up getting sick. Feeling like I'm getting sick. Like

when you're a smoker, everything feels like it's your fault.


Sense Memory

"When are you gonna start?"

What time's the show. Do you know when you're going on? Is this part of the act? I guess I've already begun. I have some notes from when I was here last. You know, breadcrumb trails and all. Sense memory.

I realize that I've stopped reading my horoscope. It occurred to me this morning as I was eating my oatmeal that I had no idea what was supposed to happen to me astrologically. I don't really care. My fortune doesn't concern me, and I'm not quite sure it should. Do normal people think about their destinies? Is there such a thing as normal people, or destiny for that matter.

I remember in college taking the train into New York from Westchester and seeing a huge portait of Lumidee on the side of a building in the Bronx.

Been mostly not flipping coins either. Weather-checked religiously but out of necessity. It doesn't really matter what I wear or where I go or who I am.

Shopping. Shop instead.

Practice choosing. Make a practice out of decision=making. make taste make you. make what you love define you, your world, your objects and your desires. Make art environmental. Philosophy is climate. Change your dosage.

It feels as though I have open wounds. As if my veins terminate in waterfalls. I'm just wasting, spending, endlessly emptying out. That pseudo-factoid I remember from childhood; that the human heart processes enough blood each day that it could fill a swimming pool. To not matter. To be a vessel, machinery. To be broken, to be fixable. To be fixed. To be made of part. To change states; to go from solid to liquid to gas and back. To multiply.

I feel so keenly the sensation of letting go and I imagine that this is the emptiness I've been trying to cultivate. But it's excruciating. There is nothing there, nothing left.