I'm not rich, but I can spend it all. I can spend a lot.
(I remember as a child asking my dad "Are we rich?" I mean, we're white and we lived in LA and then the suburbs of the Bay Area. Both of my parents were actors who had pretty unglamorous day-jobs. But we were effete, bohemian-seeming. We had middle-class values. "Daddy," I asked "are we rich?"
"We're not rich in money," he'd say, "but we're rich in love.")
I'm not rich but I can spend a whole lot. It's as if I don't have any sense of reality or scarcity.
I DON'T KNOW WHO I AM.
I KNOW WHO I'M NOT.
I want to cut myself off. I want to destroy myself. I want to hide.
And I have been. I'm really trying really hard to be good and I've been off of twitter and facebook which if you know me there is significant. What would I do without all this fake attention?
Probably not a lot.
I'm getting the feeling that there's not really anything worth doing. It's not scary and it's not sad or anything but it's also sort of uninteresting.
It seems so disingenuous to think that your thoughts and your vision are necessary.
The thing of taking a stand. Inhabiting your life. Seems insane to me.
I don't know where I am so I am looking for myself.
I truly don't think I need to write anything or sing anything or do anything ever again. It just doesn't feel necessary.
One hundred thousand false starts.
The best part of any book is the first page. The best part of a song is the first verse. The icing, the frosting.
Looking like something is the same thing as being it.
We think a wish is real. That the image is the same as the thing.
Should I bother following through with anything. Should I write about the shows I've seen, the sex I'm having, the ideas, the hurts, the pain. What is the point of the catalog if it only makes me want to die. But then again everything makes me want to die. It's funny that way.
Want to write to my old friends. Hey I'm listening to this old record and I thought of you:
We were childhood friends.
We came of age together. We never said goodbye we just disentangle very slowly over the course of the rest of our lives.
Is there anything that's not excruciating.
I see them but they don't see me. My friends. My internet friends. My ghosts. Remember. Remember?
I'm online I'm (always) online (who isn't)
but I have to take myself out of the conversation because I can't stop going too deep. I mean what's not a threat. Who isn't trying to hurt me. There're no small answers. I can't even --
Is there a way for me to bring comfort or joy or peace to anyone? Is there a way to be a force for good? How? How could I possible do this when everything feels, you know, as I said, fucking excruciating. Rich in Love is not a thing. That's not richness. Maybe I'm being a brat because I have credit card debt.
I want so badly to work for Comme des Garçons. I don't know how I could make this happen though. To feel like I know what I want, what a trip. But you know I choose an impossible thing. Not impossible but impractical.
Realizing, I mean no remembering, again that I have no idea what to do.
Don't you think I should make this blog private?
I've worked myself
I've worried myself
I've painted myself
I've danced myself
I've sung myself
I've written myself into a corner.
It's just too painful to bear. To be online on Twitter or online anywhere and begging screaming for help and to have the question are you kidding? I think it seems like I can't tell the difference. I probably can't.
Did I cry wolf.
CAN I PLEASE TALK TO SOMEONE WHO KNOWS WHAT'S GOING ON?
What should I do. Should I stop performing stop writing stop blinking stop breathing stop talking stop standing still. Can someone in charge please -- I guess it's a tautology. There's no one in charge. I can't trust an opinion, if I can't trust mine.
I don't have an opinion or a strong feeling about myself.
It's too late for me. I find myself past my expiration date. Rotten by being uneaten. I have to be thrown out.
You won. You wanted me to know how worthless I am if you don't believe in me so okay you won.
Everyone's always just asking me for stuff. Seriously. Not because they like that I have it because they think it's all I am.
Me, Now: God fucking dammit I was trying to be nice to you.
You, A Year Ago: Well you should have thought about that then.
Why does it have to be me not here.
Why do I have to feel like I don't matter. Why can't I be your favorite. Anyone's.
Why is everyone always telling me to leave. To want to be there but to not be allowed to be there but to try to be there. I'm spiraling. Why can't I go down the drain. I feel like I'm blocked somehow. Like I can't cry.
I want to be one of the ones on your list. I want to be on a list of your favorite writers, performers, people, boys, citizens, names, numbers. Anywhere. Just to know I'm like one of the ones that matters. I know it's too much to ask -- to feel this way. But why? Why is it too much. Isn't there enough happiness to go around?
I know I'm blocked because I think a lot about these thoughts and then it calms down because I realize that nothing matters. It's not comforting it's like I feel like -- often -- at least lately -- I feel like I'm about to cry
which would make it the first time I've cried in years
(but who's keeping score anyway)
what happens is I feel like I'm about to cry and it's like edging but with crying instead of orgasm which I know isn't that different but what I mean is that when I feel like I'm about to cry, about to actually feel the thing, I stop I get blocked somehow. It's like I can't unlock the last door. And I don't want to but I know I need to.
It's like who else do I have to apologize to?
Oh shit, I know exactly who.