A girl reading a script.
No, a teacher's manual for a language school. What language is she gonna teach? She has a ponytail. Maybe French.
Met for drinks and talked about records. Bands we wish would reunite. For me The Need, Free Kitten.
Department of Health wants me to do a survey on my way out of a gay bar. About STDs or something. I'm not part of this.
The bar was full of drunk straight kids dancing to Spice Girls in a circle. What am I doing with my life.
Really the ultimate reunion tour would be the Spice Girls.
My lover and I took a playwriting workshop this weekend. Subtly awesome, engaging, funny, poignant.
We went to a party Saturday night, GAY HEAVEN which of course came after GAY HELL. The hummus was great and I learned a minor scandal about the GAY HELL hummus. Not a scandal per se but you had to be there.
I got a sunburn and am furious with myself.
I went to an art opening even though I didn't really want to. They were out of beer but I put a maté soda in my bag. The paintings were actually pretty good. Big fucked up abstract oils. Nightmare surreal gore etc.
The soda exploded in my lap on the train.
No worries. No worries. No worries.
I'm coming down to the wire. I want to make a website get a book deal and go on tour.
I want to be a writer in residence at Comme des Garçons.
I want to get out of here. I don't mean New York I mean I've taken up running and (have I mentioned this?) the last time I was regularly running though a neighborhood I was in Alameda and I was ready to get out.
I'm ready for this generation to finish. I'm ready for this time period to wash over me.
Do you want to come with me?
I'm ready for all the TV shows to end. For the movie to come out.
I run through the neighborhood.
Bugs fly into my mouth.
I want to give the feeling, I want to write the feeling, perform the feeling.
I want to evoke the feeling, surround myself with it.
Be with people who feel the feeling.
But do I want to feel the feeling? Not terribly.
This full moon fucked me up and everyone is fucked up. Anyway. It's the time of year when bugs eat me.
I'm not trying to cultivate a character, I want to be in the world. It's both.
I'm so obsessed with this thing of calling someone a loser as an insult. I feel like Beck, a very 1990s feeling: I am a loser. C'est moi.
As if to say what's so bad about being a loser?
It takes all kinds. It's a valid way to be.
Like I can be a loser and still be worthy.
I think I'm fighting the good fight.
I am acting like I can withstand everything. I've put myself there as of to prove that it's a place to inhabit, to speak from.
I mean should I just do stuff? For any reason other than I feel like it?
In a way the mosquitoes flatter me. They think my blood is sweet. And may be they're right.
My logic is as follows: if I don't expect kindness, if I don't demand my own happiness, then every kindness is unexpected. Each moment of joy a form of grace. That's what it is.
All I do is catch myself by surprise. All I do is write checks I can't cash.
Am i waiting for the world to punish me?
Am I angry that the world hasn't yet?
Am I not understanding the ways in which it already has?
I've always been here. I'll stick around and explain how we got here. I'll be the concession stand.
I woke up at 4:30 am. Mosquitoes bit my arm, my thigh, my back, the back of my neck. I didn't see or hear them I just woke up in pain. I put on antihistamine gel which only made it harder to wake up an hour later.
I need a new air conditioner and a new mattress.
A $500 day which I don't have.
Everything's falling apart!
I went jogging and did exercises and that made me feel a bit better.
Trying not to be so fatalistic, to lot focus so much on suffering.
Dressed unusually formal for work.
Again: trying to trick myself.
A girl on the train filling out s job application by hand. Copying references from her phone and writing them down on the form.
This weather reminds me of the school year, even though by now schools out for summer. It's that-- I keep forgetting about it-- that early summer anxiety. I get it in springtime too. I mean, eternal right.
Something though about summer coming more fully together, some great unfolding. A spreading.
I'm always so excited to see my psychoanalyst when we haven't met for a few weeks but then I get there and can think of nothing to say, I just look forward to the process.
The radio would keep me company. If it had to.
That Björk lyric:
"I want to go on a mountain-topTo me it seems right now to be important that it's a radio. Not a microphone. She's not saying she's singing the joyous tune necessarily but just playing it.
With a radio and good batteries
And play a joyous tune and
Free the human race
I'm no fucking Buddhist
But this is enlightenment"
I want to go to the mountain top with a radio and good batteries too but imagining beyond that... I'm not so sure.
Truly riffing. Absolutely boring, like drilling.
Bored as in pierced, cut through.
The girl? Who was filling out the job application on the train? It wasn't even her pen she had borrowed it. How sweet.
Jane Weaver, who are you? I love you.
Being ruined, I mean my sunburn.
Is there a way of being where we don't have a we?
Am I just making my problem everyone else's?
Isn't that all anyone does?
Feel unsettled but don't know if it's just because of the physical pain (my pains!) or because I'm worried about my apartment my mattress my air conditioner. Am I just looking for things to worry about?
Something's out of whack. I feel misaligned.
I want to eat salad for dinner.
(And I did, I stuffed myself full of leaves).
Reading about the apocalypse. How things are gonna get so bad so soon.
Chelsea Manning tweet about automation.
So why bother ? Why live the way we do, going to work et cetera?all jobs are going away 📈 replaced by automation 🏭🖥️ the jobs are not coming back, we need to figure this out ! we need each other 💕🌈😍🌎🌍🌏👭👫👬
— Chelsea E. Manning (@xychelsea) July 10, 2017
Trying to imagine the upside here. Of being the ones to inherit heat death.
It seems unfair.
That we'll have to bury everything, see everything burned.
But maybe it's not unfair maybe we're lucky.
How lucky I am to be of the generation that will usher life off the planet.
Maybe every generation felt this.
But now it seems less preposterous to contemplate death, mortality, the end.
Now it seems that those of us are better armed.
Those of us who've known the dead, who've been contemplating death for years.
How lucky we are to be the generation that grows old and senescent at the same time as the planet; life on the planet.
We're the custodians of this next transition.
We're the chaperones.