Today was my target date to finish the blog.

This just snuck up on me. Maybe the deadline was more for me: to start another thing. To stop just writing for blogspot and move on.

This has been the way I've reached the most people though. And people still find things through it. So for now I'm gonna keep it online, as an archive. I reserve the right to come back, hide or repurpose any of this obviously.

I've been keeping online diaries since I was 15 or 16 years old. More than half my life. Ditto vegetarianism.

I started this blog in 2007, after an earlier one called WHIM JOB (essays). Maybe or maybe not this is the better name. In a perfect world this ending would matter, people would care. I would care.

I want to make a proper website for my work, and not just the blog.
So maybe that's next. Then write essays, try to get a book deal.

Unexpurgated. Like Anaïs Nin, one of my heroes. Though to be honest I always liked her edited versions. Maybe need to re-read those. Something about faking back into yourself.

I have so many plans! And I never follow through!

- Still, still working on a final issue of Scorcher.
- Two new long poem things.
- Whatever else.

I guess quitting the blog will give me more time to focus on those.

I will probably start a new blog and have it be more essays or something.

A sad creeping dread.
Confirmation of something I willfully forgot a long time ago.

But maybe I've mapped a lot of that out, right here, though.

I'm tough. I've been through a lot. I'm resilient.

You can learn from my mistakes. Remember when I took a long break from blogging because I was so sad, because I felt like I was getting teased and bullied online. And offline. By my own self.

A journal, from me, wasn't necessary. I showed some people a fantasy. Pivot away.

Nothing's done and nothing's solved. I kept hurting myself. I wake up my room mates with my cough.

This blog, yes, and this apartment I've been in for 11 years, yes.
I'm so constant. Stubborn? Lazy?

Remember when I posted about quitting my job to get part time work and focus on being an artist. This was after all the tooth drama had resolved. That would have been in 2010. And so many nice people wrote to me to congratulate me. And then I went right back to full time work.
I've made a lot of bad decisions.

There's no summary. I want to get hired to write a memoir of my 20s (essentially this blog) but in a nicer way. You know?

Remember the last ECLIPSE I wrote about: my tooth broke at NYU and the next day I performed at the New Museum. I often forget that I did that show with a broken tooth. I was working as a receptionist then.

I had some disappointments, some setbacks. I handled them poorly.
I also did a lot of really difficult stuff and I also let people be really nasty to me because I thought I was supposed to. I miss so many people.

I used to feel like I had so many friends. In many ways, I blew it.

I got off track and I thought this blog was the track, would get me back on it, but that didn't work or happen or something. I'm re-learning this. I'm not where I thought I wanted to be. But in other ways beyond where I'd ever hoped to imagine going. It's so funny.

I thought I needed Billy so I made him and became him and then...
I wanted to be something else, approaching me-ish.

Anyways. Thanks for everything and see you around.

accidental over

I spent so much time as a kid thinking about lazers.

At an art opening at a tiny gallery. Crowded room full of teenage (looking) girls. Feeling like I'd discovered an authentic, small, unmapped territory.

But then look at the gallery folder folder and all of the artists are teen Instagram stars with thick press clippings. I mean maybe I'm being uptight. It's like a dream: this is who SHOULD be in these magazines, teen girl artists. The ocean. Right? It's just a very shiny very bright very closed circle. Maybe it's a New York thing.

Overheard a woman at the gallery say "I hated my job, and then I quit and went to India, and when I was in India I got sick and it took me months to recover."

And why not. I mean.

The week filled with OVERwhelming anxiety.
Rolling torrents of thoughts, fears, worry. Nothing quells. It's insane.

Catch my breath.

What if my eclipse revelation was a sad one? One of dissatisfaction? One of regret? The terrible feeling. The being late for appointments.

I don't want to be a person who's uptight. Nor do I want to be a monster, insisting on some fabulous joy for myself, to force my will to power. In cute eccentric queer funny ways. I'm already doing it.

Hot flashes of incompetence, doubt and terror.

Let's be animals about it.

I miss someone.
I was so nervous but now I'm not.

Was it about being late?
Some kind of turmoil. I forget sometimes to worry.

Been accidentally breaking a lot of dishes.

The Eckhart Tolle summary of people who are angry really resonated with me:

“The more you are identified with your thinking, your likes and dislikes, judgments and interpretations, which is to say the less present you are as the watching consciousness, the stronger the emotional energy charge will be, whether you are aware of it or not. If you cannot feel your emotions, if you are cut off from them, you will eventually experience them on a purely physical level, as a physical problem or symptom. A great deal has been written about this in recent years, so we don't need to go into it here. A strong unconscious emotional pattern may even manifest as an external event that appears to just happen to you. For example, I have observed that people who carry a lot of anger inside without being aware of it and without expressing it are more likely to be attacked, verbally or even physically, by other angry people, and often for no apparent reason. They have a strong emanation of anger that certain people pick up subliminally and that triggers their own latent anger.“



I'm still thinking I want to end this blog on August 24th. Not sure what comes next. I want to do more writing, in a way for more people to see it. And maybe the blog was a good way to do this, then not such a good way. But now it feels like it's becoming a good way again! But I have to move on. Romance Astrology Akathisia Revenge are no longer my main concerns. Really it's just that revenge isn't interesting to me. Revenge was because I was mad at Scott Panther for breaking up with me.

On my Birthday at I took myself to lunch at Zabar's. I sat next to coven of old women talking about buying pharmaceutical stocks. Now is the time apparently. They're not gonna get any lower. They're only gonna go up. This is what you miss if you work in an office or do something with your days. You miss the gangs of older people leisurely having endless breakfast on rainy mid-August Monday afternoons. Placing bets. Flipping through tabloids and crumbling pastries with their fingertips, absentmindedly. Calling out predictions to each other, but not really listening or engaging in conversation. A flock of doomsday sayers. Recommending Israeli genetic stock options. I nursed my gazpacho and rugelach (singular).

I got a copy of The Ambient Century by Mark Prendergast. I've just started to read it. It's a bit like Ambient reading? Ambient criticism? Ambient cataloguing?

I got copy of the Raincoats Odyshape LP. It's maybe my favorite but only because it has some of my favorite songs. I think it's their saddest and most poetic album (so far).

One of my favorite Raincoats songs. I prefer this to the 1994 version, even though that version came on a 10". Which I'm still looking for.

I bought myself a pair of Versace socks, embroidered with a Medusa head, and a pack of blue Calvin Klein underwear.

On Sunday I had a kind of party, I had people meet me at the Metropolitan Barbecue. Merrie Cherry and Charlene performed, which I didn't know they were slated to do, and they were fantastic and I love them.

My lover brought me a hilarious and delicious cake, that said Happy Birthday Down There because he knows how much I loved this picture which I found on Cake Wrecks.

I didn't get a picture of my birthday cake but it was perfect and delicious and sort of flesh- or skin-toned, which I liked.

oh no wait Tyler posted a picture of me and bae with the cake:

I also got a painting from Logan

And I also just a painting from Jiddy last week as a gift for collaborating together on her recent residency installation project. Video coming soon.

I also got a new toothbrush, which feels sort of extravagant. So yes. Quite a haul. So much to carry with me and so much now, to discard. It's eclipse season and Mercury is going Retrograde. And there was an eclipse on my Birthday. I didn't feel it. There's another (bigger? worse?) eclipse at the end of the month.

I saw a kind of weird movie at MoMA Death Ray On Coral Island. Exhausting, in the way science fiction always is for me. I was also very tired and a little bit hungover.

I sort of drifted in and out of sleep while watching. It was tense and gorgeous and relaxing somehow?

Got dinner, got a drink. Went to the Issey store this morning but not feeling quite so flush.

What's it called?

Want to be a new thing.
What to carry with me, haul on my back into this next chapter.
Yeah astrology yeah weather. I have my doubts, I got my fears.

Sometimes I lose my appetite, and other times I am so deliriously ravenous that I forget it or sublimate it. Make it a ghost that haunts me.

Things are perfect and yet...
Could be more so. Could be quicker (what couldn't?)
It might be that I've eaten myself sick.

These electric flyswatters just don't seem to work. Which I guess is good, I don't know how I feel about being an insect murderer. It doesn't matter because I'm not murdering them. The fly swatter seems to mostly stun but rarely kill flies.

Is this one of those summers where cicadas come back? Why am I swarmed with insects all of a sudden? Two other things from this weekend:

Birds have been trying to get into my room, too. Hanging out on my air conditioner, pecking at my window screen. Just for one morning this weekend. I don't know why but I liked it. I thought maybe for my birthday.

Also, I saw a dead body. Lying on a gurney, covered by a sheet, sitting outside of a funeral home. I don't know if it was on its way in or out but I saw it and passed by without registering for a few steps.

My stomach ache. Fear. An itch on my neck. I need to eat a salad. Do some push-ups. Write. I wanna write the zine tonight.

Only just organizing. Feel on the verge of some kind of insight. Some slight accrual of perspective.

The Jessica Lanyadoo horoscope for Leo this week said "Just because you don’t know what comes next doesn’t mean that you have anything to worry about."

I have to keep reminding myself of this. I feel that in so many ways I'm in a different place than I was before. Listening to Mahler on the train this morning.

Cooking mistakes. Bad decisions. I regret so many things. And other things I do not regret at all. I'm jealous and sad and I miss people, things, places. Where did they go? Surely it's that they've left. I've stayed out. Some people who've unfriended me. Who've cut me off. Some I know and some I don't. Feel sad but only the shape of sadness. Not actually missing the person or something, just more the principal of the thing.

The only drag I know is junkie drag and that's no longer socially appropriate. For other reasons. For reasons on the other end. Coming from the other direction. Courtney Love drag.

The epitome of drag, for me is MayGay as  Courtney Love at the Gilman punk prom. I feel like that photo exists in museums somewhere. It's perfect, an invocation of her not just as a goddess but as a person, corporeal. Probably a candy cigarette or not even really smoking yet.

It is so humbling to remember that Courtney Love has a much more developed, committed and rigorous spiritual practice than I do.

Courtney Love has been a Buddhist for many years. She says about Buddhism that "you chant for shit you want, and you get it."

I've often thought of Courtney as a Boddhisattva figure so seems fitting to close this blog circling back to her. But to portray the goddess as pregnant with cigarette in hand. Unthinkable.

The point is I only know drag as it invokes for me the goddess of humanity. Drag that takes itself seriously but with a sick sad humor. One that's in on the joke but only nominally. A drag whose frailty cannot be faked, photographed, measured, conveyed nor performed. A drag of sickness. Now though to be a junkie drag queen is something else I suppose. I've never been either one but as they say it's never too late.

But one wonders could Courtney Love have more to teach us? About survival, ignorance, sickness, desire? The Tao of Courtney Love. I'm not entirely kidding.

If not the literal Courtney Michelle love Harrison Cobain than I mean the figurative Courtney Love. Whatever Courtney Love means to you.

Maybe to you Courtney Love means the Lois Maffeo/Pat Maley band. Whose output is maybe more gorgeous than anything the other homonym ever made.

But that's just the point: is religion or something a useful feeling? Junkie Drag is not sure. Junkie Drag might not care, might have higher fish to fry. Might be shooting up backstage at the opera house.

I wanted to be junkie drag queen, to be both of and beyond. A joke but sad one. Insistent and human but also... glamorous. But mortal.

Is Lana junkie drag queen?

It's not funny maybe I shouldn't even use the word junkie. This might be the next battlefield of identity politics, junkiedom. What's the word? For when you don't have chemical problems in your brain? Neurotypical? I wonder. But then here as ever is the problem that these distinctions don't jive at first either the dharma. I mean no I know I'm getting it wrong I just. Ouch. Stuck on a train underground with a bad headache. Neck ache. Tension headache. I meant to go see Sister Nancy but it didn't work. I got there too late. Am I just writing so that I protect myself? Junkie drag queen says calm down. But not too much.

I suppose my religion is being gay. Alterity.

I'm one of those fags who thinks everyone's gay and isn't shy about sharing that knowledge. Everyone can be gay.

Can just refuse; do something else. Hold ourselves and each other to a different standard. Keep moving the goalposts. Refuse the game. Not of mortality but of competition. Only when a status quo of human beings get on board will this change. Be it Buddha or Courtney or some other kind of nonbelief. Gayness is my way out and through. Someday soon we'll laugh about the time we used to use such small silly words for it.

This isn't the finished essay of Courtney Love or Junkie Drag. Those might be different topics.

I love how Laetitia Sadier so often uses the metaphor of gardening for making music. Growing different crops on the same path. So smart. Ugh. Mom.

Should've said more before. This was all written through last week.



There’s no new good media now, man. Everything’s picked out for you. Based on conversations your phone overheard you having. Or a song your friend listened to by himself: it will want to sell you the song, put the song in a commercial for you. There’s no news, no inspiration. Maybe find a spiritual text.

I’m tired of thinking about Courtney Love. I’m tired of pointing out sexisme.

The mosquitoes really fucked me up again, you know?
- One left pointer finger.
- One right forearm.
- One left elbow (while I was meditating)
- TWO left knee
- One right ankle

All on Monday morning. All before 7am. Most of the swelling has gone down and I put that sleeping pill gel on it but it’s just making it sleepy for me for my morning commute (great). Gotta get going.


Some updates. I have a wonderful secret. And it's almost my birthday. To finish this blog on 8/24 will be in a good place. How to end it tho?
I think I want to make a book. I want to make a book of me, the real me, but also a book of how I came to be the fake me, and how I got back

Working on the getting back bit, natch. The new zine addresses the topic.

But maybe also a novel.
It's so insane how things work out.

There will be a partial eclipse on my birthday. Um.

Tuesday not so bad only one mosquito bite, back of left hand. What's troubling tho is that the hand was under a sheet. Where do they come from?
Desperate to buy camphor. To clear my room.
But I wonder is it toxic? It ... seems so.

What if it wasn't jittery but focused, dreamy, intense, relaxed, slow?
What if it was a book about other people?

Some day everything good will must need fall apart. To be one with everything.

For my birthday I think I might get up early (very early) and go to meditation.


I went for a run. A short one - I had to pee.

I'm in the backyard at No Name Bar.
A group of game nerds talking about special moves they'd like to execute.

Is smoking a cure for mosquitoes.
I mean is it a disease?
Can you get addicted to warding off nature? Is that a religion too?
All of them.

All kids talk about is school. It's all they think they know.
Overheard: "At least you're in debt to your parents."

The bartender says I just made happy hour.
They're nice to me because I'm older.
Even if we're the same age -- I'm older.

I just want to sleep. I'm gonna soon, let me finish.

Whys it always sick here.
Whys my vibe fucked. Why'd I Fuck up.
I always choose the wrong thing.
Sometimes, not always.
Sometimes I choose right so many times in a row that I can't event cash in, I know the game is rigged.


I invite you to explore the tags, the keywords. Tell your friends.

As Sister Nancy says in "One, Two"

"Go tell your friend. Y'know? Tell yourself and tell your friends."

Few things in the world have consistently provided me with strength, pleasure, comfort, inspiration as Sister Nancy's LP.

So why this morning worried? Is it my body.?
Is it my infections. My injuries.

Every fantasy includes anxiety.
To some as yet unrecognized, not quite negotiated degree.

I was looking for pictures of fantasy pix of tropic for the blog.

And the computer starting giving me weather patterns.
Which makes sense.

I finally understood that Prada collection.

Weather patterns are the new florals.
The anxiety of luxury (and vice versa).

“The past is over,” Miuccia Prada said about this collection. “I only want to think about the present.”

But how to proceed quite yet.
My heart hurts.
I can't stand to see someone I love in pain.

I wake up and think there's something I'm forgetting to worry about.
Some fatal oversight hanging over my head.

I throw elements of my life (real or imagined) into it but nothing fits yet.
Is this generalized anxiety, is this disorder, is this actually some subconscious anxiety over other material things, dream things, etc.

There might not be an answer yet, we just have to keep moving forward.

Distract myself. For now. It's another name for it.