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.
OKAY NEXT DAY
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.
OKAY THE NEXT MORNING
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.
OH SHIT THAT'S RIGHT--
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.