Wednesday, August 26, 2015

it's all about angle.

I. PHYSICAL THERAPY

however many stages of life:
you learn how to crip walk before you surf punk. babies never skip crip walking. they just don't.
then, for approximately eight years, you develop grandma hearing. following this, for the lion's share of your adult life, your dancing is offbeat. that's cool, i like it. it turns me on. afterward is when you sit on a porch and talk about all the many times your physical embodiment contributed to the creation of a weird song...

...during which, one day, rage filled to my eyes when i heard this one say, "some [air plants] look pretty generic." consider i'm the earth mother and i'm on fire as is. i have aloe on for now to soothe the burn, but i need my five hundred dollar cruelty-free oatmeal exfoliant back in my life. [texts from mom: "is it a rash? are you sure it's not a rash???"]

just rage pure rage filled to my eyes.

it had been a bad day; a bad weekend. whatever bad is. (all i know is that at many points in our lives, things seem pretty "bad" to us and they seek us out too much.) i was just shrinking and bursting at once, you know? sunday morning, i don't remember what happened, except yelling at myself for not convalescing "enough", probably, knowing myself. sunday afternoon, my brother's smelly work-shoe was in the middle of the living room.
i kicked it with my bad foot, muttered something that didn't offer catharsis (which my brother mimicked), muttered something more direct that also didn't offer catharsis (which my brother again mimicked), then went after him with my poor, skeletal little fists that didn't know how to go after a guy that's a thousand times the size of me, until he sat on me because i wouldn't stop attacking him. and i screamed rape a lot while under the gravity of his stupid and probably disgusting asshole. that is, until my mother came running into the house, saw this, told him to get up and told me to stop. the behavior was inappropriate.

i crawled to my bedroom sobbing, feeling yes violated but also exiled from my family somehow, screaming DON'T TOUCH ME every time my mother gave me an encouraging kick.

it's on and off, but as a rule of thumb i don't like to be touched.
plants wilted everywhere that day. my spider plant who hangs over my bed and ruthlessly reflects the heft of my depression- but only to me- seemed particularly saddened. i perhaps trimmed her brown parts, checked her soil's moisture, and continued believing i need to re-pot her, though i totally don't.

i attended formal physical therapy. i really liked being complimented on my beautiful form, and the surprise expressed by the physical therapists when i told them that i never have, in fact, practiced ballet.

i stopped going.

the last time i went, i was imperfect at a new exercise at first until my last few "reps". being perfect is top priority for me.
after i finished (with a perfect fucking ten scoring in my horrific mind), i giggled nervously, then proceeded to sob while politely ask my physical therapist if i may use the bathroom, please. i then hurried off with composure, like the disgruntled ballerina i became to myself while at physical therapy, curled up in the corner of the bathroom, cried hardcore, washed my face and came out smiling, pretending nothing happened and that they totally weren't talking about what the fuck was wrong with me while i was in the bathroom.

and never looked back.


II. FUTURE OF THE SPACE OCCUPYING THE SACRIFICIAL WOMB

i don't care much about you- i saw
a radiant light-

i believe that ought to be discussed-
i believe that ought to be discussed- it is

important to me. it is important to me- there's a snake

slithering around my hips. i don't know his sex.
i am not scared.

nine months later i flower a hellraiser. i'm talking to the cops about it...they're into it. their wives stories are so different from the mythical fantasies of their wildest dreams. although- having wild dreams is a result of several genomic functions, as well as a regular intake of an anti-depressant medication- not "being imaginative". nobody knows what that is. god doesn't even bother mentioning it in the bible, i'm sure.
and as far as writing the wives of cops off as having stories that are nothing like the mythical stories of their wildest dreams, i have no idea. the truth is, i vacuum more than any of them, all of them put together, and every person that doesn't shut the fuck up about the "good ol' days". *and* i vacuum with baking soda because i want my house (which isn't even mine) to smell clean. i clean like the june cleavers of the good ol' days and i fucking like it.

something about cops, or perhaps about their authority or whatever, might always get me wondering...are they upset because they don't know what they're doing but they're trained to know what they're doing? must be rough. control tricks us into believing we're in control. control is faceless, so it could get us to do that- we never recognize it is always controlling us. we don't have control over much, obviously.
i want to know: do married men like their wives? do their wives like them? are they just into that whole being together forever thing- like, they like the idea of having a person? co-dependency? were they just in it to have a wedding and say they had a wedding once?
i have a teddy bear named george. i named him after george h. bush when i was real little. he lets me do anything to him because he doesn't really have any rights, but i pretend he does when i hug him for dear life. i make sure he's comfortable and near me. i make sure he falls asleep in my arms at night, on my bed, where i envision myself as a sleeping beauty woman. all primped and ready for prom. all date raped. (a really weak fuck giving itself inside me by a really weak fuck).

III. THE APPLE OF KIM GORDON'S EYES.

dear kim gordon, and everyone ever, take everything that belongs to me. obviously, you're fucking starving. maybe you don't even know it.
my everything is for the everyworld. my hard work belongs to itself alone. i like sharing.
a lot of you disappoint me. i know it's none of my business. but like, i just want to put it out there that putting on an indifferent front is not enough for me to like your work. it's crumpled paper fueled by an indifferent front. that's not a lot of fuel.

so if half-assing is what's going to be cool about art in this world, i'm going to continue to just say "no" every damned time someone asks me to sell my paintings. no, dammit. just no.

unless changes are made in the outside world, it's going to continue to not be my thing.

IV. MICROCOSM-DEPENDENCY.

let's face it. we're totally in a cloud.

the NSA may be watching over you, but so are their arch enemies- the tooth fairy & co.:

i turned one real thing [x] into a role suited for my play-pretend world. i love x.
i love this thing [y] for the same reason....no. i love x and y and z, too, because they make me laugh, they make me feel ticklish inside, they give me stuff....as they say, if you can only come up with reasons all about yourself concerning why you love another, then you don't really love your "other". you're othering. so resort like so: "they make me hot. they make it past my cervical wall. i'm not at that point when i know only i can make myself hot is the thing, inspired or not. for now, they replace myself. they fill the voids. i need it. i feel great about myself when fucking them." so? yeah no, i obviously don't know what love *feels* like, though i've tried convincing myself over and over again that i do. who hasn't? of course i'm going to try to find love. life is shit without it. of course i wind up resorting to explaining myself and sucking at it big-time instead.

real girls, heroes they are, don't cum- in some ways, they're monk-like. nor do real girls spell come like "cum". for them, it's "reach coitus", "climax", "escalate", "ORGASM" and so forth. real girls aren't in junior high school with their cum and their disintegrated toilet paper suffocating their clitorises anymore, unlike me. real girls don't keep up with what's going on in the world and dispel their activist-y assertions of it on the net, they watch the news and keep it tucked in their garter belts. they want to know what's going on in the world and that's that. they're into noticing subtleties and effortlessly maintaining "sanity", without questioning whether sanity exists or not- it's all about training the mind to convince itself it's totally okay. "train your brain," a-holes will say- the real girls don't have to. they've already got that going on.
sex is a defense; an escapism. real girls don't use the internet, do drugs; don't self-medicate with music, nor do they care what others think of them. it's not important to them- they're tough. they are perfectly fine with life. for them, there's nothing to escape.

full sunlight. watering, twice weekly. with all due respect, overriding misleading directions; gauging their own ways. seeing the double, triple, or however many they wish a rainbow to be.
you, real girls, are the only girls around who i will never silently compete with. for you are the saints- punk, the religious experience, will never be dead to you. a gun will be held to your head. "do you believe in punk?" the gunman will say. "yes," you'll look him dead in his eyes, regretting he's about to kill a real girl, "though i stopped trying to grasp at its meaning for some time. i stood back and just allowed it to be."