Monday, September 28, 2015

idylwilde.

i.the house of buying

a full, blood moon closed itself from sight like a flower, eclipsed by the earth, eclipsed by the sun. that's when nazareth appeared without a preemptive search for him. i buy from him, which is generally entailed by a preemptive search for him. i buy whenever i'm not okay with anything. it's the sensible thing to do. buying is what i do to be so-so. so i search for him on the streets. streets are the house of buying. we don't often just happen to pass each other.
nazareth was his face, like how the cheshire cat can choose to be his. nazareth is my cheshire cat.
his face was distant; luminous with a halo around a pulsating rust-spot. his face was a microscope slide, alight under examination.
nazareth appeared to be lecturing the planet- those of us he could see. he pivoted his head around and spoke wordlessness. his mouth moved under his beak with fervor, with urgency. i thought of how people on the planet also do this, but not with authority; they do this absorbed in their own grounds. we are the bubbled people.

coming to terms with this truism, to me, always seemed to be a matter of prioritizing chasing my thoughts and keeping an ear out for ideas. at this moment, this brief musing feels like a chased thought.

i'm a satyr, i think. oh, dear god. i chase as if after game, snickering and smirking. lightning electrocutes itself with lightning. i decorate my neck with mardi gras beads.

i looked up because i felt the eyes of nazareth burn through me. he shook his head back and forth as if in protest, passionately negating. his rust-spot quickened its pulsating suddenly, rippling from himself, past the halo. it was as if i was watching something i can only see in my eyelids, when my eyes are closed.
i am not the one to whom he speaks. "no, no, no. you know, you're not exempt from this."
i am one to reflect my speaking onto him as he does to me. this is how i handle communication, and assume others communicate the same way. true language is an artifact, not vocal barking.
i interpret his head-shaking to meaning. he sighs. "let's start from the top, once more."

how do i catch nazareth into transcribing what he means according to himself? i wonder. what is wondering?
i'd like to drag all of the wondering into a body in the middle of a room that people are in. i'd like the body of wondering to strip in this room. i'd like it to strip down right to the fruity seeds. what is it, the inconcieved possibilities and impossibilities? what is anything, wondering?
ii.the military
ii.i.
one by one they step before my desk as i change the context in which they'd been set. "welcome to your new life," i spit all over my face and within close proximity. they leave my office, shivering. i look like a dickhead and i smoke a cigar. it's uncomfortable to be around me.
the queen of the elements, wonder, is now what she couldn't of been without the courage she possessed to divorce from meaning. (just like what i did.) now she's independent and doesn't fill voids at all.

ii.ii.hard facts
i can speak on behalf of myself, dolphins, and morning doves, that sex is intimate because you shed bodies that aren't cared for together. sex is a very buried abandonment that you reflect onto the person with whom you have sex. there are no more abandonments. there's nothing left of what you really wanted to you cut ties with but couldn't until someone did it with you. fulfillment is the interplay of all this.

hard facts are cold. they are disinterested and dispassionate. hard facts aren't in my kingdom. in my kingdom, we respond positively to beautiful days and respond negatively to drab days all together. we search for light. hard facts prevent us from responding positively to our "gut feelings".
the gut is unfiltered. people say it's the abdominal region- the gut- where consciousness truly lives.
sex is the response to gut feelings.

ii.iii.in the neck of the hole's mouth
everywhere is garbage. that's what this city is about- turning garbage into other kinds of garbage. the big city willfully decomposes. yes, it's certainly notable architecture. the sensory influx is pushed, forced, to extreme sounds, tastes, smells, touches, and colors at all times. you know everything that screams like the back of your hand in the blink of an eye. the sensory influx flowers a hypnosis.
without this hypnosis, we'd find ourselves drifting, lost without our canonized cultural identities. it's a high cost to live seeing the world this way.
this is not a moment of clarity, but it's just as real.
there is this one garbage pail in the center of soho somewhere among the hustle and the bustle. everyone knows about it but doesn't do anything about it. long ago was it filled with trash, never to be removed of. the pile of trash in the pail has since overflowed into a cascading. i once picked through it.
the wind leaves hardened bubblegum be. what hardened bubblegum is is the insignia of the big city. the bubblegum remains pink after being spit from a person's mouth. however, it hardens, and gets stepped on by zillions of feet daily so it turns black. black as in, like, odious black- i'm surprised the entire sky isn't overtaken by this shade of black. the city sidewalks are decorated for good. it's like installation art of the alma mater.

iii.imposture
i seem to believe in ghosts- a phenomenon at most, as i know ghosts deceive me, and that they are out of touch with authenticity. how could i let myself fall for that shit? i guess i'm not in charge of gravity. am i? is someone?
ghosts do not mean harm or non-harm. ghosts just say "boo".
ghosts find inability to reflect in one another. this is dangerous, because if they observe this too much- compulsively, perhaps- they will never find anything else to do but find themselves stuck in that very inability. this costs an arm and a leg.
the sun rises; angels pluck at their harp strings; life is on the move. in life, is encapsulation. the encapsulation is callused. signs, like hardened bubblegum on sidewalks, are what lead us within the callused encapsulations.
the parts of life move from one to the next like from one far away land to the next, skipping over the many steps to do so. trust is entirely unsettling, disturbing. this is an important step to skip when moving from one far away land to the next.
a particle is in a breeze- a spore. it goes to find a decent landing. in the pure air this particle is eden, the garden of eve and adam. pure air turns everything it touches into utopia. pure air: within us all, the seer- the eye never to open outwardly. i am preoccupied with indoctrinations to know any more than that.
i am naked. it's irrelevant whether this is a part of a dream sequence or not. there is nothing left to do except leave things behind- and i am naked with it all. i see entrapment. i am not lending myself space, because i believe there's already a fulsome amount of space.
there is nothing i leave to the imagination. impossibilities? possible. this is a mission in my hands.

a poem about grease stains; a poem about
exploit. a poem which exploits

to get the west to listen. the west
is fluent in exploit.
a poem, and arm outstretching reach; a poem
coupled with sex. poem
about the south, spanish moss hanging
from bayou trees...; a long winded poem a poem
demands to destroy the demanded
routes; disproportionate jagged shadows
colored rabidly. a poem and its reactions; amoral
poem. good and bad yes and no poem; no such
poem

is itself a core
but conveying
social demands
which must be exploited, disgusted by itself,
deteriorated and unswallowed.
a poem grains of sand, a poem which

discovered unknown possibilities, a poem censoring
the unrealistic, poem demonstrating
impossibilities. grease stains. graffiti. confetti

somewhere out there.

policies are enforced to target us impersonally. we choose whether to remove parasites or not. to some degree, it almost seems apt to keep them.

Saturday, September 26, 2015

yellow journalist.

dear yellow journalist,

i know what your name stands for. i've been grabbed to its heart, magnetized. i dance on strip poles and wear fishnet. my hands are on your ass. you're riding me. i'm playing with another's hot girls tits. what am i wearing? "wearing"? what's that? does that prevent my cunt from getting wet? because my cunt is wet for you, yellow journalist. our romance is of bold, blocky lettering- "tits and ass and drugs and fights".
this is what speaks to me as one among the undertakers of the ogliarchy these days. our authority has been turned from a green "IDEALS!" to "JADED: LOOK AT OUR EXPRESSIONS OF OUR JADED IDEALS NOW!" i get dreams of the stuff that's relevant to yellow journalism and that's all i dream about.

"TITS! ASS! DRUGS! FIGHTS" i'm inspired by you. you have really
proven hollywood and the white house are the lands of the soap opera people
as much as i believe they are.
these are the magic lands where my heroes go to live.
they are all crazy people.

is a good thing? this which we fight for? if this is a good thing, than
what is it good for? what is it we are not fighting for? absolutely nothing?
i don't know. i don't know, you guys.

i strongly regret that misprint


i've finally made a meme. i knew i could get past the problems of going through with that and see through this.


information detours in the jungle.

above: yellow journalism, originally.




above: yellow journalism, recently. (photographic evidence this is not a dis to yellow journalism today, because i love both of those examples i came across the serendipity of finding.) but i mean, so this point is, people basically don't realize i'm not an aspiring troll when i say "i've always been interested in yellow journalism."

https://manshipmassmedia.wordpress.com/2014/11/14/modern-day-yellow-journalism/

Friday, September 25, 2015

i can't remember exactly when we stopped talking. my memory is shot, so that's a lofty task, one that boasts zero results. things with numbers are all about fear of zero-ness. it's the most intriguing number.
i know some disconnect must've happened, but i don't know remember anything like that. it was just like a bubble. a bubble is there and magnificent, and then it isn't there. it doesn't lose its magnificence, just its being there. i don't know what it is i said, what i did. i realize this is me fishing for shame, really- but too, i literally don't remember, so it feels like a memory is missing. i need you to put yourself in your shoes you wore when you were two years old, because it's difficult for the matured adult brain to fathom. i react to unresponsiveness like a small child confused over object constancy until the hereupon of inconstancy. it is the object which i believe my own invented conclusions of, as i regard them without hesitation, without reservation, or any intervening. i repeat: i am a small child.

dear world: i repeat over and over again, i am child. treat children like how you wish children treated you.

fine web finds.

think of your childhood. what are the first things you are able to express
which came to mind?

i keep thinking of my ex-stepmother's weird supermarkets she had to go to because they were fabulous, blueberries (for no detectable reason), or maybe it's the color or the ripple-yness of blueberries that i apparently respond to, being either praised or admonished for creativity, not having a sense of time and that sticking for good,

statistics show one in every six people thinks of their childhoods every one in six seconds. (doctor mistrusts statistics will be needing references if you find yourself startintg a sentence with the words "statistics show...". actually, just write a report. if i rip it apart. it's because i don't jibe with statistics, and fat chance i read your report anyway.)
continue to think of your childhood every six seconds (every one second is survival, every two seconds is existence, every three seconds is making a living, every four seconds is sex, every five seconds is body aches.) carry on with this pattern. when you think of your childhood, think of goddesses next because it's close enough.

how do you measure the abstract stuff? i want to say. i was in a new psychologist's office tonight- my psychologist i've been working with for almost four years is leaving the practice through which i see her, and i feel like playing vitamin c's "graduation" imagining my psychologist and i parting ways. he says to me, like everyone else, with the exception of the dbt programs i was rejected by, that he believes i really need to be in a DBT program. no yeah, i'd love that, but with the way american health care works, dbt is a luxury- for me, a pipe dream, because i'm no good at saving money, i don't really have a sense of its value; the value of a dollar.
these programs don't accept insurance. the cost is ridic.
if you are admitted into a DBT program, it's not unlikely you suffer a pervasive and dangerous mental epidemic (because the brain doesn't count as a major organ or anything, it's not medical. it just isn't. it's different. [wants to stop being acutely observant because it feels like nobody else is paying attention at all]). it's also not unlikely if you have "anomalous impulse functioning" symptom branded somewhere multiple times on your chart (the mystical document).

the truth behind DBT is you have to have connections to rich people, probably family. because honestly, saving money is a really boring thing to do and you have to hold still to do that.

he said he has to think over working with me (lol) because i really do need a program, and i have to commit to having my number one goal for therapy be making progress working away from intentional self injuring. really? i don't measure things on scales. how can you compare the importance of different matters without just feeling totally wrong and questioning everything you're saying? i measure things by their feeling. what i address in therapy intakes is indicative of all kinds of problematic- why can't all of the problems suck to live with harmoniously, of equal weight? grrr.

addendum: NEWS: i've fallen in love. i always drank tea without anything in it, because it seemed ritualistic, or something, to do so, like "i'm doing this for the healthy properties, not the taste". today, a change of heart because a lot of people in books i've read drink milk and honey. so i put about a teaspoon of really yummy honey into my "lavender honey stress relief" tea which had been steeping for ten minutes or so, and added a little vanilla soy milk.
i'm a little insecure knowing this now, because i know a hipster would do the same. additionally, i'm considering stopping buying any tea, and going off the grid entirely, due to people in the world picking tea leaves all day and being treated like slaves. (i.e., i'm uncomfortable having any possible link to that kind of thing.) but i only have mint, as far as readied plants with herbal properties go.

totalitarian outreach: the meatpacking district.

hi; I'M DEVOTED TO THE CITY. kill, pussycat! bang, bang! our parents 
don't know we're not home. they never do. they don't pay as much attention to
certain things as we do. 
word to the wise- don't like sharks. sharks don't even have families other than their unborn children. sharks kill people. they wear real leather. they aren't listening to you. they're strategizing accomplishing priorities that benefit nobody but themselves while also calculating in their heads. they don't know you all that well like how you think you guys do. they hardly know you at all.

hi; I AM A SHARK. i will bite your head off. i am a shark whose face was eaten by a faceless shark. he was an envious shark and wanted a face. i don't know what i look like now, but that's okay, because i can't see.

us sharks are born with remarkable drive to be longed for. make me a star, they write to hollywood. i'll do anything it takes.

i know so much about sharks. identifying as a shark, however, is sort of weird. i think i might be a machine- my skin is silver and hot to the touch. i guess i have a fever.

i've come to decorate my body- it's more than it is. there is nothing else left to do.

a wild particle came crawling into the cavemouth of my faceless head to learn more about it....

tornadoes go round and round...
school bus wheels go round and round...
clock hands go round and round...

i've always liked it here. it is possessed by curiosities of the exotic. every experience is foreign, unlearned. i'm always running loose in jungles. everything i've ever seen is a jungle. ("long island is a shitty beach town."- anais nin)

i notice sex is made out of cardboard these days. i see unabashed sex everywhere i go in the big city. my feet don't leave this island. these vulgarities are okay...really, you can't judge a vulgarity- all a vulgarity is is what is not left to the imagination. we get sick of selling this but there's no other form of currency.

hi; interpretation of OL' CHRONUS: the primordial organized, sold as a scientifically evident shared reality. at first it was just sundials.....

chronus fucked some broad and they birthed two brats in between birthing five zillion other brats. let's see... there was zeus, who married his sister, hera. zeus wouldn't fuck his wife because he was scared of making things real with her, so he spent all the time he got away from her fucking others. he was a notorious rapist.
hera was rather apathetic toward bonding with zeus. neither one of them were attracted to each other. they looked like monsters. hera believed that as long as they could engage in power tactics together, and assert power all the times they're not asserting it, she was pleased being married to zeus. she was kind of a corporate bitch.
they went on to reproduce many more children- it was a religious staandard is mostly why they did this. they'd come out of parts of hera's body- eggs would leave any part of her body, from her toes to the tip of her head- and she'd pass them to zeus to carry the fetuses. he was covered in many pouches for babies to finish their growth in before they hatched. he'd put headphones on these pouches so the babies could listen to classical music. listening to classical music in the womb is how cultural people begin life.
the first children of zeus and hera were only relatively fucked up. the further they went along, the more genetically mutated somehow the children would be.
hera had eight nipples. they all dragged to the ground together. her uterine lining gave out and plopped into a toilet in a starbucks one day. she lost the ability, completely, to birth. she didn't give a fuck.
zeus said rape rape rape. rape rape? rape.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

naked nothings.

preconception.
preconceived meaning of "beginning" directs itself now.

a precautionary tale: expectations are never met. they are illusory. expectations are drilled into us so we do more than what we are doing which is fully experiencing the present state.
the purpose of expectations are to freak us the fuck out.
expectations demand reaction. when things aren't how we'd like them to be it's the apocalypse, somewhere inside the place where expectation-receptors tramsit neurotransmitters of themselves to.
expectations present a meaning for the unknown; give the unknown a face. (knowing is half the battle, considering knowledge is stored in the pre-conscious- we know. fishing for the knowledge at the moments we wish to is the other half of the battle.)

it was the best of times.
it was the worst of times.
we know it so well we don't even look at anything else.
it was the best of times.
it was the worst of times.
i'm living off movie stars- and borrowed time. these-
are secrets of mine
it was the best of times.
it was the worst of times.
it was the best of times.
I. it was the worst of times.

what is it i'm doing wrong? i'm just spending time on the internet....and not just the internet. other stuff on the computer, too. i'm just doing that. (just implies justice- what is is justifiable) justice is everything. drugs, you ask about? well, partner, justice is my drug. the number one drug right now can be bought of the streets as well as the high-end market right now. the stuff millionares get as well as hoods. technocracy is an eqalitarian movement. it brings us together.
speaking of technocracy, the ingestion of data has been added to the list of natural merits needed in order to live, which is shaped as a pyramid. whether a drug is a drug or not really depends entirely on a person's chemistry.
conclusively, drugs only exist when they're for bodies.

II. the law of discernment: abused for bitch moves.

example a: you know, alcohol is a drug. you are doing a drug.
doing a drug is secondary.
there is that which led to the action of doing a drug.

example b: marriage means making yourself a component in a light
that you've never had the opportunity to be in before. but it looks different,

because you're everything but a component.
you fully perceive at every moment. information sensitivity

is involved. we fully perceive information
at every moment. information might be relevant

as far as documentation goes- an ancient custom (like
marriage). documentation is history seemingly modernized (the shape of

how things are going right now as translated
by everyone at once).

if it is possible one can be without a sense
of history, history is timeless. time

is just as illusory as all the other components (01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06,
07, 08, 09, 10, and their

interchangeable elements). time

is alchemy. information is alchemy. expectations are
alchemy. none of this

is real gold. what it is

is happening.

marrying things doesn't necessarily mean
being married back unless papers

are involved. even so, the processing

is like waiting for a computer to boot. the meaning of processes
is defeating patience.
all the impatience was hard work. now we get somewhere

"heartfelt" that has long-term written all over the customs of it.
"heartfelt": it's hard to marry to. i must marry

myself first. this is the moment. i am part of it.

marriage by law

is kind of a deceiving institution, all because
it's been going on for far too long. it's crossed the
line.

divorce

is the expulsion of all remainders of innocence. you just
don't believe the same things that were always there for
you to hopefully live for one day. go on, but with grief.

my childhood dreams have been raped. they were third world as is.
now i'm the one that's third world.

IXIIIVIVXXI. the periodic table of elements is the yellow pages. look at all the data. there are so many elements and i don't care about any of them more than i care about the others.

here are the things i can talk about. i don't deserve trumpets. deserving is for people who get little debbies after eating all their spinach. that's some deserving right there.
i don't know anything. i have to be all over it to know it and i'm no where near any of it. i reach and it's a herculian effort; something epic and sonorous about itself. it's like we must be protected from one another.
a truth: i don't get any of it out there and i don't care. it's not my job.
i believe reactions are secondary and that's why they're the only thing that can be controlled.
last night i declared allegiance to patriotism and ripped out a chunk of pages from the yellow book. they are now my diary [what goes here is the oscar wilde quote from the importance of being earnest about diaries being sensational, but i don't register that which requires in verbatim if to be repeated. you just don't insult saints by going to quote them but not in verbatim]. this is how we share. i take it. i don't take it in, but i say yeah, it's mine. "look at these elements," i marvel, "countless. letters and numbers printed by computers. i doubt these being any more than alchemy- these elements are combined with the illusory. i experience my doubting during the moment.
"if plagiarizing had built-in meaning- if it was a scapegoat for anything other than criminality- taking what i am given is not it. taking what i am given is responsible.

if aimed at utilizing, it is to experiment with the structure of elements that are laws...the stuff that is there.

i am a hacker. i look at interchangeability.
and if i don't have interchangeability, i don't want it.

even when i was in the hospital, i was a hacker. i looked for
interchangeability. "you can't. you can't." things weren't appearing

before me how they were- they weren't at all- and i couldn't
do anything about shifting the structure in order to make

an impossibility a possibility. it felt like i was really
screwing up. i lied

repeatedly about my compelling desire to interchange, because
it was about something. my feelings had been hurt. things weren't
touching me anyway, and i wasn't touching things.

it all seemed pretty vague, i'm sure. why did you try to commit
suicide?
i wouldn't talk about anything, other than denying truths.

there was nothing i could do anywhere to get what i wanted.

in my straitjacket i lumbered away, still wanting
what i wanted which had driven me to an urgent demand
for interchangeability.

that sterile air? change its particles around- i want to see
what i want to see. magic

doesn't exist in hospitals.

IXIXIVVIIXI. things come forward, introducing themselves when they choose to. they never really mention names. the difference between:

hi i'm lily- i'm being my name today.

and

hi my name is lily, i'm being.

is whether you are the embodiment of your education or the knowing of your education.

"after that, communism was the only answer to me."-? (i don't remember? (someone who survived the mid-twentieth century.
(paul teck?
(someone who struck my tasting ability as one expressive of their inner genius, one who externalized it. (genius: awareness of light- utilizing genius: investment into such)

(no matter what, a quote is a quote. it means someone spoke. and when someone speaks- or when an idea expresses itself through one with a voice- it's to be heard.)

horse (wearing
a saddle. things being ten times bigger than really. living
in a stable.

william s. burroughs- cut-up- pastiche- i- want- to- be- some- sort- of- descendant- and- i think- i- have- the ambition- to -pull- it off.

naked lunch by william s. burroughs, james joyce, and emily dickinson (the three people i'd have dinner with dead or alive during the present moment):

all congregations are cults. not just churches, not just religious status, not socioeconomic status, not those who gather all class conscious and this is their one redeeming explanation of a bond- all that are gathered into a cluster are cults.
i like to go to the cult (cult "x") as a visitor and hear the cult members tell their war stories because they're santa claus. because they do not know they're santa claus- it's deeply repressed information- deeply- stored in a dumpster unit- outside of the cult, they need to let it out in the confines of the cult in order to survive outside the cult (microcosms would not be without macrocosms). they can only know they're santa claus within said confines of the cult. they feel safe behind closed doors; wild and free. things seem merry in the microcosm (slammer).

i'm passionate about making heroism - for a living- i'm so- passionate-
that i forget- everything except the- things i've done- to get-
jesus on my side- jesus- jesus fucking christ- accept
me- take me- under- a wing-
somebodies wing- out there- is a wing- somebodies- somewhere- of which
i will fit- until- i- indisputably- outgrow it- thus continuing-

the flux-of- movement-
on both- a cellular- and universal- scale- of which- neither
see differences- in one- another.

nests. same difference.  there is a

regular language out there. there is one word
in regular language. it's "loverfest".

look, it's christmas. it's given me all of you, all of this. all i want for christmas is to break one cult rule. nothing particular- i'll go to the wheel of fortune and spin. any cult rule is seductive to break. according to life experience, what it is that lie behind cult rules is the number one least deceiving constitution in the states right now.
sometimes i get sad and long for santa. i know, awful. i'm okay with initiating myself and others into the christmas cult of those to whom have been given. santa equates happiness.

INTERUM
INTERUM
IF YOU ARE HUMAN YOU ARE BORN WITH EVERYTHING YOU NEED.
CAPITAL-BOUND POSSESSIONS HAVE DISRUPTED OUR AWARENESS OF THIS AS WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO LIVE WITHOUT CAPITAL-BOUND POSSESSIONS ANYMORE.
I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DEFY THE ODDS.
being fine with the illusion:

things
with the most gravity
are what arouse the most fear
of which
a never-ending number of reactions
come from. unique blueprints all around
the world...

"this is what i know," is what, at the end of the day, they say, "this what i believe i know."

fear is the worst. "i'm dependent on knowing, and i don't know right now."

II. THE SEX IDENTIFIED

feminist wave one radio am: it is impossible to stretch myself out enough so i slit my legs up for others to proceed into examination; procession. there's stuff coming out and stuff coming in. sex. sex. sex- that's what i think about when stuff comes out and goes in, that's what leads me to question my maturity. sex is that elephant in the room. it's been situated in brooklyn for a while, where all the hot sex was being had. where i live in is gentrified as is, so what's happening to us is we're being like double-gentrified. it's too expensive to leave your parent's houses where i live, which is close enough to brooklyn that it's going to get infected with hot sex here too. unless you work some job you hate and you work it a lot and save all of your money, you can escape.
anyway, i'm being fucked because my gender is a gender and your gender is a gender.
SEMANTICS III. more than words hurt -exaggerated feeling.
it's not the words- it's my focus- on my reaction- seen- from every angle- from me-

     it is important to - socialize- - - - - the less you do
that- - - -the less likely you are going to want- - to do
that- as if you wanted to do that in the first place- i'm bobbing

away- please- let me out- loose in the sky- observing
the insides of it-

the german forest is black. the german forest is never ending. the trees of the german forest are sharp and spooky. they cut my skin. i run out in my nightie. i run out of skin while running out into the night of the forest. i run out of blood.

i am a puddle of once-was (no memory- history). after heavy rainfall, mushrooms grow on me.

-blinding colors and repeated noises over and over and over and over and over and over and over-

this is what i said: "must i go outside? i'm fine inside." but you've got to complete step number [x] or else you're going to feel terribly uncomfortable with yourself....

everybody was doing it; this going outside business. everybody is dreaming outside. it's california dreamin'. so, because i was still in this body- undeveloped and c-thru, however, within the body in which i had not felt safe- i had to go outside for my initiation to being among.

i did not want to be a big star, though, at the same time, i did. i felt guilty about it. i wanted to sit on it.
i was pushed out the enormous double doors- the front doors to the communist building. "no!" i was pushed.

i didn't have to go somewhere, not that i had anywhere to go, but i definitely had to screw the noise with this-where. i had to run- it was a running away from a harrowing fortress that believed in itself as an existence so well. i can't open my cunt at will.
i don't want to be an animal- but since- i had
sex- i run to the woods- to the animals- away from the

haunted castle- fond of love- but not of being
a possession- an object- i want to be
my own object- my own- proud of
making fuck ups- over the edge
i run deeper into the black forest- meaning to run away far past

everyday i go to sleep- every night i go to sleep- that's
all it is- just- sleep- so sleep-

hello (i wake up).
i am a little hard of hearing.
i sweep sweep sweep for little men in a little cottage. it's a quaint little cottage. i am six feet tall so i have to lean over, but that is okay, because it is practice for my future of osteoporosis. my mother had it. who was my mother?
the little men with whom i live in a cottage said they found me one day. i was a puddle of indeterminate fluids, but it wasn't animal piss, so it was worth looking at with either wonder or curiosity for half of a moment. "are you my mother?", they tell me i said.

"yes," they said. yes. they said again. yes. yes. yes. yes. so it became- the little men with whom i live in a cottage are my mother, and also fragments of my perception of myself. they are very reflective, so they are mirrors.

"now sweep-sweep," they said, in unison, "and don't go accepting half red half green apples from ugly old ladies who come to the house. talking to strangers is a normal people thing to do, and we want you to be special. you are the only girl; a star."

"okay," i said, but i was hard of hearing, and i couldn't get the hang of lip-reading as of yet, so it didn't really matter. it was lip service i paid them- they paid me with a place to clean. i was just scared, mostly, but also determined to sweep-sweep, to have control over my environment.

"oh, and only girl? if you do accept an apple from this old lady?" they added.

"yes?" i nodded, with a perplexed expression.

"just...don't do it. or else."

that is when i learned "or else" tasted like something i wanted to follow any given curiosities of.

DURING A DREAM, LITTLE BLACK FOREST, GERMANY-
i heard something; gasped.
that be- oh just silly me- "knock. knock. i've got a knock knock joke."
oh wait-maybe not.

i went to the door, curious as ever!
"your figure, dear. your figure! it's some figure. wouldn't you like
an apple? it's half red because

it's that angry, and half green because no matter what,
it comes from a tree."

my figure? an apple? i put two and two together. i was hungry. i needed
to be told. it took convincing. but in the end, i accepted it. i needed
to eat something.

i accepted her apple and i ate it to the core. i even sucked the worm out- and swallowed-
it- whole.

i was asleep, and limp in someones arms. it was a carriage that was
taking me to the big city.

"cit-y?" baffled, i pronounced. what's a cit-y?"

"you vapid fruit."

"cit-y? what's a cit-y?"

in the big city to where i arrived after being swept up in a carriage, i met more little men. i went to somewhere small where i wasn't allowed to sweep-sweep so it drove me a little crazy called CBGB's. before i wilted entirely (women: flowers), i was swept up behind a microphone where little men jumped and jumped around me and were noisy. i was charismatic and stylish and led the little men into shithole after shithole.

WASHINGTON, HUNGARY, GERMANY, ISIS TERRITORY, INTERNET, RESOURCE AVAILABILITY EVERYWHERE- SOS: asking for a second opinion. disturbed by original opinion. my self is the only authority left in town- in ghost town. i need to re-learn all the stuff the self learned from scratch; need to undergo hypnosis. i need to destroy all developmental foundations i built all my beliefs on. i need to grow without overpowering myself.
i see weakness in myself and that's why i let myself deteriorate.

i personally believe change has the most authority (gravity) of us all because even after i hack my history and die it will continue existing. change is all of the elements ever.
we need top secret ingredients to historical recipes and to tweak little bits of them again. over.
we need to copy, copy.

i need to be a star when i grow up. everyone hates me. i need a reason. over.

[preconceived meaning of ending happens now. endings are hard to master, because ends don't exist.]

virginia poe.


another perfection

everything the velvet underground has graciously shared with us. they didn't 'trans-' anything. they didn't transgress, they didn't transcend. they didn't need to do any of that, because they're fine being with how it happens to be. and like, on a cheery miss america note, i realize we don't ever need to 'trans-' anything. everything is totally fine being how it happens to be. we actively take a role in being how it happens to be.
there are two things i find perfect right now:

(crying is indicative- number one indication- of the loss of composure- as if it's ever a gain in the first place. as if there are any gains that eat away at us.)

i experienced a swing, which i'm pretty sure might as well be a dance move among the mentally compromised. then this hall and oates song came on the greatest hits album playing and i dropped everything when i realized everything else- it was in the hands of the chorus of the following embedded video.



inevitably, i thought cosby and i thought dad from seventh heaven.

other thing i find perfect

all which is: is.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

a preemptive.

i think we should all nurture our dreams. they, alive and awake
we, deeply imagining and exploring
i think we should strip our dreams and see them
however they talk to themselves. i'm just seeing myself, i'll say.
i see the light. i'm just seein' the light. i see

this is myself
chasing after my own tail. i see remnants of
what i remember and what i am to see. i think we ought

to feed the garments that wrap
our dreams

to however they happen upon- they are to be
unto? unto. i am due to

wake up? allow me
to tell you in a dream, you were there, and you were
there, and you, and you. i saw you because i

ride through waves of me and in you it is myself
i see. all my choices in my dream appeared

separate

but were all affected by each other like
crazy molecules. this chant referred to itself

as the truth of fulfillment.

the catalyst.

semantics (a dissertation): why?
semantics are the most passable, allowed human behavior, even though it's impassive and obstructive. semantics have been here since the dawn of mankind. how did semantics ever get by and so below the radar like how they do?
the people spoke and they also discerned. they forgot to keep up with the ratio of that which is spoken and discernment. so long it has been since people lost touch with watching over their ability to discern and to express this discernment: they don't even know that it's unhealthy to add to the truth at all, that the truth is minimal as is, the truth is freedom.
the people are creatures of habit, ones who still follow ancient customs. tbey spend their lives orbiting judgments, working in order to keep up with judgments, screwing their heads with judgments- though the planet orbits around light:

the earth continues
to watch after
the sunshine. the people see

but are blinded by falsities.
their capabilities to perceive

are often dulled.

what does the earth see
in the sunshine?

does she see the light? is this
the earth's own light?
does the earth able to see? does she

choose to open her eyes
or
imagine how she'd prefer to?

does she imagine the light
with her eyes closed? is the earth

chasing its own tail? is this too
what we do?

i'm going to be sunny.

page01 heightened sensitivity is synonymous with perception. i might feel sort of crazy because of the capacity to experience so much information that it feels fast and to the most personal extent. it's not easily understood. page 02it shifts, ideas get mixed up together 03you lose your memory. (hippocampus inhale hippcampus exhale)04not worry about anything really, because that involves a lot of passing of judgments05 stop denying this: we were raised to endure wars with one another. that is what competition is. engaging in war against others. engaging in war with the self. war is clearly throughout everything. i suggest that satisfaction is confused with pain.

page02 we live under a shady umbrella. the infrastructure is weak. i believe we all live under oligarchies. an oligarchy is a bunch of people living under the money of a few people.
there really isn't an order on than the technocracy traits. technology keeps things appearing streamlined, according to a misinformed standard one has for organization. our minds organize no matter what. we all share the collective unconscious.
we all all look weird to each other. and we should, we're all bewildered. we act with confounded, self-evident gestures.
mountains, bodies of land, and rivers have names. i call myself names for not having all of these names memorized. rivers are not called "the water". the need to be more than the water. they need to be homages, too. how am i supposed to remember anything this way?
we need more than is possible; we believe in ghosts before anything else. our urge to complicate is very sure of itself, as if it's the only certainty we all share. so lots of things flower, more than can be cared for.
right now, everyone has been initiated into a technocracy rat race, so to speak.

we can look at things without telling them anything except the truth- the truth being that we are looking at things.

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

it's the beginning of the new age.

the snake mother:

i birth all the time yet still remain ignorant of the word "egg", and its implications. i birth all the time, then habitually forget. i go elsewhere.
these are the stories of my forgotten children...

I. THE PROCESS OF ATTACHMENT (what is it doing?

(i don't know if it's exaggerating its own bubble, or if it's me exaggerating my own bubble.
)

this is my bubble. do you like?
we all need bubbles. (ignorance is bliss.)
i fear my bubble. i love my bubble.
my bubble offers protection for me.
my bubble makes me feel special.

are we in the movies? is it
a movie about bubbles? i don't know

if we're in the movies. i don't know if it matters.

don't movies end? don't
bubbles end? the world

will never know. bubble. bubble.

this is my bubble. this is my grief over
my bubble who once was.

II. A DREAM:

feeling is present. it is reality, if i am not merely narrowing in. is there anything else present
that would constitute an expansion of reality? is there a periphery? if there is, do i already know
that, but deny it? do i care? is anything relevant? i don't know if i care. i do but also i do not.

it was a smoky grey/gray evening. clouds slowly passed- wispy clouds. moon, there. somewhere between half and full. whatever. it was there is what matters. stars? oh, what a gag. never. not here.
the sidewalk glittered with night-dew.
the sound of stiletto heels echoed. otherwise, it was silent. i wondered if jack the ripper was about to bait a prostitute; if this is what this was all about.
her role was unknown.
she was a damsel in distress, but she didn't know- it was not directly self appointed. she was being in a film noir in order to survive. it made her feel glamorous. it matched the smoky grey evening in which wispy clouds passed in front of the blurry moon that was there. she wore a trench coat- one i also own, but choose not to wear. i prefer to wear drab things, stuff not worth freaking out over while dressing. right now, i'm wearing a t-shirt with a picture of cartoon people fucking on it.
in this time- during the dark, gloomy, smoky-grey evening, it was status quo for women to wear heels (it served as a signal), trench coats, and to be entirely elegant. it all had something to do with their elongated shadows speaking to them. they only dressed and walked the streets during times when their shadows were due to elongate.
i don't really know what the men wore, nor do i know their names. i'm no good at coming up with boy names. all i know is that they were gumshoes, all down and out.

the stiletto-woman went to a gumshoe's office. she wanted him to stalk something he too wished to stalk. it went like this:

(AUDREY HEPBURN IS ACTED UPON. SHE GOES UNDER A HYPNOSIS AS A BALLERINA IN A MUSIC BOX IN BLACK AND WHITE):

Q: WHY DO YOU GO TO THERAPY.

dainty answer: i go to therapy to perhaps adapt...?

Q: WHAT DO YOU SEEK TO ADAPT TO...?

"this." she replies, hazily.

Q: WHAT, PRAYTELL, IS "THIS"?

answer: "the secondhand experience (noun)- living off of the experience of that between the self and the self's ripped off experience. "that" is separation.

"DON'T YOU KNOW ANYTHING?" the gumshoe gets primal. "i know the separation of which i briefly spoke of has more to possess of what is supposed to be my experience than i do. i'm just going through the motions, so to speak/as they say. i'm just going through the motions and questioning my motives for going through the motions." audrey hepburn also regresses into pigtails, then transcends time with her regression into ANTIGONE (or: anti-gone).

(ANTIGONE IS NO LONGER POSSIBLE TO BE ACTED UPON; SHE ACTS.)

i don't touch things. i feel the affect of things, i take in things- but that doesn't mean i touch them, necessarily. it is no longer necessary i touch things. things are nearby. i...i suppose that's close enough. i believe things are nearby. i'm just thinking aloud. it is necessary i take baby steps and go one day at a time. that's a step that i say that, whether i was thinking aloud or not. the day is grey and also is night.
i don't know if i really know.

Q: THINGS CAN'T JUST HAPPEN WITHOUT RHYME OR REASON. REASON.

iii. a. ANTI-GONE LISTS REASONS CORRESPONDING TO THE SOURCE OF REASONINGS.

to cope, i don't touch.
i stare at the wall- it's lookin' at me. it's assertive
of me to look at somethin' lookin' at me. also, it's polite.

to cope, i've numbed from/of fullness
to cope, i'm either/or but not something else; not grey. i've got some heck of grey matter. it's a grey, grey night. some people spell grey, "gray". i spell grey gray and also grey grey.

because it has a corresponding crayon, grey or gray is a color.

iii. anti-a (b). NO. IT'S A SHADE.

all i have
is this
reality.

i do not trust it. i have
non-trust. there is

nothing to trust.

IV. (after her session with the gumshoe, anti-gone writes a diary entry.)

09/21/2015,

is this disconnect or displacement? i don't feel i am taking a part in my present life. i feel it is a non-possible act. ...nor do i seem to have a relationship, or interactions at least, with the past or the future. they have proven why i need to care, but i haven't felt it yet. i just sort of feel as though i'm hovering around somewhere. i know i'm somewhere, but the precedence is irrelevant.
i don't touch things- and since i've appeased my nation into blinding myself with materialism (the doctrine of material), i don't touch at all. my capacity for dislocation is fully invested into. my feeling is my reality...
...everything else seems really blurred out; obscure. irrelevant. this is how i function, accordingly- because my (impersonal) survival is my giving. life is something that can be touched; given to. i don't possess distinct formations of anything outside feelings, aside from many brief lies my feelings are supportive of, and supported by. however, i do not trust my feeling although feeling is what i possess. i sense that my history/experiences and my motives behind my actions lurk the way they do because they are very different than how i perceive them to be. i'm scared of the unknown like that.

although- my perception of these are weak. i sense that i take away. i believe that i take away, for- sensing is not my reality. it is not my thing. and since i don't trust my reality, sensing must be trustworthy- even though i fail to wrap my head around it.
in spite of my restlessness and willingness to become adept and high-functioning, and for my aching wish for my purposes to be trustworthy, i don't wrap my head around what is not my reality.
purpose doesn't give. it is i who generates purpose in order to know.

i don't know.

V. SYLVIA PLATH POEM (THAT ANNE SEXTON POEM?).

o sylvia, sylvia, you're a martyr, don't
you know it? you died so you could have me

to speak to. you knew with your hallmark exactitude
just what you were doing. between

us is that separation- the betweenness. i push
against it bravely, as did you. your army

of you, we do too- we try to. but part of me, the part
that is blank, vapid-eyed and between

me and my experience- could it be, the betweenness?-
is a result which follows the narrative

of you. o sylvia. sylvia.
i will always be making excuses for you.

i don't even like your poems anymore.

Monday, September 21, 2015

low-functionin'.

i'm not sure i want to show a picture of a part of a painting i seriously took with my phone-camera that i seriously e-mailed to myself to seriously post to my blog that, statistics prove, one out of one billion people look at- only i hold myself down with my erratic performance art (of which i suck the blood which doesn't exist) to appear nigh-technically mastered to myself. it will never happen anywhere else. control is the truth of my identity. the source of it is a dead-end; haunted woods that are the opposite of what i believe to be the truth. forced beliefs, tall tales, make believe stories. enchantments. "no! no! i really was a neglected orphan!" coco chanel will say, who will turn out to be beautiful underneath all her self imposed ugliness. leak existential woe unto, it sure as hell feels more productive than piecemealing away at my work with whom i share a meaningful relationship.

one day, things will seem finished when i finish them. that will be the day i feel my work at which i piecemeal is complete. i won't go through the motions and questions my motives for going through motions on top of it. i won't force a damn thing. i won't be eaten alive by self-attacking dreadfully vicious thoughts. if my head is unbearably loud, i'll be okay with it. if i am afraid to to even try to sit still to do something, i'll be okay with it. i will never worry about how worrying has ruined my life again.

a lover of kingdoms.

war heroes are war geniuses. i like to go to the cult and hear them tell their war stories the same ones over and over because they're santa claus- because they do not know they're santa claus they need to project it onto the cult in order to survive. things seem merry in the microcosm (slammer).

i'm passionate about making heroism - not war!- i'm so passionate that i forget everything except the things i've done to get jesus to love me that i get all worked up into a sweat.

conference
is what they call loverfest in regular language.

this is what keeps drinking positive- look, it's christmas, it's given me all of you, all of this. to keep it negative i say drinking is the number one deceiving constitution in the united states of america right now that i've got. everyone that's drinking is actually initiating themselves into the cult of those to whom drinking has given. drinking is obviously i repeat the number one most freely used form of deception in the united states right now though marriage is too and all words which have "cult" in the beginning of them and are culturally acceptable.
i've got so many stories and only one cult. we don't wear cloaks so it's a culturally acceptable cult. we're not into satanism (the doctrine of satan) or witchcraft and we only light candles during the holidays which are solemn and with paper holders around them. the wax that drips through reminds me of sadomasochistic sex of which i would be playing the masochistic role. roles need to be filled. it's what a job is....we all have to have jobs or else we'd all look like cows (but not the sacred kind).

it is impossible to spread myself out thin so i slit my legs up for others in the cult to proceed into examination; procession. there's stuff coming out and stuff coming in. sex. sex. sex- that elephant in the middle of the room. your gender is a gender that isn't mine and it reminds me of weird memories
more than words hurt and the memories never happened but i'm frightened of them and live on the outskirts of. it's not the words- it's my responses to them. my fight-or-flight; my reaction. reminders of my reactivity. it is important to - socialize- - - - - the less you do
that- - - -the less likely you are going to want- - to do
that- as if you wanted to do things in the first place- i don't experience pleasure- - - - haven't experienced an orgasm in ten years.

your problem. destroy your needs! i should be nice
to the whoever i am anger as hell at during those moments

although its cancer is eating me alive, my pervasive head
is the only safe place.

the german forest is black. the german forest is never ending. the trees of the german forest are sharp and spooky. they cut my skin. i run out in my nightie. i run out of skin to run in. i run out of blood.

i am a puddle of once-was (no memory- history).

the german forest runs away from a freaky cultish communist building. it is obsessed with structure, and not losing. everyone knows a cult when they see one but react differently. AA is a cult.

it compensates for the distaste of structure with blinding colors and repeating the same noises and words over and over and over and over and over and over and over

this is what i said: "must i go outside? i'm fine inside." but you've got to complete step number [x] or else you're going to feel terribly uncomfortable with yourself....
everybody is doing it; going outside. everybody is dreaming outside. it's california dreamin'. so, because i was still in this body- undeveloped and c-thru, however, within the body in which i had not felt safe- i had to go outside for my initiation to being "the only girl".

i did not want to be a big star, though, at the same time, i did. i felt guilty about it. i wanted to sit on it.
i was pushed out the enormous double doors- the front doors to the communist building. "no!" i was pushed.

i didn't have to go somewhere, but i had to leave this-where. this very place. i had to run away from the dark, ancient evil fortress. i can't open my cunt at will
she sleeps- she sleeps-
i'm sorry i run away from orgasms- i, i dont'- like- them- sex
is stupid- i don't want to be an animal- but since- i had
sex- i run to the woods- to the animals- away from the

haunted castle- fond of love- but not of being
a posession- an object- i want to be
my own object- my own switch and bait experiment- my own
taking things too far- over the edge
i run into the black forest- meaning to run away far past

the black forest- from the
black forest-

without learning anything about
nature- i am nature. everyday i go to sleep. every night i go to sleep. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz,

hello. (i wake up).
i am a nymph- a forest nymph. little else do i know. i am a little hard
of hearing.
i sweep sweep sweep for little men in a little cottage. it's a quaint little cottage. i am six feet tall so i have to lean over, but that is okay, because it is practice for my future of osteoporosis. my mother had it. who was my mother?
the little men with whom i live in a cottage said they found me one day. i was a puddle of indeterminate fluids, but it wasn't animal piss, so it was worth looking at with either wonder or curiosity for half of a moment. "are you my mother?", they tell me i said.

"yes," they said. yes. they said again. yes. yes. yes. yes. so it became- the little men with whom i live in a cottage are my mother, and also fragments of my self. they are very reflective, so they are mirrors.

"now sweep-sweep," they said, in unison, "and don't go accepting half red half green apples from ugly old women who come to the house. talking to strangers is a normal people thing to do, and we want you to be special. you are the only girl; a star."

"okay," i said, but i was hard of hearing, and i couldn't get the hang of lip-reading as of yet, so it was irrelevant. it was lip service i paid them- they paid me with a place to clean. i was just scared, mostly, but also determined to sweep-sweep. to have control over my environment.

"oh, and only girl? if you do accept an apple from this old lady?" they added.

"yes?" i nodded, with a perplexed expression.

"you'll get in trouble. don't do it. or else."

or else tasted like something i wanted to be curious about.

DURING A DREAM, LITTLE BLACK FOREST, GERMANY-
little dearie- emily-

i heard something; gasped.

yes- emily- that be- you- knock. knock. i've got a knock knock joke.

i went to the door, curious.

your figure, dear. your figure! wouldn't you like
an apple? it's half red because

it's that angry, and half green because no matter what,
it comes from a tree.

my figure? an apple? i got it. i was hungry.

it took convincing.

apple. i ate it to the core- i even- sucked the worm out- and swallowed-
it- whole.

i was asleep, and limp in someones arms. it was a carriage that was
taking me to the big city.

cit-y? i said.

you vapid fruit.

what's a cit-y?

a cit-y is where a chosen one belongs.

in the city, i met more little men. i went to somewhere small where i wasn't allowed to sweep-sweep so it drove me a little crazy called CBGB's. before i wilted entirely (women: flowers), i was swept up behind a microphone where little men jumped and jumped around me and were noisy. i was charismatic and stylish and led the little men into shithole after shithole. we became arena rock!

*************
WASHINGTON, HUNGARY, SEA WORLD, GERMANY, ISIS TERRITORY, INTERNET, RESOURCE AVAILABILITY EVERYWHERE- SOS: asking for advice- second opinion advice. disturbed by advice given to original advice request and the source. disturbed by advice-asking in the first place. it's hard! i'm awkward! i have to humble myself and really really quickly, because my self is the only authority left in town- in ghost town, i need to re-learn all the stuff the self learned from scratch; need to undergo hypnosis. i need to destroy all developmental foundations of my education- for the best. i need to grow without overpowering myself.
the countries that hardly exist anymore went silent like the stub of the giving tree when i rang them for a word. those countries are decomposed, which is the opposite of how i'm gonna be. if we consider semantics today, the countries that hardly exist anymore are called "wastelands". i see weak parts of myself in them and that's why i let them deteriorate.
the world continues to orbit in spite of the wastelands, because even wastelands (shitholes), in time, which also has a lot of authority, change.
i personally believe change has the most authority (gravity) of us all because even after i hack my history and die it will continue existing. change is all of the elements ever.
wastelands, however, are the most grim card of the tarot deck. i suspect not the devil because the devil doesn't scare me a lot.
we need top secret ingredients to historical recipes. over.
we need to copy you. copy. i saw on CNN this morning that policies and politics don't matter anymore and that's why personality is really really important.

i need to be a star when i grow up. everyone hates me. i need a reason. over.

*
let me tell you a story.
let me tell you that the latin roots of new words are as distant as distance gets. it pushes my eyes back until i'm blind and i don't remember anything except a strong sensation of distance.

it's about a man of metal who was taken from an akira kurosawa film and thickly pasted into a future setting.

he is drinking water today, to be good; to keep himself hydrated. it adds wellness to your life

to keep yourself hydrated. drinking water is really good for you even if it's tap water.

he is a shark so you have to watch out unless you have advanced degrees in science, because scientists are elite. they are knights; noble people. queen elizabeth likes their music and invites them to learn how to go to parties; teaches them etiquette. if you do not kiss their feet people get mad at you.

tetsuo the shark was a shark whose face was eaten by a faceless shark. the faceless shark was an envious shark and wanted faces; wanted a collection of faces to choose from; wanted choices. other people had choices, so it must be a natural (decided) merit that he was deprived of.
this story is about tetsuo, however.

I AM A SHARK. I WILL BITE YOUR YOUR HEAD OFF.

tetsuo also grew envious of those with faces. he could just sense everyone except him had a face. "never like sharks," he would warn other sea creatures, "sharks are loners for a reason. we fuck with others."

sharks kill people and wear real leather. they aren't listening to you- they're calculating their priorities. they don't know you all that well like how you assume they do. they hardly know you at all.
sharks are born with remarkable drive to be very famous- not just smart, but ambitious (01:02). they want to be very famous. "make me a star," they write the studios, the president, to god, they write all sorts of resources and to the bottomfeeders as well.

pimps. whores. et cetera sex workers. dealers. office-workers. inner city children. (inner city children are bottom feeders because they steal the hard earned cash of their parents and everyone else- instead of stealing it from strangers who they'll never feel bad about stealing from more than a little.

they steal for expensive sneakers and coats marketed toward them by rich people (this is how the rich people make their money- it's not their fault they have to be this way), simply because they didn't have the guts to kill other inner city kids for their expensive sneakers and coats.)

bottom feeders live without remorse. they should be so sorry but they just aren't because they're all sociopaths. they've made so many mistakes in their lives. they just numb themselves out from thinking about it because the rich people market their products to fit right into this habitual pattern of the bottom feeders

I DON'T BELIEVE IN MYSELF.

called nobody from nobody (in a persecuting tone) who just happened to live in a body which was more like a machine than a body. tetsuo's body was metallic, silver, and also overheated. maybe, this whole time, he just had a fever.
tetsuo wore expensive coats and sneakers made by rich people- highbrow feeders, givers- those who worked from food pantries who shouldn't get in trouble just because their food pantries are more desirable than others.

tetsuo had no right to wear expensive coats and sneakers. he wasn't a direct descendant of black panthers. he didn't have politics or policies. however, he was interested in investing his time into getting a personality.

tetsuo swam in spit. his mother kicked him out of the ocean because she hated him. he might as well not have been swimming in spit though, because he didn't know that he was swimming in spit. he didn't deserve spit, anyway. spit has nutrients in it.

tetsuo wasn't afraid because he was brave or anything. he wasn't afraid
because he was a dumb shark. a domesticated beast. a dog. a slobbering aged disgusting dog.

you have to keep in mind that metal-for-brains came from one end of the world to the opposite. he jumped from one extreme to the other.

there was a young lady he was going to fall in love with. she was seventeen years old at

the time, (he was at least fifty and he wore creepy white sneakers) but she would be

eighteen years old exactly within a few months.

surly-ann was this young lady. she wore dumb-girl target-me pigtails.

she lives next door. she knows what you are doing- that which you care

about and that which you do not care about.

"you care a lot about your feelings. i do too."

she has problems with her nose. she wants to get a nose job one day. she uses toilet

paper to blow her nose with. because you know so much about her, you no longer

care for her more than you would an old shoe. but goddamn, do you have some

weird emotional attachment to that shoe. in your head, you still polish it.

do you honestly expect me to feel differently now that you tell me you were abused

as a child? do you think being abused makes you special? this is what metalhead

cruelly, and rhetorically as well said to his lolita-lover, although he also has been

caught explaining his childhood too. his autobiography might have a lot to do with

his feelings which have nothing to do with science. so, it is bearable to talk about.

surly curly sits by his side and pisses herself on the carpet. she cannot take

her hearts-for-eyes off of his eyes. tetsuo's eyes, too, are lovely, however-

very far away. unreachable. they don't want to die, but they don't care

if anyone else dies.

hey, surly: my head is in deep shit. how about you?

hey, robot: mine too. but what else is happening right now? for me,
other parts of myself are in deep shit, too.

don't just lie there wounded, surly: do something
with your pigtails, surly. what song was in your head when you woke up today?
what color is your throat lubricated in right now?

you are a brave, brave, girl. surly: have sex with me. the last thing i fucked
was a bowl of stale chips the other day. i do it everyday. it's up to you
to break my habitual pattern. surly? the real thing...i'm shy, but honestly,
it's been so long for me.
i'll be on my best behavior while i court you, silently
examining you, until i figure out
what it is i want from you. then, you become a thing.
an object, that's right. you fade into obscurity and i don't care.

it's calling baiting the hoe. bait and switch. some people are just programmed

that way. don't treat them any differently then how you'd like to be treated.

centralized authority is the name of the game so too am i. hormones aren't

emotional. hard facts aren't emotional. emotional people live on the outskirts

of culture. they're actually not supposed to be there, but they're a friendly culture.

they're a friendly culture of nomads who explore the deep seas of emotions. they,

themselves, are super duper deep.

artists are a waste of life. they can't focus on shit other than ideas. ideas

carry them away. i don't care if artists are brilliants.

i'd like for you to marry me. i'm not ready.
you're not ready. well, let's see. i'm not ready, either. we both
know- and we both know a lot- that this
is a stupid thing to do. but we'll do it together.
so, we'll figure it out.
death is the feeling i name for the bubblegum that's blackened,
squashed into the concrete...and too, cigarette butts in the sand on a sea shore
put out by the high tide. somehow, it selects from what

it's a truth serum. death has no remorse because
it's a risk of an author whose identity lacks, decided

by those who know identity, reinforce identity
because they know they know identity, right? i just want to

touch everything and make sure it became gold
even if it was gold in the first place. is it gold enough?

i cannot forget this. it is not gold enough. it needs
fat and blood and love to survive. and if

i don't get that stuff, i'm gonna die
calling myself needy leechy and dependent.

01: curse the gods that i don't think about enough.
02: think about the past a lot. where is it now? consult

the internet. it knows everything about me, knows me
as the plexus.

it's *trying* to show you the genesis
of things from sideways, rather than pointing to a burned spot, rather
than a meteorite- rather than war-

grant myself relief.
the long term cause doesn't exist right now. i believe

in feelings. they stay. these pangs, obviously, are related
to everything else. let's

ignore the periphery- that's where regret goes, where

i go numb
i repeat
to handle myself so well
to survive

living up to being without legacy....

Thursday, September 17, 2015

all night long.

HI MY NAME IS republicandemocrat candidate. I'M FASCINATING, SO LISTEN.
ALTHOUGH YOU DON'T KNOW IT, SUCCESS IS MEASURED ON A SCALE THAT YOU ARE MEASURED ON. THE LEAST SUCCESS CAN WEIGH, OBVIOUSLY to me IS "FAILURE". THE MOST SUCCESS CAN WEIGH IS "VERY CLOSE TO PERFECT".
DUE TO SUCCESS BEING IMPORTANT FOR THE WELL BEING OF US ALL- AS THOUGH "US ALL" IS ONE ANTHROPOMORPHIZED FACE, AS OPPOSED TO A PLEXUS OF LITTLE BLINKING DOTS- PERFECT IS EVEN IMPORTANTER. THE BEST WE CAN DO IS OUTWEIGH SUCCESS IN ORDER TO ATTAIN PERFECT. WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO IS GRASP AT AIR BECAUSE THE HUMAN i.e, according the the united states of america (western thought) CONCEPT OF PERFECT IS FAR REMOVED FROM ITS TRUTH. WHAT IS PERFECT IS OUTSIDE OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING RIGHT NOW BECAUSE PERFECT IS DEEP DOWN INSIDE- AN INNER-MOST LAYER; CENTRAL. ITS GRAVITATIONAL PULL IS IRRELEVANT BECAUSE IT'S BEEN OVERRIDEN BY THE PEOPLE WHO ARE BITTER.
THE PEOPLE WHO ARE BITTER ARE ALL OF THE PEOPLE BECAUSE THE PEOPLE ARE RAISED WITH ENCHANTMENTS AND GROW UP TO SEE FEEL HEAR KNOW THE WILTING OF ENCHANTMENTS SO THEY TURN TO REVENGE.

REVENGE IS THE THING THAT IS WAITING FOR YOU WHEN EVERYTHING ELSE DOESN'T GO AWAY IN ANY FORMFASHION OTHER THAN CRUMBLING. I PERSONALLY AM REALLY BITTER THAT MY ENCHANTMENTS I HELD ONTO DURING MY UPBRINGING fairy tales life in everything possibilities of stuff being nice just plain ol' nice WERE ALL LIES. BIG FAT LIES. I'LL GET RID OF THEM ALL AND I PROMISE YOU IT WON'T BE BECAUSE OF PATRIARCHY/OTHER GENDER. GENDER IS *NOT* REALLY IN AS FAR AS BEING EXAMINED GOES RIGHT NOW. I AM LOOKING FORWARD TO BEING THE PRESIDENT OF MY OWN PLANET WHICH I ALREADY AM ESPECIALLY WHEN I'M YELLING. WHEN I'M YELLING IT'S WHEN I'M CRYING ON THE INSIDE. THE THINGS I YELL ARE IN THE LANGUAGE OF JARGON (COMMUNITY-ORIENTED SPEAK AND AN ACT OF PRIDE WHICH IS GOOD NOT BAD) AND ABOUT WHATEVER FURTHER DETERMINES US- THAT WHICH DETERMINES US BEING THE STUFF I WANT US TO BE- THUS DEPRIVING US AND OTHERS OF OUR NEEDS i.e., interdependence setting a good example for the children who when they cry it's because they're confused by the confused abstracts of the adults who have no idea how blatantly abstract they are. I WILL MAKE YOU REMINISCENT OF MY FAVORITE STUFFED ANIMALS. YOU! I PROMISE TO NOT MAKE PROMISES BECAUSE AS AN ADULT I ADMIT PROMISES ARE CONSTRUCTS OF PERFECT AS THE HUMANS GO ALONG WITH IT- THAT WHICH CANNOT COME TRUE, HOWEVER, SEEMS HELPFUL TO SAY IT WILL IN THE SHORT TERM. THE LONG TERM, AS FAR AS I KNOW, MIGHT AS WELL NOT EXIST, BECAUSE I STILL BELIEVE IN MY ENCHANTMENTS. I BELIEVE IN PETER PAN. SOMETIMES I WANT TO RUN AWAY TO SANTA CLAUS. SOMETIMES I MAKE AN EFFORT TO SMILE AT ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS BECAUSE I KNOW HOW BADLY THEY MUST FEEL ABOUT THEMSELVES I.E., DEMORALIZED DUE TO PEOPLE BEING MEAN TO THEM. IT'S VERY NICE OF ME.
I HAVE AN IMAGINARY FRIEND EXCEPT HE'S REAL NOW, KIND OF EVIL, TOO; DEPRAVED. HIS EXPECTATIONS ARE ASKING TOO MUCH E.G., PERFECT (EXACTING WITH REFUSAL TO LOOK BACK.). HE PROMISES YOU I'M TRAPPED IN A DUNGEON AND I REALLY DO NEED HEALTH CARE. obamacare IS STUPID. EVERYONE IS STUPID EXCEPT ME ESPECIALLY YOU.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

aliens and anorexia.

"one popular belief is that aliens are attracted by magnetic energies greater than an individual can generate alone. in order to become a group, each person must give up little pieces of themselves. the pieces amplify within a magnet-pool. cavities in each person's body left by pieces of surrendered ego become receptors for group energy, for aliens, the third mind.
thus, the group becomes a self-perpetuating cluster fuck, eating and secreting its own kind.
"

Sunday, September 13, 2015

money is power when you've lived as long as i have. i know. i know.

it is impossible right now to force enthusiasm when there are no resources for enthusiasm to begin with. i'm unenthusiastic about something and instead of preparing for it, or just screwing that noise (thus granting myself relief), i did this:

"HI, I'M GREAT. HOW ARE YOU. THAT'S GREAT. YEAH SHE'S RIGHT HERE," i spoke into the phone- the phone i never answer when my mother's boyfriend calls but this time i did to take out my resentments. "see me forcing enthusiasm? sounds pretty FORCED, HUH." i said to my mother, then ran off to my room, "FUCK YOU TOO." i have no idea what i'm talking about anymore, with people, or myself.

i'm supposed to do this boring thing tomorrow- one that's a forty five minute drive away- that i don't know what to do about but just pull myself through it. i don't know what *my* reasons are for vocational training, other than "i want to show my therapist i'm not disappointing". i'm supposed to do it, is all i can come up with. i must do it. what is it for? well i'm freaking out because i don't know. it's not something i can move my head around at. like, all flexibly.

the pangs of anger i experience have been seeming to deepen more in frequency and intensity recently, to the extent that it feels like my "primary" thing.
something small happens, and then every other time i have ever been hurt in my life- and if you are me, you are always hurt- comes screaming in my face very vividly and i feel completely violated. i do not want to keep experiencing this, at least, not like this, and not so often. i hate mean people and i'm desperately concerned i'm becoming one of them. scared enough, in fact, that i don't even bother asking for reassurance over my niceness. i'm afraid i will not receive the reassurance i need.
when i ask for reassurance, it's because i'm only partly convinced- which is not entirely, which would be enough- about whatever it is i need reassurance over. it feels like my need for reassurance is being deprived right now, like totally fucking starved. because i'm scared shitless to ask for it. i don't want to know anything.
these pangs are obviously, to me, related to anxious feelings, and from my massively disruptive fear of being negated and "invalidated". yesterday, i told a lady that my venus fly trap is not in soil (after she assumed she is). she is in peat moss, i said. "no," she said, "it's not."

i wanted to die and also bite her head off but i was in public during a moment in which i could keep my face together and i was pretty paranoid to begin with and the pain snowballed quickly and carelessly.

"but you handled yourself so well!" my mother told me long after i stood up for myself over whatever wrong i believed she did to me during the moment- after i apologized, which is something you do to people to prevent them from having to compensate for something *you* did to them previously. for attacking them somehow.

appearances are a deceiving institution. i still experience great difficulty "handling myself" inwardly, which, to me, is where it counts.

why do i have to do something when i'm philosophizing over why i have to do it in the first place? and honestly, i think what i'm really- like really really- freaking out about is the logistics anyway. the *getting there* of things.

the car is where i go to tell myself "no, not everyone on the road hates me; no, i'm not the worst driver of all time" and where i force myself to look at people in other cars in hopes of feeling less certain that they hate me.
i recently revealed when i hear a honk, i question everything about myself. when someone passes me, i made a terrible mistake i don't know how to repent for.

you're supposed to feel better after you accomplish the "getting there" of things. i never do. logistics never end, and you have to keep up with them. they have to become habitual. i haven't gotten to that point yet.
i also hate celebrating accomplishing the *getting there* of things when i have- my successes, as success is perceived in a culture i perceive as futile which perceives me as futile back. i fear jinxing myself. i've done it, so i know it's not "just" a superstition- just means "superficially". jinxing is when, of a sudden, you slip into the consequences of a suddenly misinformed perception of karma- becoming suddenly intimidated by karma, measuring it on a good/bad scale.

karma, though, is amoral. and that's why i love karma...it doesn't get caught up in the destruction of things. "being" amoral is not refusing morals. i have morals, but i notice morals, and i notice they're really confining. morals are taught within dysfunction.

i don't want bullshit. i'm not obedient. why is it not okay that i'm spending my time learning to forgive myself for all the shame i've imposed on myself? why do i have to pressure myself into doing things i'm not fucking cut out for, and i don't even care that i'm not cut out for? why do i have to help enable reinforcements of archaic, unhelpful rules? it's not going to make me love myself. because of "structure"? so i can spend ALL of my time compulsively cleaning in hopes to relieve my anxiety?

people who have jobs regress at work and deal with the rage they have over their jobs whenever they're not working. fuck that. even the government forgives me for my crippledness.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

open letter to european protestors (counterprotestors)

i'm so glad to see you engaged in a cause. where the hell were you when so-called islamic state were in the headlines?

come back to the headlines, fagfucks. come back.

Friday, September 11, 2015

Thursday, September 10, 2015

amazon.com

i'm a musician! yayyyyy!

https://soundcloud.com/peach-schist-bjorkmoth/tracks

to the lighthouse.

my name is not important. it is not important to me, especially. what is important is that i eat the entirety of the world with it and tell my story about its digestion. my name will then have meaning. then, i will be able to honor it.

my name is emotional breadth. social pariah. i have been incredulously angry for at least twenty-four hours now. it's hormonal, learned (or: tickling the psychological piggie-bank) environmental, genetic, biological, and fucking annoying. maybe i'll be on my period or something, because there's nothing to pin against one another. wait...you can say temperamental versus personality (or nature versus nurture). it's very simplistic, which is kind of nice and easy to remember because that's what they teach you in school.

the internet offers a different perspective; a far cry from school:

you're laughing. you're laughing because you know there is someone
who will respond to your laugh. a roommate? next door,
a friendship. friendships are visionary.

"what's so funny, funny bunny?" they come in smiling- no, grinning from ear to ear like the fucking joker.
LAUGH TRACK
"this thing! this thing on the internet that other people think is funny! oh, my god! it is funny! it's not only funny, it's funny because the humor is the infectious kind!"
LAUGH TRACK LAUGH TRACK LAUGH TRACK
"oh, i totally agree! laugh out loud! so funny! like, i just peed myself!"
LAUGH TRACK LAUGH TRACK LAUGH TRACK APPLAUSE
"i peed myself too! oh, no! peeing oneself must be an epidemic now, too!"
GASP GASP LAUGH TRACK GASP LAUGH TRACK APPLAUSE
"we've got to pee openly now when we laugh so other people do!"
LAUGH TRACK
"look outside! everyone is peeing themselves and taking pictures of it!"
APPLAUSE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE
"epidemics are fantastic voyages!"
SOFT TRACK OF LAUGHTER HAPPINESS HUGS BOX OF CHOCOLATES END CREDITS COMMERCIAL BREAK

you wouldn't laugh if there wasn't someone nearby, says the evil foreboding thing in the corner. i think it's a cricket.
would you, now? if you
were to laugh without awareness of someone nearby,

you would sound like a deaf person.
laugh, deaf person. laugh, little bitch.
because it feels forced, the person asked to laugh does indeed sound deaf, even to themself.
you sound completely deaf. you're just so scared of not being around people, aren't you? "i need the laugh track is why. who has got the laugh track? i need my laugh track. laugh track? laugh track? where are you? laugh track!?!?!??!?!!"

i bet those few moments in life when you have laughed by yourself
you were really surprised you were able to do it.

don't worry, little autistic. rest your autistic head on my cricket shoulder. there. there, little autistic. there's something a little autistic about us all. some of us are better at hiding our autism then others.

you just need to be around others
and your autism

will be fine
because you like it that way. you like your autism to be "fine".

now that i've educated you about your truth (continues the slimy cricket), i want to hear you laugh but only because you don't know i'm here.
like in a place where people are judging how good you are and you don't know if they're also judging your badness, because you can't see them judging you for that. you sound deaf to yourself when someone isn't there, don't you? isn't it so important someone judges us at all times? just pretend someone is there but you can't see them.

laugh. it's funny.
laugh.
laugh.
laugh.
laugh.

it's just me, a cricket
watching you. it's funny. super funny.

SYBIL THE WHORE-GIRL I:

"do you think my vulva is fat?" the whore-girl who has slept with this john-guy a handful of times asks, either in front of a mirror by herself or to his face, examining her vulva's plushiness. poke. poke.
whore-girl and john-guy are obviously in a conventional relationship with one another. it's sordid, but it doesn't matter, because they're acting like traditionalists (angels). they are at that point in the relationship where she's comfortable asking challenging questions- ones which the fate of the relationship rely solely on his "either yes or no" answers.
she asks this about her vulva, because she would rather deal with having a fat vulva (therefore, being the fat vulva, and being responsible for it), than ever- EVER- address her tummy that she swears is fat. she mostly swears this in her head.
i'm watching her paint her story devoutly in her bedroom. she paints it in two colors: blue and pink. her name is sybil/shirley mason.both of our names are sybil/shirley mason, but we'd prefer to relate to marilyn monroe/norma jean baker.

SYBIL THE WHORE-GIRL SPEAKS FROM THE HEART FOR HER SOLO:

i do not enjoy painting anymore. i used to be the painting, the movements, the colors, the drips, the strokes. i didn't need anything else. my life was horrible but i could always paint the pain away, paint for hours; get my mind off of my horrible, twisted, savage stupid life. i feel like i'm losing my understanding of the painting techniques i've picked up on my own. it's a little devastating...i feel like someone died (me). but mostly, it matters most that i'm angry.
i'm concerned that i might have to go to the new school and join the student's art league too and become one of those people and learn how to identify myself as an artist in order to embody my artistic tendencies. but i think i'd rather join the manson family. unfortunately, they're all either in prison and dead on the inside or just plain old dead.

today i learned, again, that my cholesterol is high ("but it must be genetic. after all,  you're on the *thin* side that you're uptight about and raise hell if anyone other than doctors address it") and my thyroid is a little hypo about itself as usual ("good news! maybe that's where the depression comes from!")
the truth is a stork meant to drop depression into a toilet, but i happened to have my mouth open to the rain that moment, and i swallowed the stork's shit instead. i was very young when it happened. i have dissociative amnesia. i don't remember it. but it makes sense, because i was a chicken, and depression is stork-shit.

since it's indigestible, it says with you forever and ever, like cucumber skin and seeds and unpleasant memories that remind you they're there all day. i will be really good for the earth to digest after i die.

SYBIL THE WHORE-GIRL SINKS BACK INTO HER COMFORT ZONE:

"my heart isn't invested into anything. i think this means my vulva is fat. this is why my cholesterol is high, too; this is also why my thyroid levels turned out low again. it's all my fault. it's all my fault my heart isn't invested into anything. my heart doesn't fit in my body. my heart's messengers are always drunk. you can get liquor anywhere. i know how it is. i accept my heart's messengers the way they are."


SYBIL BEGINS READING MACBETH/HAMLET/SHAKESPEARE ET CETERA AND GETTING IDEAS:

i notice my skin is the color pink. the person i am with is a male. this is apparent, because the color of his skin is blue. Nothing else is really bold, in respect to colors- no, in respect to anything, other than the boldness of our skin, nothing is bold.

i notice everyone has either pink skin or blue skin.

the molecules are eating each other thus the molecular structure is degenerating:
this morning i watched the news.

i'm angry with myself that i don't care enough that a missing link in the evolution of the human animal was discovered. i want to die over my lack of caring.

another news story i watched covered a protest and a counterprotest in germany. this was easy to watch, because it was easy to criticize. the news story was supposed to be over where the now very-european syrian refugees (or migrants) should be. do they belong in germany or not? do they belong anywhere? their homeland is dying slowly and painfully. maybe they should go back home. maybe someone else should take care of it. i hear they speak a lot of english, maybe they should be diplomats- all of them, at once- like a church choir. maybe we should put them all on a reality television show. maybe they should continue on their journey of taking care of themselves. maybe we should hire them to mow our lawns. that could be a reality television show, too. if it didn't have commercial breaks, it could serve as relaxing background noise to fall asleep to.

i'm pretty sure nobody involved in these "protests" cared about anything but getting their points across.
i imagine the migrants as like, "whatever, morons," as they continue onward to an oasis out there.

the people with pink skin were of the counterprotest. they were calling the people with blue skin (of the protestprotest) names like fascists and nazis, which honestly, is pretty judgmental, and sophomoric. but you know, how nice the pink skinned people are to think so nicely of the homeless "?"-skinned people.
the people with blue skin did seem kinda nazi-like- at least dead fucking serious like how hitler was. just super scary to look at.
all of the people seemed entirely blind to the duality of humanity. nobody sees each other as equals, no matter how much of a mantra they kid themselves into. it's god who sees no color. people, without eyes, don't either.

i laughed because i get it.
i laughed and i was by myself, but consequentially, i suddenly watched myself and couldn't stop.

AN EPILOGUE:

being held together in a body is like being in a womb, except you know stuff now, so it gets claustrophobic. it just isn't fair.
i gather myself sloppily and run to the lighthouse on the opposite side of the island, where i've never been. ("just get a job and make plans. you need structure. start listening to people. you never do that. just be like me," is all it takes, "you wouldn't be safe doing anything else, anyway. i know you just so darned well. you're a complete retard because you don't live your life like how i live my life.")

i make it to the lighthouse on the opposite side of the island. it is now about ten years later, but the plot doesn't thicken, and i'm proud of lacking a sense of time, so it doesn't matter.

this is called "astral projection": i am the kite floating on this umbilical-type string (it's coming out of my womb, not my third eye). climbing stairs hasn't been a problem for me for some time, but the stairs in the lighthouse are spiral, so i just sort of project my spiritual ghost-self upward, in the middle. it's wavy and clear, but rainbowy. it jiggles.
reaching inside the body- which remains below, acting sort of catatonic- would be a psychoanalytical thing to do, a rigid archaeological dig- a demonstration of a denial of the truth that solutions don't exist.

this is called watching human behavior from an astral projection vantage point: solution don't exist. they just don't. people are abstract.
you work on stuff. if you don't work on stuff, you regress- you fall. so you ought to work on stuff. it doesn't matter if you work on stuff your whole life. you're going to reach a resolve only this way. you're never going to reach it entirely. what matters is reaching acceptance.

someone is demonstrating this denial i speak of by making surgical incisions on my body with an x-acto knife, though without precision. i had swallowed all of my medications, over five hundred pills, because this is what is expected of me. i'm real negative and stuff. and because i don't go to church, i'm not spiritual. so i'm pure negativity, baby. negative energy. bad news.
sometimes, we do what's expected of us. we usually don't know why, but we do know- however it translates itself- that we are frustrated.

my heart is being jolted with defibrillators. my mouth is given CPR. i think they think they're doctors. they must be EMTs- really really clinically inclined smart people, doctor-like.
EMTs and doctors are people with a lot of stamina whose parents put a lot of pressure on them to do even better than their best.
i feel violated down there in the body, but preoccupied up here. i'm looking at the sea, at cities, seeing wherever i happen to see. my mind tells itself it doesn't belong anywhere. it likes that. nothing is pink. nothing is blue. all bathes in a river and occasionally breathes.

this is the first day i have ever exercised, i'm learning. it's really nice out. it's alive. i wave hello to sharks when i see their restless heads pop out of the ocean. they're friendly neighbors! i don't wonder about oxygen really, whether i'm breathing it in or not. it's there somehow, named differently. i think i may be breath.

something is tugging at my umbilical cord. is it a cramp? do i have my period? no. a trail of organs is coming out of my vagina- the reproductive ones first, brains last- in the way things would fall out all portmanteau about themselves. it's muddy colored and smelly. at first, i am not sure whether this is a series of growths that are coming out- perhaps a miscarriage, or really, a trail of organs. either way, i feel it. all i do is feel. i'm a stupid girl.

"i did something stupid," i think. "heave! ho!" i hear. yank. yank. my eyes have come out. i'm being sent back downward to my body, neatly folded into the sloppy surgical incision that was marked on it. i didn't realize this was supposed to be an entrance. i thought maybe it was an autopsy.

i continue to refuse to react to any pain i may be experiencing. i admit in thought. "i must act as though i'm not dying, as thought nothing is wrong."

my body is not empty anymore, but my soul is up there and needs help. it looks like casper, the friendly ghost. look, there she goes. not hungry, but empty. confused. wandering. look, there she goes. past the lighthouse. past the ships. to the big city. there she goes. look what the EMTs /MDs have done.

to a city bench. she has learned that the big city is swarming with diners. she mentions that she didn't know this and becomes an outsider almost immediately. "you didn't know the big city is swarming with diners?" one city-folk says at her, astonished. she looks at the other city-folk around to see their reactions- are they astonished? they are! are they laughing? she laughs too! "really, i mean, really- you didn't know the big city is swarming with diners? how could you not know the big city is swarming with diners!?" casper the friendly ghost has grown disdain for diners which swarm the big city and an aversion for the city folk which also swarm the big city.

she stops presenting herself as an offering to relationships.

"BRILLIANT. OBVIOUSLY, THE VOICE OF OUR GENERATION"- THE RUMPUS:

it occasionally crosses casper's mind that she'd like to burn books. not just any book...she'd like to burn books that are praised- ones that she cannot get herself to praise. when she tries to, it's obviously forced, an act of transparency- desperation out of confusion. when she liberates herself- allows herself to know that she do not enjoy a book, she do not receive pleasure- she wants to expound upon her pain by burning the book.

"dear diary,
right now i am reading to kill a mockingbird," she writes in her top-secret diary, "i don't relate to it- don't enjoy it, don't see myself in it, don't have any urge to imitate it. it pisses me off that scout is so much better than me. i can't stop thinking about how scout is so much better than me. she's so boring! they're all boring! all i want to do is criticize it and burn it, though that's rather an unfashionable thing to do.
"i'm confused over this. it's been made into a fact that this is an historically decided good book. an historically acclaimed great work of literature. i'm frustrated. i want to understand how the fuck everyone ever can think this except me. my thoughts slow as i read it. i hate comparing myself to a little girl and all the other fictitious characters that have nothing to do with my life. i hate wanting to burn a book i bought to enjoy, because burning books is very fahrenheit. i'm starting to get jaded by culture's improvisations.

"i mean, check this out:

"
from page one of "to kill a mockingbird":

UNEQUALED PRAISE FROM EVERYWHERE
FOR A UNIQUE BESTSELLER-

HARPER LEE'S

TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

THE NEW YORK TIMES: "MARVELOUS[...]"

HARPER'S: "A NOVEL OF GREAT SWEETNESS[...]"

BOSTON HERALD: "HAS PACE AND POWER...OVERFLOWING WITH LIFE."

THE NEW YORKER: "SKILLED, UNPRETENTIOUS AND TOTALLY INGENUOUS...TOUGH, MELODRAMATIC, ACUTE, FUNNY."

SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER: "MISS LEE WONDERFULLY BUILDS THE TRANQUIL ATMOSPHERE OF HER SOUTHERN TOWN, AND AS ADROITLY IT ERUPTS TO A SHOCKING REVELATION THAT ALL OF THE WRITERS OF THESE REVIEWS ARE ENGLISH MAJORS THAT HAVE HYPE TO THANK FOR THEIR CAREERS."

(MORE HYPERACTIVE BIASED PRAISE CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE...)

"the books i do love i also want to burn because the only thing i can do with them is fish for inspiration and dissociate into the people that have to do with the book. dissociate means to "go away from the self". the self is a burden: it is difficult for me to stay focused, and difficult for me to remember. i am disgruntled over my relationship with my memory and attention spans. i wish i'd be nice, but i need to have control at all times, which i never do. oh, diary! you are so lucky. you have no idea how hard it is! bookworms are supposed to meet their expectations of reading well, so they can maintain their bookworm identities. identity is what gets you praise. gee, i don't know what's more important- praise, or identity!
"conclusively, i want to burn the books, but i never will, because bookworms aren't supposed to burn books. it's wrongdoing. it's fahrenheit. it's bad. bad. bad. conservative. right winged. bad. i confuse left and right a lot. so it might be left winged. not having a wing to call my own is bad.

"forever yours, diary,
"the friendly ghost C
"

i have been told what to do a lot by people. i almost never want to do what people tell me to do. i always felt disingenuous about myself doing what people tell me to do. i don't feel disingenuous doing what ideas tell me to do, though.
although i don't want to feel disingenuous, i've made a lot of compromises in this respect. i feel i'm severely disingenuous but this is what prevents me from fucking up. a lot of the time i do not want to live even though i'm not fucking up. ideas don't come along as often since i've betrayed them by listening to the people, which are not ideas. i've broken my promises to ideas. i've broken their hearts.
but i make myself live. i've promised people i will allow myself to live. i want to make it clear that that's asking a lot of a person.

at a young age, it was very important to me to become a sex worker. i never did it. i don't work for my money. i still want to be a sex worker, so i don't feel resentful of everyone else- all the sex workers. sex workers are people unhappy with their jobs they have no choice but to work because that's how you prevent yourself from dying of starvation in the united states of america. is it hurting me that i have not yet chased this dream?

my vulva is fat, by the way. i knew it the whole time. i didn't have to ask that guy whose name i will never forget although i might pretend i never knew him if someone asks me if i did. i was not interested in hearing the truth about my vulva or about anything else

i was interested in reiterating my hunger which could never be satisfied. it doesn't know what it is hungry for really- nutrition is simple in this respect. it's hungry.