Thursday, September 10, 2015

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.