Suddenly something makes sense. It's not just, as it exists outside of time. There is no chronology or order of events in the horizontal connectivity of my thoughts. She, mom, is somewhat of a guru, spiritual leaders are always girls, and I don't mean woman. There is a simple need to be gentle in my aggression, to be careful in my hate, to be glutinous in my sexy, to withdraw in my identity. I don't want to speak because I am always being spoken to, and yet there is plenty to say. A paradox is essential. Anne Carson is not a spiritual leader, but her thoughts are present.

 

It's not a narrative, I don't want sentimentality, I don't want a story that reminds us of the unattainable potential. Freedom is nostalgia -- beauty and carefree love, as if it were attainable for some and not for others. This is an avoidance of cleanliness and yet it is very precise. I want junk. a confession of excess. a tangential trash bag. a petri dish. something nasty in the woodshed. There is a spider that lays her eggs in between to planks of wood. First she spins a sticky little nest, injecting the cotton candy with her spawn. Those little critters one day hatch. Or maybe they already have, either way really.

 

You cut me short if you think that you are my desired audience.

 

May 2015. Young.

Everything sits at theprecipice of this empty sheet. The kinetic energy that splays before me. With every word I am closer to the finish line. With ever sentence the finish line is farther away then before. Now is the time to stay up long nights writing. In bed. With my ipad. Listening to the tic tic tic. 

 

 

M: There is sleep and there is rest,

you said.

M: In what ways do you rest? 

 

L: when somebody else is taking a shower, tuning into a steady sound.. White noise.

 

We talked a bit more. You talked about connecting with the earth below and the universe above and then you said something that makes sense,

 

M: you can rest when you connect to the flow.

 

Their are moments in which you are leading, and there are moments of being lead. In a healthy relationship there is an eb and flow, a somewhat steady balance between the two. There is a third party that jumps into the mix every once in a while, when the leader and follower are undifferentiated, as if you are both being lead by a higher power, or maybe you are so in tune with one another that you are both able to lead and follow simultaneously.

 

Flow - when you do not need to take responsibility, you do not need to be in control, you do not need to lead the way, and this state can be found on your own. Right now, letting the words flow from my fingertips I feel no responsibility. My thoughts and my action of placing my thoughts on the page are happening at the same speed, one does not precede the other. I am in a state of rest. When I am physical, collecting the horizon (as it is called) in Qi gong, I partake in an action that I know. It is slow and the necessary placement of bone, muscles, fluids are understood.. For the most part. I can allow that action to take over, to be guided by the action. I am not leading nor am I following, I am at rest. Flowing. 

 

Can we talk about the wonders that open up when you are not committed to one individual?

 

"Consider how you might rest while working". Sounds efficient.

 

An orgasm is a complete relinquishing of control. or at least it can be. I once asked momi what made her feel powerful during sex. She answered by saying that her power came from being able to completely open up, to completely give in, to rid herself of any control. A complete relinquish. 

There is such yearning for an orgasm for precisely this reason.. It is incredibly restful, or at least,  a concentrated uncontrolled act that results in bliss. This same (or a similar) bliss is accomplished immediately before falling asleep or those moments when you wake up in the morning before you are really awake. Nestled perfectly in between the sheets. Before you are aware of the boundaries of your own skin. Heroine has a similar effect. Back to Qi gong, She talks into the universe...this state- this almost sleep state, this orgasmic state- that blurs the body proper is an expansion into the universe. It is a form of rest. But what do I mean by rest? Why such an obsession with rest? A way of quieting the clutter, focusing on that which is at hand and nothing more. Allowing the work to be done, to be transmitted through you as opposed to driving it, leading it, controlling it. It is not an easy place to be, but is most certainly attainable and deeply desirable.

 

Interesting to me. I surround myself with inspiring, introspective, curious humans and I am immediately inspired to write down ideas. My ideas and thoughts that coincide with what I interpret from the things that are conversed about during our conversations. Immediate stimulant. Inversely, I spend the afternoon with a real dud (rich dude that owns the new gallery space in SOHO-George Berges Gallery's- self titled) and I find myself numb. It is true, I spent the majority of the day serving brunch to a bunch of tourists- also not the most sensational, in fact quite mind numbing... My point is, I have very little going on up stairs at the moment. So I write for the pleasure of it. I rest as the words billow (sorta). As if on their own, I am in synchronicity with my thoughts, my fingers in action, and the words that are formed on the page in front of my settled eyes. Resting with the unsteady tictictic of each key- emulating the melodic current of a well oiled machine.

 

I rely on my integrity, my self proclaimed moral code... 

 

Out and about.. Woohoo. Writing in public. The first time on my gadget. I know, personally, that these words are dripping with sarcasm. Does the reader get it? I suppose it is as that man who calls himself a writer saidto me. "whatever you do, don't get into the habit of trying to describe to your audience." I can't recall the adjective that he used as the effective nature of such action. But it wasn't lovely.

The sarcasm isn't even in the meaning of my sentence, but rather in the word choice. Who in their right mind would use the word gadget. Or the phrase "out and about".. There is something about layers-meaning upon meaning upon... I don't have anything else to say on the matter, currently.

 

 

INTEGRITY vs. growing to love somebody.

 

I recently spoke to my mother about integrity, the necessity of it. As an artist it becomes your self proclaimed moral code. I don't follow a pre existing agenda. I don't follow the steps of a particular structure. I don't have rules and expectations. Rules and expectations exist for artists as well.. But to follow them feels to me like a loss of all agency and possible innovations that comes with the title..

I contemplate then... The House of Ia.. As an example.. Is unconventionality a prerequisite as an artist. Is it a responsibility of every artist to be pave the way of conventions? And if so then is it generational? Do you get a decade to be in the lead because an individual artists have a particular aesthetic that goes out of style eventually, or is at least no longer the at the head of the game..  I bring up the house of ia because I find their work to be at the forefront of mainstream popular art in the experimental art world. What I mean to say is, their work is at the head of hipsterdom, they reign the "unreignable". They are the epitome of what is popular in the experimental contemporary performance art scene in bushwick. Witchy women that use nudity and bodily excrement to demand shock. The spectacle overlays deeply internal, experiential movement that proposes a different sense of time for an audience that is drawn in initially by an intriguing spectacle. It's candy for your eyes, relaxation for the rest. Performing in their work has the satisfying quality of deep introspection...

 

I suppose my question always comes back to a basic understanding of spectacle vs. experience. Being the entertainer vs. making space for... Something.

 

 

 

AVOCADO SALAD

 

I am still a baby. No denying it.

 

Babybear.

 

The the narrative. The dream. After a day off from work... A residency at MANCC is all consuming, a complete engulfment in luciana achugar's work; obliteration to transcendence to transformation. A process that is accomplished thru a worship of the essence... Two days ago over breakfast at the residence inn, an all inclusive, free buffet, we talked about the Cinderella narrative and its omnipresence. But Cinderella is simplified. 

 

Breakfast time. Oatmeal with raisins and peanut butter. Be back in a moment.

 

This is a hard one. But I need to begin fleshing it out. Tired mind, sun drenched, no green tea. But clear from swimming. I can't figure out order of operation... In the work you talk about..

 

Sexual 'energy' (my word)

Sensuality

Eroticism

 

As part of the work. A necessary feat. In relation to finding the state of being in desire and existing in it without acting on it. A presence. Being with desire. Recognizing the feeling as a state, finding pleasure and importance in that state as opposed to seeing it as a means to an end.

 

N: How do you incorporate acting upon desire into your work?

I ask over cantaloupe. She gives me a story about an improvisational solo she did in 2004(?) when she was just getting together with Chase. The solo was primordial, erotic, animalistic, a sort of practice of acting on desire.. 

l: And at one point in the piece I went up to Chase and just starting making out with him.. I think this was the beginning of what I have been really interested in..

 

I suppose the dialectic of the action and the non action (the state) are dichotomous. Her work does not deny either, wether she is attempting at an even playing field is still uncertain. A bodily based practice that perpetually desires and acts,desires and acts.. As if the action is testing the integrity of desire. Can desire be infinite? Infinitely regenerating and expanding? Can the product be as luxurious as the lead up? Can I be satisfied in my perpetual state of dissatisfaction (curiosity, desire for more)? Can I forever be unwrapping the package? Ballin twistie ties... Yve Laris Cohen's piece at the kitchen (Fine. May 2015- failure, intimacy, communication, lack of. Theatre). If I am never satisfied I can never be dissatisfied. If I am forever existing in that state of desire, I will always be in pleasure and I will never settle.

This is a proper bone structure. Gimme the meat. Meat me where I can see you feeding. 

 

Cinderella story vs complexity.

 

Your desire for constant desire is mainstream. Your action of acting on the desire as a heterosexual action is heterotypical. The actions do not match up completely with the words. The explanations are excuses. You ask us things that we cannot answer. You are so caught up in your own experience that you forget, you are asking for a group integration. Why am I a part of your twisted love affair? I don't particularly want to be. And if I have no choice then at least admit it. Let's not pretend.

 

In the Studio

 

"We are working here!" You say to the cleaning person when they walk in on us in the dark. Pitch black. Doing the Practice. With the dead inhabiting our bodies for a couple of hours. "The living can absorb the dead at anytime. Therefore everyone knows everything and at all times exists simultaneously...time is mixed with blood" (Kraus, 88).  

 

Writing requires a constant awareness. I do tend to go to sleep earlier then my fellow people, as Oren so kindly pointed out on this final night in Tallahassee, " you always go to sleep!" 

"So do you" was my not so clever comeback, the truth. Always. I have an immaculate memory when it comes to the specificities of instances. I am always aware, always listening. It is challenging for me to tune out. Late night hang sessions with dumbos or small talkers is excruciating, as is bad music in the car. I need the strength to lead a conversation in a particular direction. It is self care, a defense mechanism. Protection against depression. When I am exhausted- in a group- I can only be around people that I am incredibly compatible with, people that talk about funny things, interesting topics, that listen thoroughly. It is all to varying degrees. The more tired I am the less people I want to be around, the more I want to be alone with my book, my journal.. Was talking to Jen kjos about compatibility today over late night (high end) Tallahassee pizza with Karla Peterson, post showing. Being long term intimate with somebody isall about compatibility. What do you need, when do you need what, and vise-versa. It is important to write at all times of day and night, at all levels of brain capacity. Currently at practically zero, the words are simple, the concepts are simple. 

 

Is it filler or just a gentle breeze. 

 

Forget it!  

 

I must sit with myself this eve. TRC- third rail coffee- across from st. Marks church. #blacklivesmatter, words on a screen. Electro upgrade. My fingers feel fat, and the keys mini. As they hover above the screen there is an awkward stiffness that manifests in the joints. Must. Keep. Writing. No stopping, fluid fingers tapping across the page. Creating a pattern on the screen that is translated into literal meaning. Concrete compared to art, abstract compared to mathematics. Maybe? Already feeling pain between the scapula. Not just my fingers that hover. My head, 15lbs connecting to the curvature of my spine. Awkwardly held up at the hunch of my back. If only there was one less vertebrae.. I need a key pad. Pronto.

 

I'll try another position; knees on the bench, pad resting on knees, support coming from the upper palm of each hand. Not the most efficient for typing, but a bit better on the back/ neck/ head.

 

Screenplay to a cutting edge Hollywood film.

 

Young girl grows up in a family of five, crazy artist mother, sexually abusive step father. Biological father in and out of drug use, barleyaround. Young girl mutilates her body with all sharp objects to feel the pain topically as opposed to emotionally. She must always be in control. Mother and stepfather split when mother finds note from mistress in his pants pocket while washing his dirty laundry. Young girl replaces step fathers toxic energy with heroine addict boyfriend that lives on the street. Somehow the cosmos align in young girls favor ( turns out she is smart). She receives a (mostly) full ride to small liberal arts college and with the help of friends, professors, and her own strong will is able to kick the addiction, kick the addicted boyfriend, and finds herself reveling in dance and academia at last. From here on out she works relentlessly at understanding the intricacies of life, observing, listening, and speaking out when there is a possibility of being heard. She is a lonely artist in New York City, and lives inquisitively in her solitude. She hates nostalgia and hopes that her schizophrenic brother Gildevin will find peace. 

 

 

The man in the cafe has a tattoo on his left thigh that says fight off your demons. Nah, i don't agree. Your demons are a part of you, they ain't goin nowhere. Just learn to accept those suckers, those pestering leeches, those festering monsters. Demons are the inner unknown, the internal black hole. The darkness. The void. Junk space. Minoritarian space... This happens to be the scariest thing in the world and simultaneously the most peaceful/ gratifying. Isn't it wonderful when words come to you, words that don't often exist in my vocabulary, just because the word is closest to the meaning that I am attempting to decipher? I find it very cool, and very much the work of a greater existence or force. Sometimes, that almost perfect word never arrives. I have to perpetually dance around that meaning that I attempt at deciphering.

 

I swam home in the rain

 

And contemplated the epiphany that came during yoga.

 

Not true, honestly I went over that phrase over and over again. So as not to forget. As I was lying in shavasana, I realized that I am sad- lonely I think- I noticed that I was not, however, depressed. I smiled then, and felt happy in my sadness because I was not depressed. To be sad is to be happy because sadness is not depression. Beautiful.

 

Special tension (attention) needs. A phrase that Carson, the old heroine addict boyfriend used to say to? (At) his dog Franklin (frankylin- always in a syrupy baby voice). I find myself appropriating the phrase in relation to my baby cat Leo.. Sadness lies in the rejection of love. When you feel love for particular aspect of a person, but for whatever reason you have to put up a wall. Deny the feelings. Snip the vine. Singe the ends.

 

I have a strong desire to share my life with special people. The things I see, the way I see them. My collections. I want to share my collection of moments with you. Because I think you may like my collection. Simply out my window. Thru the screen. The same section of ladder, wet or dry. Against a gray backdrop or blue. Pink. The oak tree in all her flavors. The dream catcher and clothesline worn and worn again. I want to share with you my collections if I think you may understand.  

 

Carson. Charlie. Gildevin. You make up a small collection. A collection of people that I once shared many collections with but have since ceased completely. 

 

There are so many people in this world. Yesterday I read about not forcing creativity. Neurologically the brain is more efficient if the creative action happens prior to thinking. In an immediate sense of course, it makes complete sense. It becomes very clear in the actin of writing, one word at a time. An action that happens in a linear format, one cannot think of the third sentence before writing the first.. Or perhaps they can, but it becomes a challenging game as opposed to an efficient way of writing a book. When I sit down to write, I spend a bit of time not thinking about what I am going to write and eventually letters culminate in the tips of my fingers, words form in my brain and on the page at the immediate moment that I think of the word.  Many months/ years/ a life time of presupposition is necessary in the creation of a coercive congruent all encompassing, whole piece of work. There is no collective coercion without constant thought. Stimulation. Analysis. But the structure of the book is not completely imagined prior to the writing of it. Perhaps I work within guidelines, to keep some kind of coherence, but the guidelines shift daily. Morph with me. Sister morphine.

 

My sister Juniper is everything to me. I love her more then life itself. She is the smartest woman alive and I will forever be in awe as I watch her grow.

 

You carry the juice up to your face with your right hand, but instead of bringing the straw all the way to your lips, you crane your neck forward, disconnected for your back- as if the neck has its own spine- head forward, lips outstretched, you meet your straw halfway and suck. How odd. Or maybe just creative? So many tiny backpacks on so many bushwick coffee goers.

 

Cynical Cinderalla

 

It seems to me like the Cinderella story is somewhat of a generational thing. A contemporary Cinderella story. Not so much about Prince Charming anymore. No longer about 'the one', but rather, the overarching narrative of being in love. Love is the be all end all, the reason to live, the meaning of life. Every action, every thought, every tickle and tinder, every thunder and wine will be worth while in the eyes of the one that loves me! Somebody must fulfill that role to make it all worth it. That role exists in the driving narrative of so many peoples lives. Even if that role is not filled, it waits, empty and ready, anticipating the next human to consume, trying desperately to shove a body a mind a soul in a space that is preconceived, predetermined and most likely not the right size. My mother had a beautiful idea, a beautiful idea among many beautiful ideas. She talked of this space that we all have. A space that is there to be filled by another, but like a jigsaw puzzle, one must wait to find the person that has the right space for you, and the person that fits easily into your empty space. Otherwise it is a jam session. AVOID AT ALL COSTS. Forcing and manipulating somebody else to fit into your space, or adversely, forcing yourself into a space that isn't big enough for you.. Therefore you must wait, wait for that space to be just your size.

 

But Buddha did not wait. 

 

Buddha expanded into nothingness, into eternity

 

Why wait. Why not just forget about it. Find space in the universe, expand into the massive amount of space that is constantly and openly accessible. Ease-fully expand outward. Dissolve into the space of the universe, let yourself be digested as opposed to waiting to find a space that is just your size. Why the containment? Is it for protection? What is it you need protection from? What are you scared of, afraid of? Myself. Yes. Afraid of myself. Duh.

 

In the beginning of 2015, I worked as a 'performance facilitator' for Marina Abramovic's exhibit titled Generator. 

 

I met with Beth .. Yesterday to discuss leading a movement workshop with sexual abuse survivors. Beth is feisty. She has lived a full life as a social worker. She believes strongly in the power of movement as a grounding and present force. She talked to me in direct whispers and looked straight into my eyes with confidence and comfort.

"There was one woman that could not handle the idea of closing her eyes during a simple breathing exercise."even the shear thought of going inside, a place so distraught with fear and shame and anxiety caused immediate strife. "Let her be in control, let her choose." Said Beth. The exercise can be done with eyes open or closed, there is no hierarchy. It is about creating a space for personal choice. Let her be in control of her own decisions, of her own body, no need to impose.

 

But my mother took it a step further when I complained to her in the phone about over thinking everything. "I thought you had been kidnapped. I was getting ready to come to New York to find you." We laughed. It had only been a day and a half of not returning her calls.

"No need," I said, "I was just kinda sad yesterday, and today I was busy."

"but you are feeling better now?"

"Yeah, I am really fine, just aah, well, you know, I over think everything, I've been spiraling." She laughs. I join. 

"Funny you should say that now, I just finished the Shipping News and picked up I Love Dick," (two books I recently sent to her address, the former for her, the latter for Juniper) "I had to put it down, couldn't get into it. I'm a bit to down to earth for her neurotic, scattered thoughts and I would like to keep it that way. Girl needs to chill out, let her compost sit for a while."

 

I didn't immediately catch the compost reference, but I liked the sound of it, and I had a feeling it would come back without me pushing the matter. Relating the human condition to composting, one of her heady ideas that came to her in a moment and finds a reference point in every thought and conversation. I relate, I did make a piece called fertilize after all. Required hours of confinement to a 7" by 4" flower pot filled with dirt and my own excrement as time went on. A study of death and possibility of being self sustainable. Seems to be a reoccurring interest of mine. Constantly attempting at self sufficiency, perpetually being reminded that I can't do it alone. But I can, to an extent. Maybe self reliance is a more practical term. And yet, a total farce. I write, alone in my room. A perfect time to be alone. But the plethora of ideas comes only to me thru interaction. The concepts that circulate these pages are a collection of other people's thoughts. My writing thrives on the interactions that fill my days, the everyday thoughts that could so easily be lost in passing. I collect these ideas, and relate them.

 

Sitting in her own compost was referring to letting go of complete control over herself. Once the troff is full, let it decompose without imposing. "Dance is often about being in control of your body" she says. Yes and no. Absolutely yes, but there is an attempt at transformation. plugging in and riding the electromagnetic currents. Letting the dance dance me. 

 

Marina Abramovic

 

The steam machine. The coffee house is like Kamaji's boiler room. Arms extending like extra limbs, turning nobs, releasing steam from various nozzles. Jars and drawers of herbs. Hot water for brewing. Active always. To make the costumers happy, satisfied. Comfortable and cozy.  We will always look for external satisfactions. Rituals. Habits. Addictions that give meaning and purpose to our every day. What is the point of working for money- being a slave to monetary forms- if you don't have the need to spend it. What better way to spend it then on a nice hot cup of joe. Or an iced latte with soy milk, a triple espresso... or a significant other... I can't do my work without my coffee! I can't get anything hard done without treating myself! I can't make money without spending it!

 

 A broken finger does not make for efficiency across the keyboard. But there is a bit of creativity at play. Not over thinking.. Just doing. My thoughts have been on denial this morning. So many days prior to this one, sitting and talking to people about me, my thoughts, my neurosis. So tired of over thinking. Always analyzing the thoughts that run through my brain, always running, demanding my attention. I'm confused. Do people expect me to talk, so I talk? Do I want/ desperately need to talk because otherwise I am constantly talking to myself? Or do I talk to people that talk about boring things or don't talk at all so I feel the necessity to lead the conversation? There are a few people in this world that I don't have to talk about anything with. I don't have to explain anything, I don't have to decipher my language. We can talk about anything and nothing and I feel at ease. Content. Relaxed. An uncommon quality that I tend to substitute with exhaustion. New York helps me out.

 

I often question my adamant denial of contentment. In fact my approach is so fucking circular, it is difficult to decipher on the page. I am always searching for more, attempting to go deeper, to understand more fully. I perpetually seek more. Forever unsatisfied in the greater picture, but constantly practicing contentment in the everyday moment. The search for an inner peace. An equilibrium.

 

I am sitting in my own compost. Composting is about patience, collecting the scraps and then taking a step back and letting the elements go at it for a while. She's right, my compost is full of undigested scraps but I feel as tho I have to guide the decomposing process.

 

My nourishment comes to me these days in the form of barely and fresh mulberries. The white ones that grow around the corner from my Redhook apartment. I will never give her up. she is perfect.

 

Today my mother texted me, "trust yourself my lovyloo."

 

Yes momi, you give only the best advise.

 

And in a short text to friend, Monica Wise, I "described" myself as she so blatantly asked. First I panicked, and then wrote, "I am horribly intrigued by individuals- people's ideas and the way they interact w the world. Simultaneously I am addicted to being alone- the intimacy of my own quick thoughts. I am in awe of those few people that really understand me.. I think far too much, and I am obsessed w being in control. Everything is either funny or fucked."

 

An appropriated motto, stollen from my third and and this moment in time (2015) final boyfriend. A hero. A lover. An angel and a friend. Literally didn't open my mouth once today. I don't mind. I had many conversations.

 

Ju vu tre an te blue

 

I let a friend read a bit today. I thought it might be helpful, but immediately regretted my decision as I watched her eat my words. No shade obviously but when she took a breather to ask me what I meant by commitment I got scared. "No questions in relation to the work please" was my internal response. Outwardly I said, "uummmm"... And now I can't stop fretting over the meaning of commitment. But I don't particularly care to explain, so from now on, nobody reads my words, unless I trust you with my life, and would die for your opinion. I cannot have anybodies bias infiltrating my process. Not yet. 

 

The basement of George Berges gallery

 

Your name doesn't deserve to be written.

 

Sit in your own compost.

 

You who never arrived. I called up an ex lover tonight. "I had a small realization" I said.

"Of what sort?" Was the response. I stuttered for five minutes and then I said I love you, and I need to know that you are ok wit me loving you. "I don't want to consume you, I don't need anything from you, I just want to feel aloud. No matter if you become a memory, or if I continue to see you once a week at work, or if something else happens that is unspoken and unimagined, I love you, and I need to feel ok about that..." I must not deny this feeling, this emotion. The things I love about you are amazing incredible wonderful things, and I need to allow myself to feel this love. The alternative is closing off, mustering up the hatred, discontinuing all communication and doing so out of necessity. I have a collection of those people, a collection of three, and I would prefer to keep it a trinity.

 

You told me you were reading Master and Margarita, I told you it was one of my favorite books. You said, "thank you for calling, no I don't mean thank you for calling, I really mean it, thank you for calling." You mentioned Rilke's piece on unrequited love. I couldn't remember it in the moment, but after many goodbyes I sat down with his selected book of poetry and found an excerpt from You who never arrived.

 

You who never arrived

in my arms, Beloved, who were lost

from the start,

I don't even know what songs

would please you. I have given up trying

to recognize you in the surging wave of the next

moment. All the immense

images in me--the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,

cities, towers, and bridges, and un-

suspected turns in the path,

And those powerful lands that were once

pulsing with the life of the gods--

all rise within me to mean

you. Who forever elude me

 

You, Beloved, who are all

the gardens I have ever gazed at,

longing, an open window

In a country house--, and you almost

stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon,--

you had just walked down them and vanished.

And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors

we're still dizzy with your presence and, started, gave back

my too-sudden image. Who knows? perhaps the same

bird echoed through the both of us

yesterday, separate, in the evening. . .

 

My heart in my throat. My breath shallow. Stuck in my throat from the first sentence. The last sentence sinks in and I wail. A cry of desolation, emptiness, openness. A body of pain that is infrequently relieved in such grandeur. Open mouth, open throat, open to the sky. An open tube letting out wails of willful sadness, unrecognizable to my own ear. I cry and I allow myself to do it. I know that I am ok, I can in this moment handle the sadness, I can let go of control and I will not fall into a deep downward spiral of horror and hatred. Desolation and destruction. I cry because I love you. Because I am saddened by the truth, the honesty and the precision of your existence. I am saddened because no matter how precise, no matter how accurate, no matter how true my love is for you, it is unrequited.

 

And I am happy that I can feel this way about you, I am happy that I have the ability to be overcome with sadness. I am happy that I am not depressed.

 

Last night my sister called me twice while I was drinking corona light with sucker of a human in his soon to open soho gallery. Andy Warhol's alluring face above me, apparently the last photo taken of him-one of twelve prints, the negative was destroyed- George Berges, a proud owner of many priceless things with an overhang of atrocious monetary worth. "Soon I will own you." The full sentence came out of his mouth before he could retract. He followed the phrase with a quick drunk glance at me to see if I had noticed. I use my supernatural powers in moments like these. A complete calm, time trips, slow motion, rewind, I become a mirror, and the chauvinist idiot watches himself as such. Caught in the act. If you confront the idiot, he will be sure to explain himself, convince himself that the intentions were proper, appropriate, that somehow, the other person is to blame. If he sees himself in the act, there is nobody to argue with.

 

Tactic is everything. I like the a clear and simple sneak attack. The clarity of the idea seems sensical, straight forward, but the effect seeps in gradually with growing strength. I silenced my phone the first time, thinking to call her back after my 'business' meeting that consisted of me saying something smart and being rewarded with his full tongue in my mouth. I deflected over and over again as I talked about dance, specifically dance in his gallery, and then I left.

 

Juniper had called me again, it was obviously important, plus I didn't particularly want to pee in a cup, and the gallery toilet was in the process of being installed. So I left.  

 

When I called her back she spoke to me painstakingly about a man she had been seeing. There was fear in her voice. She was struggling hard with this one. An emotionally challenging, needy and manipulative shit head.

 

 

sitting out front of St. Marks church on the benches. across from third rail, eating my lunch before entering the vortex of portland to New York transplants. my lunch, left over salad from work yesterday, tastes a bit like compost. The man two benches down performs his monologue. Made me think of my brother, and all the other schizophrenics in this forsaken... I looked over once or twice. a gaunt face, folding in on itself. completely disconnected from the external. eyes drawn back into the sockets, swirling inward, a backward spiral. 

 

A conversation with himself, "what are you doing on my asshole? Im not on your fucking asshole, i just want to be around a nice girl. Im not on your fucking asshole!" 

 

Im distracted now, the vibrations in here are hot. palpitating at a frequency that isnt so conducive to writing. Kathy Acker says, writers never fuck. They sit in their room by themselves and write things down that nobody wants to read. 

 

As if the prohibition is still in effect, the men across from me trade 80 proof liqueur in unmarked plastic bottles. a business man, an army man, and a gringo.

 

"At some point I will have to go back to Uruguay to take care of my brother" says luciana. There are so many crazy people wandering the streets, outcasts because they are denied by their families. I dont ever want to move back to portland and take care of my brother. I rely on the well being of my mother. she must be healthy because she is the only one currently capable of giving Gildevin the care that he requires. She is with Robert. Robert helps astronomically. Maybe she has to stay with him forever, for support. Isnt that why she stayed with Charlie. Charlie Graham Jenkins. I dont know how to write about you because I am still afraid of throwing you under the bus. If I lived forever, I would publish all my books one generation after I write them, to protect the subjects. the characters. how boring.

 

On a plane to Portland. a 6 hour flight turned to 8.. technical difficulties, the girl behind me is a bitch, told me not to lean my chair back. watched a movie about rich white people in India befriending rich Indians and all i can think about is how much of a baby I am. Harsh criticism is always there because it is the environment I know best. A family outing to a film was never a simple endeavor. The main complaint, lack of a strong female character. But for my stepfather, the judgement extended beyond movie time. Friends were never up to parr, my thoughts and opinions were easily brushed aside. The only way to capture his attention was to play his game. I wrote a fictional story about this in high school- I will give it a read when I am home...

I cried three or four times during the movie. The critic is there by association, at heart I am an emotional pitfall. It was my emotions that I desperately attempted to conquer. 

 

I deeply despise dry boogers, a product of fake air and a long flight.

 

And still I deny the emotions. It has always been associated with mania. a manic woman. no control. nobody will take me seriously, nobody will hear me if the emotions get in the way. and so I spend my moments conquering emotion. But there is a difference. When I spoke to my stepfather the tears were a product of pure frustration and hatred. I loathed the way that he treated me, like nothing, screwed into a tiny hole. no escape. He, the universe, gravity, centrifugal force. god. I despise god. How can he claim to own me, conquer me, know what is right for me when he does not listen, when I am a creation of his biding, his desire. How can I hate somebody that has created me, made me. How can I be satisfied with myself if I loath my creator. My stepfather, the creator. told me once through tears, standing above me at my bed side that he was confused, that he loved me so much and wanted to be a good dad. Things were complicated and he just wanted me to love him. I cried with him because I finally had permission. The first and last time I was given the go ahead for tears, not only his approval but also his accompaniment. Never again was I aloud to cry with or near my stepfather. weakness. stupidity. And yet the cry session that we did have, ended in pure disgust. Me, left with putrid rancid horrid stink. desolate. my soul left me. a sack of skin that desired nothing more then to be roasted on the spit. Sex leaves me with the same taste in my god forsaken spit-hole.

 

After crying together, a manipulative gush of rancid agony, he went to his bed (the one he shared with a mother that was very absent in my memory of these moments). His bed, my most dreaded place in the whole house, but holding a position of strong desire. I hid in my room. not a great hiding place, privacy a dirty joke. My mother once promised me a box with a lock on it for my journals, to keep him from snooping. I never got this locked box, and he kept snooping- somehow he new everything, and he enjoyed slyly letting me know. slimy, referencing my private life and watching me squirm in discomfort. such a pleasure.

 

After hiding for a while I felt obligated to go to him. I had to make up for my outbreak. I had to mend it. take care of his feelings. maybe he was embarrassed. maybe i had to take care of him, maybe his well being was my responsibility. maybe he wanted me. please. 

 

he was lying in bed under the sheets. naked was my first thought.

 

He began giving me a massage. my body perpendicular to his body. my head resting on naked belly. my head facing toward his head. the head of his penis poking out of the sheets. lengthening, stretching toward my open drooling mouth. 

 

I can write about this now because he does not exist. He is my memory and that is all. He will never read this. ever. because I am a figment, I am fluff, dust, the silvery substance in the pensive and that is all. Unimportant. He is so deeply important to me, I write a book about him because he is my creator. like god, he does not exist. he is a figment. a hologram. a sense. he is hard. I am hard because of him.

 

He is erect. occasionally he takes one hand from my shoulder and rubs his longing penis. I see his hand rubbing his outstretched penis. directly in front of my open eyes, my open, wet mouth. It feels good. it is pleasure. excitement. adrenalin.

 

"Ok," he says, "that is all for now."

 

"thank yyou" was my response.

 

 

I leaave so that he caan finnish himsself off. 

 

I left you on a good note.

and then I flourished. fun in the sun is what we call it around here. Portland OR. home of the whimsical roses. the easy going hipsters. the unabashed dumbos. the sunburned rednecks, and all the rest that hide in the shadows of your own vision. I cant see you, are you there? Or is it perfect here? a glossy eyed friend says take me back Portland. you are all I want. Fuck New York City. I say, dont be blinded by bliss. What have we done here these days? Camped and danced in Dufer OR. Drugs. Swam in radioactive waters. lazed in others homes, eggs florentine for breakfast/lunch. Drinks, bikes, naked bikes. Drinks. Drugs on the rooftop, third floor. sex. Cards, naked cards, sprawled across your lap. Fingers inside. feel good love. friends. Clean cut coke. family and barbecue.   

 

Then we decompress together at the beach, Juniper and I. Day one at Nehalem state park, my tongue is too big for my mouth. I feel like I am high on heroine, can barely keep my eyes open, tongue too fat to speak. It doesn't matter because you have a lot to say and I just listen, let it seep in. My input will come tomorrow. It does. 

 

Sanne says I have inspired her, to be strong but not hard, vulnerable without taking any unnecessary shit. I feel that. 

 

Juniper talks to me about order and complexity

 

there is beauty in the wild card, freedom of design, celebrating nuance and difference. raising a human on sun rain music and meadows. Portland you radish city, I like your chickens and your masterpiece pies. Random Order. 

 

The money is in NYC and so is the order, or so they say.  Unsaid rules that dictate how to live. as a woman as a man as a human, the money lies in very particular hands. Sure, go crazy they say, but you will adhere to our rules if you wish to make money

 

Sanne: I am basically a combination of jesus and frankenstein, I am willing to die a martyr, while also trying to create the perfect man.

 

the pain, the suffering, crucified, feeling the suffering of the world. taking it on to show the truth. everyone is avoiding the truth. giving in to "the way it is". masterbating to the image of your ex-wife who split up with you 7 years ago. wanting her because you cant have her. but you can have me, why don't you masturbate to me?....

 

why cant you see it from my perspective? ok so you don't. therefore you never will. And so we will never have sex.

 

isn't it your responsibility to research. to learn. to ask questions but also claim that you are a feminist, queer, not straight?

......

 

"men are masochists".

 

......

 

when you say to me, I dont feel guilty for black people that were inslaved, so why should i feel guilty for patriarchy and misogyny, all i can say is you are wrong. you should feel guilty. not on an emotional level, it does not need to effect you emotionally, but it should produce a sense of responsibility. a responsibility to do something about it, to give up some of your power.

 

ask me if you can come inside of me, ask me if i want to fuck without a condom, ask me if i want to fuck at all.

you say to me, "but by asking I am perpetuating my power".

No, by asking you are giving up some of your power. My answer will most likely be one of uncertainty. I go along with it because I am uncertain and there is a possibility that i will enjoy it, or at least get something out of it. the truth of the matter is, I dont want it, fully. I am uncertain. If you ask me if i want it I will tell you that i am uncertain, and then it is up to you to restrain yourself. You fuck me without asking. You fuck me when I am uncertain if that is what I want. You are a masocist. restrain and give up some of the power that is inherent in your gender. a gender that is socially constructed, a gender that you fulfill, a gender that has a particular perspective. You can only see it from my perspective if you make the conscious effort to research feminism, to own it, to stand behind that ethics, to recognize that you are in a place of power. a double standard is not the conversation to be had here.

 

 

defiance

defiance

defiance

defiance

 

(i thought it was five but upon reread, read four).

 

Kathy Acker touched me with defiance at just the appropriate time

injecting the word into my skull

bold disobedience equals fire

I am earth but full fire. 

 

attack! he feels attacked, he takes it personally when i talk tohim about feminism. I say, stop being so emotional about it, stop taking it so personally.

Sanne says men better get ready to be attacked.

 

a great point. learn how take it. you have all the responsibility, why don't you use it. nonsensical nonsense. im attacking a social construct by attacking patriarchy. im not attacking you as an individual, but maybe i am. what are we arguing about, equality. double standard. no matter what, you are in the wrong if you argue against feminism. perspective-the issue- you as a man will always see it from your own perspective as the fool in power. research and responsibility will lead to the lens of the minority, the feminist.

 

after homemade pot caramel and an hour and thirty delay due to a flight attendant injury, i board my jfk plain.

 

Writing. a cure for dreamland. I shut my eyes to find comfort within. staring at the safety instructions on the monitor is driving me crazy. pure distain for the show pony, the brainwash. from brainwash she (my mind) goes to enthusiasm, fake or real. the enthusiasm I have thru the eyes of others. I bounce around your face. a set of teeth. your eyes are on mine. they are fixed.

 

the intelligence is in the eyes. steady eyes steady hand. full dyslexia.

 

portland: a landscape of christmas trees. ornamented with houses.

 

"made hot skins our streets". from Ghouls. 

"as finally I was about to fall asleep realizing love

just dead, my bed and new reigns of chill and pain."

 

You are so caught up in your identity, an identity that encompasses patriarchy, that you believe I am attacking your identity when the attack is on patriarchy. It is not about identity, stop taking it so personally. I attack that which is ingrained in our arteries but can be overcome with knowledge and action. 

 

I am attacking you, but only because you are defending yourself.

 

self reflexive. reflective. 

 

I lie in their bed naked. you strain to hold yourself up. all your weight on your wrists. arms straddling my shoulders. face high above my face tucked between activated muscles. an interesting way to talk about feminism. can i exert my power from below? does your overpowering position provide inherent domination? or does it just make you feel powerful. you are defensive, I can tell every time your muscles engage, bulk, I lose track of your neck. like the pigeon trying to mate with an uninterested party.

 

either you have perfect depth perception or the tip of your beak is extraordinarily strong.

 

can I exert my power from this vulnerable position? arms spread. lips spread. tits to the sky. "why the double standard? It is just as much your responsibility as it is my responsibility to tell me to wear a condom, to say no I dont want to fuck, to say no dont come inside of me... rephrase: to say I am not clean, to say I am not on birth control. Fucked. Because I am clean, and I am on birth control. But I dont know if i want you to wear a condom because I havent gotten that far because I dont know if I want to be penetrated by your penis, let alone have your come inside of me. 

 

This relationship is on your terms because I am not in need. I am asking for one thing, respect. You want pleasure? Then give me respect, show me affection, tickle my tits and maybe I will desire you. Maybe I will let you fuck me. truly let you, from the depths of my desire. but maybe not.

 

me on top. you lying on your back. your hands on my ribs, fingers to cage. lifting the entirety of me, up and down on you. You like to maneuver me so that it feels good for you. I like knowing that it feels good for you, it makes it better for me. Is it a heteronormative relationship? because you are a man, you are bigger and stronger then me, you can and do manipulate my body, you fuck me with your penis. Are you in control? of me? 

 

OF YOURSELF? are you in control of yourself? Can you lose control? DO YOU WANT TO LOSE CONTROL?

 

I do. but I cannot, yet. maybe i can, for a few seconds.

 

How can I fuck you after you say something about not being responsible for the patriarchy and misogyny that plagues humanity? How can I love you after you say it is not your responsibility to fight it. You are passive, but inherently in the dominant role, therefore you are passively dominating. fuck that noise. 

 

How does Sanne fuck men after 52 years of being reminded that men and woman are not equal, that no man respects her fully. that something is not right. always. she always thinks they will change. She wants desperately to be intimate with somebody. To find everlasting love and respect for. from. another human. She found somebody 2 years ago and fell for his vulnerability. She worked and worked and worked at knowing him fully. 

 

S: "I have a bottom line and he does not reach it. But it is possible that he will change." 

 

Sanne, you do not have a bottom line, your bottom line will forever reach new bottoms. you will never settle, you will never be satisfied. your curse and your blessing. your salvation is in the practice. in the game. in the fight.

 

S: "When he is in a good place, he really gets it. I can talk to him about anything and he is on board."

 

Maybe Sanne, Maybe you are slowly molding this human, this man. But it is a life time of work because misogyny is engrained. patriarchy is at the core. inequality is a fact. 

 

Hello men. You are all misogynists. own it and fucking do something about it. 

 

I have faith in a few of us. not a woman's fight. if you are all up in arms about double standard then take a big bite of feminism and get to chewing.

 

you will never own me. 

 

How do I know what to write and what not to write. I know what needs to be in the book and what doesnt. I know the order in which the ideas come, the way they come in go out. flood the page. there are moments of cliche that I let happen, there are moments of cliche that should not happen so I stop myself from writing. I dont know how I know what is necessary and what is not. I do know that there is a purpose to everything I choose not to put down on the page. 

 

there is beauty in the wild card. Yesterday I met a person at Thirdrail Coffee. He told me about a man who had been teaching in Wyoming for 7 years. The person I was talking to was a radio broadcaster for NPR, "so a lot of people will submit self published books to me." The 7 year teacher submitted a book on how to reform the school system. According to him, highschool girls need a dress code to keep them from showing their "anal clefts". 

 

There doesn't need to be a modo in every paragraph. a phrase can stand alone without excess meaning. It is not necessary to wrap it up because a good book is always folding back in on itself while simultaneously moving forward. There is excitement in the trust. I trust that my mind works at a subconscious level, that I know things subconsciously that I could not and will not concretely divulge at this moment in time. the truth will (develop/ blossom become clear, visible..) over time. There is a sneaky way of infiltrating. I am sneaky with my tactics. who cares. not so sneaky after all...

 

I prefer to be alone on holidays. Last night, July 4, was a holiday that I spent alone. with my cat. There are celebratory assets to a solitary christmas. The holidays were always lonely days as a child. charlie brown somehow managed to get the saddest tree in the lot and all of his friends are thoroughly disappointed. there is a sense of disconnect, misunderstanding, that plagues this friendship. That is how I feel on holidays. my sadness and loneliness are better suited for an autonomous day. Giving myself permission to feel the feelings. I dont want to fake bliss. joy comes to me on days that matter most to me, not the rest of America.

 

It comes down to self sufficiency.

 

this could very well be a moment that I should not be writing. fuzz upstairs. can talk quick and easy but my thoughts are intellectually quite dull. 

 

It comes down to equality.

 

Superiority. I feel it in relation to many people. If I can tell that you are dumb then I feel a sense of dismissal. No need. Sometimes I will entertain the idea of possibly extracting the interesting from a dumb one, but it usually doesn't last long. superiority leads to immediate dismissal. man or woman. However

However.

I am more inclined to relate to somebody with feminine tendencies... what is feminine? I relate to people sexually. when I am communicating with somebody it is often a power-play. I catch your attention with my wit, I have power, but you also have power in your way of receiving and of course your retort. If we match one another in our banter then I am curious. I am skilled in the exchange of sexual energy. If you match me at this level, if I match you at this level, the interaction will go swimmingly. easy. childsplay. I am constantly confronted by this sexual energy by men because they are often very outward with it, bombarding me and you with their sex. PENIS. a feminine or perhaps a feminist style is more convoluted, or secretive. sneaky... THE DITZ is potentially my least favorite person. equivalent to THE BRO.

 

The honest to god truth is that yoga makes my mind sharper (this is not a pitch for yoga, but rather for physical activity). It is a physical exertion that mulls the fluids. the heart pumps, blood flows and oxygen enters the brain. The physicality brings clarity without intending it. Post yoga I am entranced in a state of sublime. all body. when the tingles settle, when I enter back into thought mode, it is as if I have just woken from a restful sleep.

 

I do not meet your gaze. It takes a split second to know that you are fucking me with your eyes as we pass each other on bikes. I avert immediately so as not to let you penetrate. but I am aware that I am naked, and I hate you for not asking. 

 

I will turn away in revolt if you bombard me with your sex. make space for me to enter, I will do the same and we can partake in a back and forth- a giving and taking- consensually. Don't get the wrong idea, just because I let you enter my soul does not mean I will let you enter my pussy. Anatomically I cannot enter you, or will not enter you as easily as you do so with me. Why so hesitant when my wet finger approaches your anus? Did you ever think that my vagina is just as vulnerable as your butthole? You have a G-spot back there, you know, it feels really good. You just have to let me in. I'm not going to push it, take your time, but don't fuck me to distract me from your penetration station. Did you ever think about waiting for me to guide your penis inside of me? Is that not a way of giving me some of your inherent power? 

Maybe try it next time, don't fuck her, let her tell you when she is ready to fuck. then, give it to her baby nice and slow... climb on top ride it like you in a rodeo..

 

you are positioned domineeringly over my naked body. we are both naked. we touch and I want you deep inside of me. You obviously want it to, your penis reaches, yearning for me. I hold your hipbones. your hipbones angled into the heel of my palms. Grind against my hands as you press down. exerting force through my bone structure to hold you back slightly. yearning still, you ever so slightly ease off. there is still pressure, pleasure, against stacked bones. I tilt my pelvic bowl toward my navel. I lift my coxes. I willingly open myself up to you. I graze the head of your penis with open labia. I am teasing myself, I know just how I like it. titillating, tantalizing.

 

here you are, left wanting more. as am I. If you get dick heavy, which you most likely will, and you thrust your way in because you want me so badly, you will find the satisfaction that you seek.

I will not.

Is there perhaps satisfaction in wanting more? Or must you always have it all. Just the way you want it.

luciana achugar- we work long hours practicing this; to exist within desire without acting on it. desire, an end in itself. finding pleasure in the minoritarian, never static, never central, desire....

 

Always back to responsibility these days. integrity. I own my responsibility to fight for woman's rights. I own my responsibility to destroy gender binaries. I own my responsibility to fight capitalism from within the confines of capitalism. Shawshank Redemption style. 

 

today you told me your favorite thing about me is my rejection of stress. "not sure how you accomplished that one."

 

It is a full rejection. Because it turns out, we do have a say, we are in control of our own lives, when it comes to feelings. I felt that shit, the stress, the anxiety, the boiling blood, nerves like live electric wires. sizzling. flushed from the internal disturbance. foaming. losing control. yelling, screaming, bloody hell i want to kill. It is a decision to let the furry take over. my own reaction perpetuates what I hate. frantic love. desperation.  desperado. drama is always unnecessary... maybe? it comes from a place of emotion, an emotion that is reliant on another persons stability, or lack of stability. what am I saying... look at journal entry about emotion.. 

 

everything is choppy and stupid. why write when there is no flow? because I want to sit here and do something. something that is mindful and encompassing. a way to question the ways of the world in a productive manor. memory is ephemeral. the written word can last forever. My mind is a wanderer, when I sit and write, there is purpose to the wanderlust. Such satisfaction comes when the words flutter from my fingertips, thank god for that keyboard class in high school. a ten fingered frenzy. that satisfaction of taking up space. blank space becomes full. full of letters, meaning? who knows who cares. meaning is in the in between as well. just as well is that feeling of peace, an equilibrium that flushes the soul. my joints are full of space as my pelvis becomes heavy against the seat. that slow decompression that happens as you lie in bed at night and will your mind to slow. the comfort is in the relaxation of the body. relief. settling thoughts. a melting of the brain, connecting to the fluids, bones, blood, to quote luciana. flow. peace that comes from comfort, ease, relaxation. that moment in the morning when you are between sleeping and waking. still asleep up top, but aware of a blissful body. like a heroine high, only not numb. a rejection of all that is life. "temporary oblivion at best" according to Acker. overpowering stimulation is all that matters when I am high. sex and drama. fucking and fighting. I can feel it, it is all that I can feel. 

 

Kathy Acker has an air of schizophrenia about her. I don't know her personally, but her writing reminds me a great deal of Gildevin's hyperactive awareness. Gildevin once aspired to be a playwright. He put on a production years ago. I never did see it because Sanne cautioned me with intense inappropriate and personal drama. Now that he is crazy, I wish I had seen it. Maybe some foreshadowing of his current condition exists in pretense. his intense, inappropriate personal drama. Regardless, a peek into a schizo's soul must be entertaining. Will you never read my book Gildevin? Will you view this as a personal attack? Or does it give you a sense of relief, knowing that you are loved by me in whatever condition you find yourself in? Am I lacking the drama? is my book too serene because I chose not to delve into the emotions?

 

We were camping at Punchbowl Falls in Oregon, you were surprised when I told you that I have been on a kick of rejecting emotion. "I was so impressed with your ability to over analyze all the intricacies of your own mind." All is not lost Bagel, I am still able to, but now I do it without relating emotionally to all that I analyze. I am a third party , unashamed, unabashed- curious and clever. shut the fuck up. all I am saying is, there is no point in getting worked up. I can say it all without losing my shit. 

 

Men don't take woman seriously when they get all worked up emotionally. Whatever the point maybe, it is invalid when feelings get involved. I know a man that hates arguing because he is overcome with emotion. woman are forgiven because they are woman and they are expected to get their panties in a bunch. When Ned gets emotionally torn apart, he loses a part of his manhood- his maturity. is it a childish thing to let your emotions take over? Makes sense, woman and children are basically the same. 

 

Bagel is on the opposite kick, trying to reconnect with emotion. I have never met a man who is attempting at reconnecting with his emotions. what a breath of fresh air that would be. 

 

The royal fuck

 

calm yourself Iago. 

 

turns out i miss you and your heteronormative love.

 

I have a very particular aesthetic. when I stare at my tits in the mirror, I see big blubbery balloons. I dont particularly take to them, I see them as objects. boobs. there to feed milk to my future babies. sometimes I have a fleeting degrading or self loathing thought, "maybe if I eat less, they wont be so heavy and sore just prior to my cycle." It is but a flutter of a thought, I immediately withdraw my eyes and focus them back on the teeth that I so thoroughly brush. Usually indifferent about my breasts, I find them odd, but don't particularly care. I do however find my bones to be delicately delightful. And my muscles to be far more enticing. My most stunning feature, the webbing that integrates my chest, rivers that run just under the surface of my skin, turning my colour into a patterned map of bluish green.  like an entity with an ecosystem of its own, the functions all interrelated. A waterway, a bloodway, for all to travel.

 

What is manhood. manlyness. manish behavior. what makes you a man? Not a question I particularly care about, but a topic of conversation today with Sanne that lead to an array of important inquiries. 

 

 

Woman's sexuality has been corrupt for generations, feminism needs to figure this out.

 

Sanne: "It is easy to ask for equal pay, or for payed maternity leave, it is not so easy to ask for sexual empowerment,  when the discussion is lacking publicity" (something like that)

To feel empowered sexually, I need a man to turn off his ego, to enjoy the process. If you ask me, if you go back to the way nature created man- im talking prior to societal influence- he was created to take rejection. Look at pigeons, the way the male is constantly puffing up his chest trying to mate with the females. But she will deny him over and over until she is damn well ready. She is either ready or not. Biologically men are used to being repetitively rejected.

 

Nik: I dont know how you can differentiate between what is natural and what is a social construct. What is the point really, these binaries just perpetuate a master narrative that men and woman are supposed to be together to find unity. 

And honestly I have been rejected by people all the time, and well, it was necessary for me to experience that rejection because I could use this assertive nature as a role model. anybody should be able to reject anybody at anytime, and ego should never play a part, because you have to respect what that other person wants..

 

Sanne: Yes, obviously everybody must express their needs, but I am talking about inherent nature. There is an inherent difference between what men and woman need. Men are more constantly ready and woman are more constantly rejecting this sexual confrontation. But the beauty of my theory is that being rejected is also inherent in a man's nature. I am not asking for anybody to change their nature, I am just asking men to sack the propaganda that dictates relationships. Sack the ego and recognize that being rejected is in their nature. 

 

Takes me back to being naked in bed with you.

Before we got naked we sat at a round table in the living room of your temporary apt in the West Village. We talked about consensual sex and bell hooks. We ate fruit salad and I felt like the way my father's girlfriends would have felt when hanging out on his futon cushions, eating sushi take-out and talking about things that feel important.  At a certain point we met each other in your bed and started to kiss. I liked getting naked with you but didnt want your penis inside of me. rejection. You tried a couple of times but I didn't want it, either time. I think you were ok with the rejection. Hard to say, we kept kissing. Maybe I find it easier with you then with people my own age because you are smart enough not to pressure, nah, there is still pressure, but it is light and the rejection is not detrimental. Honestly not a big deal. I imagine my father was respectful in that way also. But I suppose it wasn't so with Sanne and him. I suppose being in a monogamous relationship changes things. the detriment of the overpowering institution. At some point during the naked lounge he said something to me along the lines of, "Funny that we talk about queer ideals and then proceed to have heteronormative sex."

 

This phrase has stuck with me, because I want to argue it, but how, until now. It is consent that allows for a transgression of heteronormativity, it is the ability to say exactly what you want and to be fully respected for it. Creating a safe place to lose control, for all parties involved. (outside the box, bell hooks talk)

 

Nik: I find it interesting that your feminist epiphany adheres to the safety and well being of the mans emotional state.

 

Sanne: Oh but that is not the point at all, that is just a wonderful side effect of this theory!  the point of this whole thing is to get rid of the pressure. I love being desired, but feeling pressure kills everything. So if I can reject a man time after time and never feel pressured then we can both exist in that state of desire and it can grow, and the sexual affection will last.

 

She brings it back to pigeon talk, 

 

"A male pigeon is not going to have an identity crisis when the female rejects him."

 

I find this to be a funny image.

 

Nik: Sure but you are talking about rejection within relationships no? A male might get hooked on a particular female for a few minutes, but we are talking people that commit themselves to one another to a certain degree.

 

Sanne: Yes, that is the thing, the relationship becomes an institution. We are brainwashed by these master narratives. The church subjugates woman right? Under every man is a woman; if he listens to her needs, he is less then a man, he is less then a woman, A man that lets a woman lead! Once you fall into a relationship, you are wrapped up into the responsibility of following the rules. A full rejection of inspiration. Every institution copies the hierarchy in place, this is brainwash, implemented to keep the system in tact and avoid change. His thought process, even if it is a subconscious one is, 'I can sleep with her whenever I want, now that we are together.'

 

Nik: He has the right to fuck his woman. 

 

Sanne: If she has sex with him when she doesn't want to, there is masochism at play. He is hurting her and she is hurting herself because she is not saying no. If she refuses him whenever she pleases, he will get over his hurt as a product of rejection. He will begin to look up to her, will be excited about the future. The man wants her to say no until she is ready. Stop fucking compromising!

 

Nik: Ok, but take my most recent sexual endeavors with a heterosexual cis gendered man for example. Half the time I don't know if I want to fuck or not. If I had been asked, I would have said 'I don't know" which would be read, by any two respectable people, as, not now. However, because I was not asked, and I was uncertain, I let him, somewhat forcedly, enter me. There is so much confusion surrounding the concept of literally being penetrated. Especially when you are trying to be easy going...

 

funny

 

We are in bed together, your fingers are inside of me, you force the breath out of me and then I have to take a breather. Your mouth is on my vulva, it is a fantasy just to watch you eat me out. I could take that for hours, so safe, relaxing, stimulating. You leave me wanting more, I wonder why? Is it because your mouth is tired or is it because I am not giving you enough feedback? Or maybe it is because you are anxious to stick your dick in me? to come? Are you under the impression that you could make me come quicker a different way? You cant. In fact, I like repetition, it relaxes me, gives me a sense of calm that I need to open up, to explode in your mouth. Please, putme in a trance.

 

Nik: What I am trying to say is that the dick always comes too soon, but it always comes after he has been pleasing me for a while so there is a part of me that longs for it, that wines for it, but what I want is to be denied access, because like you said, it is that desire, that longing that turns me the fuck on. turns out I like being teased, and teasing.

 

It happened once, the denial of the dick. I was wearing red corduroy overalls atop white bedding in an all white bedroom. He enters the room and turns on a red lightbulb to the right of the bed. the room is otherwise empty. "Welcome to hell" he says. and goes in for the kill, I am caught in a whirlwind. At one point I am pulling his penis toward my vagina and he says, "we cant, I just used my last condom, we will have to pretend." and again with the whirlpool. He has long slender fingers. Eventually I ejaculate, literarily squirt into his right hand. He rolls over me, I look into his eyes, bewildered, and I fall asleep. pure. I tried to get in bed with him many times after, but to no avail. Actually once in Switzerland we slept together, but we were sharing a twin bed two feet from another twin bed occupied by my choreographer, luciana achugar, bless her. So we stayed safe.

 

Nik: I guess what I am really trying to say is that Im not always so sure if I want it or not. In that case, give me time to ask for it.

 

So I consider my responsibility. Repetitive rejection until I am certain that I want it, or repetitive rejection until I lead him inside of me.

 

And I consider his responsibility. Taking repetitive rejection with ease, trying again and again but without a sense of pressure. As we do in Qi Gong when we practice healing sounds, for the heart, you breathe in joy, and exhale hastiness. Exhale Hastiness.

 

Sanne: Men need to give up control.

 

Nik: How?

 

Sanne: Sex is a safe place to lose control- or should be. Perverted sex is all about control because people don't know how to create a safe environment. Men are dominant so there is a power-play right off the bat. If a woman wants to feel dominant during heterosexual sex, she has to control the situation. The inherent power dynamic dictates this necessity to control the situation. Men are not used to following the lead; to look at her and gauge what is next.

 

He can help her hesitate.

 

If your manliness is perpetuated by your ability to be in a state of suspense. To enjoy the suspense without acting on it. 

 

Nik: I guess I would prefer to say your strength is perpetuated by your ability to be in a state of suspense...

 

Sanne: I am talking about that good old phrase, 'think with your head, not with your dickhead'.

 

Nik: The absurdity of what it means to be Manly. Dictated by the institution.

 

Sanne: Exactly, he doesn't have to change his nature, he needs to get out from under the oppression of the institution.

 

But really, Enough with gender binaries for a while. 

 

Elegy. Ode to art. Mine. 

 

Sucked into a basement scene. Who knows what I am really doing down here with the the hip hip music. Staring at a decrepit wall and a... Stage? A piece of raised plywood. This is how I do. The greatest. The aggression. I'll strike the mirror as I dance in front of you and hate everything I see. But I must avoid aggression at all costs. Is that the sign. Was that the message that you injected into me? Laughing at the poetry. Hate. Blood. Tears. But can aggression have finesse? Can I do it well? Or is it all wrong? Hatred. For my own body. Hatred for me.no words necessary. Suppress the truth and I can overcome. Alone. Because nobody cares because every woman feels but denial is real. Avoid the reality for simplicities sake. Get back to work. You paid for this studio. Art it out. Hatred. Too much to eat to drink one beer a corona and I am belligerent inside. No control the fangs tear thru tissue. Let it come thru blue fingertips. Only thumbs. In front of me you are huge. I grasp you in two hands and I feel the fury. I want nothing to do with me. Take me outside of myself. You are separate from me. God bless you. Not a soul to understand. But a body and a brain that expand beyond the body proper. You are everything.

 

The expansion is with me today. I am too big for my body. I am confined within these physical boundaries that are squished into this form by the eyes that bare down upon me. I am only this shape because you make me so. You see the boundaries that confine me to this shape, and I am a slave to your enclosure. Today I am so much bigger then you see me. I will not be confined to your image of me. you are not interested in my grandiose. therefore why shall I be interested in you. What you see when you look at me are the boundaries that separate me from it all. my boundaries are so much bigger then what you see. you don't see me, you see what everybody else sees. boundaries that entrap me, that keep me contained. you do not see me as I am. grand. expansive. grandiose.   

 

I will not let your image of me be my confines. I will expand beyond what you see. you will not know how to look because you will not be able to see me. all of me does not fit into your confined image of me. I am greater then you believe me to be. I will take up so much space. so much that I must hide because I will frighten you if you look. I must hide in my home where I am safe to be huge. New York, let me be huge. you will not confine me to these boundaries. I am grandiose.

 

If you are actually interested. fine, look. but you better be ready to chew what you bite. don't choke. or do and die.

 

A headache. my brain beating at the dome of my skull. swelling. too big for the cranium. escape thru the spinal cord (where the cranium and the spine meet?) No escape through the top. no openings. must trickle down. breathe. let her out. let her soar. let her travel. out. Not enough space in there. A bone should not contain an organ so obsessively. at least the ribcage has windows. 

 

At one point i didn't give a shit. all that comes to my brain is stupid. nothing worth putting on the page. imagine a typewriter, what a glorious endeavor trying to edit the documents that are unsheathed from that devise. what a horror. Injected today with Novocain. A twang of pain in my upper jaw followed by a full flush down the front of my thighs. The dentist said to rinse, but two eyes turned to one, is that called tunnel vision. I experienced it, dizzying, but kinda fun. Adrenaline she said, when she came back into the room, "next time ask me to give it to you without the adrenaline."

 

The headache is still lingering. Hazy at this point in the day, everyday around 4pm. earlier is when it starts. My neck is constantly stiff. biking too much? And I don't think I eat enough, but I'm just a bit confused. I HATE FEELING FULL. But i get dizzy and crave food. who cares. enough is enough. 

 

PULL IT TOGETHer

 

Fried Chicken tonight. I wish I had green beans. 

 

meaningless meaningful.

 

No I cant visit you? your loss then.

your loss

yourloos

yourloos

yourloss

 

the way you talk is impressive, you are also insane, not a very good story teller. 

 

you on the other hand sometimes sputter, but story time with you is entrancing. 

 

I CANT PULL IT TOGETHER

 

Fried Chicken is on my mind. So hungry in my mind. what would my belly say? gimme rice. no. i dont want to cook. or spend money money money. loans loans loans. I will not repay. fuck off.

 

Dear Laura,

 

I know nothing of the words that spill from my ink pen. They cover all surfaces. Words that are too many to comprehend. Is there a point- or two or three- to this mad mess of nonsense.

If meaning in not my care then why do I choose the most literal of all forms? 

Words. Body. Structure. Are they two extremes? My body art and my word art?

 

[what the fuck is body art and word art?]

 

I don't need meaning because I am given enough pleasure and satisfaction when I do the work. But when I dont... When I spend a day accomplishing neither- I am useless- a beached jelly fish- pointless- transparent... All I see is the other side. Sand. Rocks. Sea.

Maybe if I could swim.

 

Why am I always dissatisfied? Do not answer it. I know this a nonsensical (stupid?) question. No point. Ever. In anything. And yet I continue to do all of the things that I want to do. I am not following rules of conduct. But am I worth it? am I worth my own time? am I worth anybodies time? yes well I don't mean an hour or two here and there- I mean 

Full. UNDIVIDED. ATTENTION. For hours. and again for hours. And again. My name. Who cares. I know you do. But you get it. The things that can be gotten without effort. I don't want to force anybody to listen. If you care then you will hear me.

 

Not many care. Or maybe that is an excuse to avoid. Avoid showing, sharing, letting people seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee 

 

I just have so much hatred. It hurts to always deny.

 

I dont what to do it any old way. I want to do it my way.

 

HELL P

 

these are words and that is all. in fact.

 

I Attended a workshop two days ago, no need to divulge the social worker/ movement therapist's name, she was pretty bad. A farce, a fake. a blond ponytail and Lululemon. I was blown away by the extent in which the participants of the workshop seemed to be fully taken by her led movement practice. 

 

It began with a stationary meditation, then a moving meditation, and finally a meditation with music. Her best advise came early on, "notice if you are drawn to thought, emotion or sensation." 

 

Everything is sensation for me these days.

 

At one point, upon her request, I turned my attention outward, took in my surroundings (bad plan) and noticed everybody's "transcendent" state- slightly squinted hazy eyes, chest lifted, arms outstretched, palms to the sky- the ingredients for a spiritual experience. I considered that I was in a room of liars and got unwarrantedly angry about it all. 

 

Last night over a bottle of wine in Prospect Park and Modest Mouse happening behind a fence, I asked Eleanor if I should go to traditional "spoken word" therapy for my repressed anger... "Girl don't sell yourself short! Your anger is not repressed." Thank the fucking lord.

 

HETEROPHOBIA 

I definitely suffer from it.

 

There is nothing that scares me more then sstraight white men. Cant even say it without stuttering.  The fear is paired with desire. ultimately a fear of myself and how I relate.

 

Dear Baglette,

 

Sick on a sweltering day, so incorrect. Is it fever or sun blisters?

The cold shower barely relieves me.

 

Have been thinking about you since returning home...

So much cross over in our separate paths- thank god. Such a thin layer of ice leaves me sometimes stranded in the pool. alone.

All of us still so young, malleable- but molding ourselves in so many ways. Seeing the mold that you are working on- so strong, such an artist- helps to solidify my own. Or just add a few layers.

 

Writing from delirium. Heat stroke. A full layer of phlegm between cranium and brain. Through my nose, the only escape.

 

More and more I think about the necessity of seeking out a queer lover. Not that I am currently looking, but the knowledge that I am most commonly pursued by straight men.. And if I ever want to dedicate time and energy to a lover, I may need to put forth some effort in finding somebody that shares my ideology.

 

However, I have also been thinking about my constant effort in integrating heteronormativity- more specifically straight people- into queer culture...

 

And my most pressing question is the search for a word other then queer..

transgressive..

any ideas?

 

Anyway, all I am saying is that I would like to fuck somebody who studies and practices feminist/ queer politics as much as I do. Too much to ask? 

 

Oh but my legs and my brain. and everything hurts.

What I'm really saying is, I can't fuckin live w/o YOU!

 

 

 

A SPIRAL

 

begin at the tip. With Beethoven, Grosse Fugue and Glenn Gould on Bach- self confident triads supporting very insecure sequences- in the early years when he caught on to a phrase he liked he just kept devaluatingthe currency using it again and again as a sequence. he just coined it and couldn't stop. This particular Fugue had a B A C H subject on a german keyboard. Gould relates this piece to some of his toccatas, and early organ work in their sequential hangups. From the beginning, Bach had intensity, but not until his forties was he able to integrate this intensity with a real fugal craft.  An example of integration would be his e major fugue from the second volume of..  whatever.

He doesn't try to cater to an instrument in any way so there isn't a waisted note, a superficial note, everything is material to the material, everything absolutely grows out of the original subject. The original six notes which started it all, even the first counter theme.  because that counter theme is just a transposition of the subject. after he gets through the exposition, the exposition where every voice has its say once, he gets to the incredibly convoluted strata overlaps. developed in tandem, they modulate together. Continual in repetition of subject and countersubject.  just incase anybody missed the point.

 

You are attractive, alluring, sexy because of your jokes, a simple and easy sense of humour. self confidence and ability. Your ability to uphold a conversation but also your ability to be frank, I mean fred, ted? I like the nuances of your brain, your references are from facts, jokes, all things external from yourself, with the exception of your penis. "you know what I like about you? You match me." I follow this statement with an attempt at a take down. Met with a strong body, agility and ease. grace. strength. Met with physical endurance, but can you take my harsh tongue, my dry bitter wit, my devilish lash out. My morbid mind. without getting hurt, emotional, sad, offended. insecure. 

 

Defensive.

 

If you feel the need to defend yourself then you are not listening to what I have to say. I am not attacking you for the sake of attacking you. 

 

I read a bit to Sanne yesterday over the phone. Who are you addressing in your writing? she asked, well, the reader in a weird way, but more specifically White Supremacist Patriarchy.. "good, somebodies got to do it." 

Thanks mom, for the support.

 

Sanne: If my partner is truly on my side, if we are in it together, we are not on opposing sides of a battle field. 

 

Fuck the battle of the sexes. 

 

Sanne: If we are on the same side, there will be no problem saying no when I am hesitating. 

 

Fuck the battle of the sexes.

 

Sanne: The secret is, I want to be a fucking butterfly, and he should be too. Everybody should be a butterfly.

 

Fuck the battle of the sexes.

 

Sanne: I like my theory because it works for the man and the woman. I don't want to have sex when I don't want to, but the "fuck off" method is not the only way. I say fuck off and everything becomes his problem, I prefer to figure it out together. So let's figure this out because

 

Fuck the battle of the sexes.

 

Sanne: It is in his nature to withstand rejection, I am asking men to be comfortable in their own nature as opposed to fighting it. It gives me hope because I am not asking him to change his nature, so working together is a possibility. Everything that hurts woman also hurt men. We are all getting screwed, but men are in power so they don't feel the urgency of figuring it out. 

 

Bennington Vt. a-get-a-way

and a poem to entice fellow artists in residence.

 

There is activity at the surface of my eye balls.

Dodgy activity out the periphery.

Residual

The trees and wind ask me to relax

Calm down

Gentle

A poem about adapting

Surrounded in luxury

They speak louder w/o Words.Step inside like a

pool of water

Cool

Down

Here

 

Now an afternoon nap. In the pool of fresh water, inside the house, open the front door. refreshing. 

A

Action

Is everything

 

10 panels of blue 10 feet above me a degradation from washed out to saturated. Frame the skyscape. Last night pillow talk she told me that my work is specific and slovenly. 

Integration. Create a web that is not seen. Felt thru interpersonal connection. Cuz we takin ova.

 

4 of us in Bennington to create something. Me choreographing, mor dancing, Amalia dancing, Monica filming. Dedication to a form. A slovenly specificity. Amalia is good with her words and mor picks up on unseen hilarities. Monica asks questions that make me want to answer them. All in the land of luxury. An estate, the McCullough house with space and windows, fresh beets cabbage onions summer squash carrots herbs. And tahini. Three woman obsessed with tahini.

 

Yesterday evening summer sun we jumped into the lake and slid down the "waterfall"- a damn covered in algae. I dove in and the other two attempted to follow suit. Oh what a drag to be an adult in the presence of other adults while attempting such a simple thing as a dive. Not for the humility, watch if you want to, but rather to be taught "how too" by every god damn person in the vicinity. I would never take it upon myself to teach a stranger to dive, unless the request was specifically directed at me, and then well.. If they were cute I'd consider it.

 

Amalia milked it. She made her fear known. Mor, initially with a superlative, "I can't dive, my body just won't do it," was quiet watching but was the first to fall in, head first. A head jump in Hebrew. Amalia toppled in seconds later and was thoroughly congratulated by her many teachers. And then we went in three at a time from the dock. Head jumps and belly flops.

 

Your little feet working the machine.

 

3 woman that talk about art. That talk about money. That manually drive a car.

 

Yesterday over a roasted chicken you both agreed on an eversion to claiming the title artist. So self riotous. Like a god above everybody else. Inaccessible to the average person. My definition of an artist is somebody that has recognized that they experience the world differently then the mainstream dictates it. It is recognition but it is also taking the responsibility in your own hands to stay on your own track without succumbing to the brainwash. An artist is somebody who sees it their way and they cherish that, celebrate it and potentially share their way of experiencing the world as a counter to mainstream jargon that perpetuates tunnel vision. An artist rejects the everyday bombardments of hipsterdom- we are all the same-. You are no longer an artist when you give in to expectations.

You are opposed to all people that call themselves artists who have commodified themselves or their work. To sell oneself to the very thing that art is meant to reject. Capitalism. To commodify your art is to give in to the system. To lose integrity. I am an artist because I do not make a living wage with my art. I am not at the whim of supply and demand, my art is not driven by the economy.

 

But really, no need to resist. maybe just recognize? Yes I am capitalizing on my art work, my work is capital, thank you very much.

 

The image stuck w me. HETERONORMATIVITY:

 

 A couple, a man and a woman, sitting maybe. They are white, maybe my mother and step-father. His gaze angled down slightly to see her face. smug and content with his joke and her reaction. Her face directed up at him, open laughing, vulnerable, in love. She is engulfed in his presence, his wit and his charm. 

 

He may be infatuated with her beauty but the photographer, the observer, would never be able to tell. She might say something funny but he is too composed. too suave. to show his emotions, his joy, his delight in her joke. He must not egg her on. He must put up a wall, he must not give her the satisfaction of his pure engulfment in her whit, He must put up a front for those witnessing, he must look to be in control of himself, the situation, her? yep.

 

Maybe you are flamboyant in private, just the two of you in bed, you put on her leggings and laugh hysterically because you are overjoyed. Because she is a genius in her own sneaky subtle way.

 

So get excited when she pulls a fast one in public. Let yourself go. let yourself be vulnerable.   EGO

 

we talked together about intimacy, she asked me all of the questions that made me consider my vulnerability, "how often do you feel confidant?" "what do you mean by heteronormativity?" and last night, "is sex negative for you?" -the emptiness, the revulsion, the disgust- yes, most of the time. "where does it come from?"

 

Charlie used to plan his showers in accordance with mine. I attempted to shower only when he was out of the house, or locked in the tv room with the piano. He always new, would knock on the door when I was yearning for privacy. No privacy with Charlie. If he wanted to be a part of it, he was a part of it, no matter my dread, fear and loathing. 

 

Charlie: Can I come in?

 

all organs wash down the drain with the rain water. Cant feel anything because the water is too hot. But i hate my body, my flesh. I am revolted by my vagina, the heat, a stirring of my desire. I am disgusting. I want to feel it, the swelling of my clit, the release of my perineum, the warm flush. not on my terms, you have control over my sex, my intimacy, my privacy.

 

in furry, in pain, in agony in disgust. Helpless

 

N: yeah.

 

join me in the steam. There is a bit of space left open between the wall and the shower curtain. I don't try to close the curtain because I don't want him to hear. I don't want him to think that I am trying to avoid him, please don't be angry. everything is in your hands, your terms. I will pay for it later.

 

He has only a towel around his waist. naked white flesh. black coarse hairs. freckles. 

 

Charlie: I need to take a shower, can we just switch to save water?

 

not a question.

I know the routine.

 

hotbetween my legs.

 

N: yeah, im almost done. 

 

He removes his towel. I avoid. avert my gaze. hide my eyes I will not look at you

 

 

What if I reject the touch? a question that I ask luciana after an extraordinarily sensual 'pile and rub'. Also known as the skin thing, a practice of sensually touching skin to skin. touching without asking is Mahalchik's version. The idea being to become a skin body, a skin brain that is drawn to, activated by, sensation. move into pleasure, pleasure is indulging in the touch. the sensation. 

 

But what if my body, my skin, my psyche rejects the touch? 

 

luc: Maybe I have been listening too much to this Buddhist shit but this guy that leads my meditations would say to feel it, accept it and move through it.

 

...it's a good question tho, because the practice is to be in pleasure, but sometimes sensual touching isn't pleasureful.

 

N: I am talking psychological tho, not just physical. If I feel a rejection of a particular touch, then to recognize it and allow myself to feel it and move through can easily feel passive or submissive- not reactions that I find particularly pleasurable.

 

It makes me think about control. In the sense that through a sensorial collective skin brain, I can often relinquish control over myself because I feel that everybody is doing so. But when I reject a particular touch, my proposed reaction would not be to move away and deny that touch, nor to passively allow it, but rather to regain a sense of control.

 

luc: How?

 

N: energetically through more combative touch, rougher, slightly more aggressive touch.

 

Fine. Great. Yes. aggravated sensuality is part of the practice. sensual pleasure comes in all kinds of qualities. 

 

It was a talkative day in the studio. I took advantage of the small group, Oren, Mahalchik, Peter, and I, by demanding luciana's attention- asking all of the questions that circulate my soul and might pertain less to the others.

 

I love the way she says "the others".

 

After waisting some time playing with shapes- drawing shapes in the sand, luciana brought up Devotion; Sara Michelson's devotion to a mathematical form that results in emotionless dance phrase work. DD Dorvilier. 

 

luc: as if the mathematical mind is hierarchically better

 

N: But any mathematical form that humans think up to understand form is always going to be asimplification of reality because the actual forms and structures that make up the universe are so much more then we could ever actually comprehend through mathematical equations. 

 

luc: it is a rejection of the body and the emotions.

 

But I also reject emotions. 

 

And then we got into it. And after a while we came to a simple but lofty conclusion. Emotions not from the brain, not institutionalized emotions, not a theatrical act of emotions, not the emotion that makes drama between people. not drama that is unresolvable because it is a farce, an act, an expectation. But rather... the emotion of the muscles. the emotion that exists in the meat of each of us as we accumulate our own experiences, the experiences of our ancestors, and everything in between. 

 

I punch the meat of my thighs. emotion is embodied. but can be understood and worked through. It does not take over. it is not all consuming because it is a part of our physicality not an ideology that seems grander in volume and purpose then our own bodies. 

 

N: I'm glad we figured that out

luc: Good thing we are doing the same piece. 

 

with a bit of relief.

 

today I saw my bones and my heart. my own bones. I saw them and felt them. recognized that I have my own bones that have their own shape and their own function. 

 

not an image of your bones, the proper bones. my bones dont look just like yours, they are different from your bones. and my heart. what a dense pumping fist of cellular fluids. 

 

You are the Harbinger of Death.

 

The intention has been to write these thoughts for- for the last three days. but I had Things to prepare for. Events. Now sitting in the airport- Terminal 4 JFK- like a cafeteria with fake marble floors and overpriced everything. Most definitely the cheapest possible dinner- banana and a side of peanut butter, $2.36, I think I have done well for myself. The family near me- a family of four- each with a ten dollar sandwich, a ten dollar yogurt parfait, and a bruised apple. Never will I ever. 

 

Here early with the intention of writing, but two hours before take-off all of a sudden feels daunting. and I am cold. and bloated. What the hell. time to get into the groove. a relay. Im not racing, I steadily make my way to the finish line. married to the devil. maybe already there. In a sense I move backward in time; from darkness to light. 

 

Sensitive. It hit me two days ago. an entity in space left behind. watching from stagnation as the universe spun forward. me: defeated. I felt the wind but could react to nothing. Just eyeballs in space. 

 

Depleted serotonin should only happen as a punishment. If I take heroin, for all intents and purposes- fuckin deplete me- I deserve it. But when she arrives out of the BLUE. it makes me wonder why I didn't take the drug in the first place.

 

Finally I ate. a big plate of food. mole with chicken rice corn etc. and the dead pan gloss over turned to emotion. It was a relief to feel. The feeling was sad. But sad is far better then numb. numb feels like forever- sadness oscillates. there is movement in emotion.

 

My eyes begin to dry and my lids heavy- the slight insanity of a long trip is sinking in. awake in the mind with a tired, deprived body. would love to fall into caring arms.  safe to close my eyes. to let the organs sleep. 

 

And then papa called. At last, after many days (weeks?) of not responding to my attempts at communication. Finally I could place my sadness- ground it in reality- a depressed father, giving up on life at 56.

 

I complained later to Sanne over the phone,

 

N: the saddest part is having to let go, remove myself, disconnect from somebody that I wanted so desperately to love. 

 

On cue she gave me a taste of my own medicine.

 

Sanne: Take it as it comes, maybe you dont have to disconnect, just recognize him for who he is, and love that which you can easily love.

 

Yes. I must not get ahead of myself.

 

lets take a step back- papa. 56. an immigrant. Pushed the boundaries. the expectations of a conservative Bukharian family- the oldest of three, married an Austrian catholic, moved to Portland and kinda said "fuck you" to expectations of responsibility. There is inspiration in that. 

 

And for him, much regret in the realization that one cannot run away forever. Or that running away becomes very lonely and depressing when physicality and health begin to catch up. Sure, I get it, Your only son is crazy- schizophrenic- depressed. He destroys you with his harsh tongue, knowing just the buttons that will detonate. But you once told me the best advise. I did not fully understand then, but I am beginning to. "the best way to help somebody is to be a good role model."

 

What kind of role model are you? You are in no way fit to care for a son. You never were. not to my knowledge- And I am realizing now, that nothing has changed. The world has always been too hard for you. I am sorry. I love you for your lovable traits, and I move beyond the rest. no need to get caught up. 

 

In Paris. just for a few days. full tourist activities. what ease in this city. small in distance. bustling like Mrs. Weasley. 

always bustling.

 

I gave in today and we both bought tivas. platform tivas like hospital boots. Four broken feet. Gillian Walsh and I. 

 

There is ease in the city, but also ease in our conversation. An understanding in our prose. Do they make sense, or just to one another. Turns out we have very similar taste. 

 

Yesterday at the Louvre. 13, 14, 15th century Italian art.

 

My dreams- the moments before sleep where of a file cabinet, fresh from the days endeavors. recently tucked away. not yet tucked away. many paintings were in fact discarded as I rifled through them. There were two however, that made me hot. from the early fifteenth century- Florence- these two stood out from the rest. the canvas taken over by infinity; concentric circles from bottom to top and on and on. 

 

Gillian: Theatre, God, Geometry- my favorite topics.

 

A masterpiece. Caught my eye from many miles away- the Louvre is huge- a different texture from the rest. Like a tapestry from far away in its intricate softened edge detail. Rings of clouds covered in the divine with infinite backdrop of angels. Holding court - court of the gods. The top rung- all bearded of course- hold court. The four of them look out at you, the voyeur- or gracefully to their disciples. But the grace is not the point, nor the beards. 

 

Theatre. God. Geometry. ----- the divine. 

 

my body as the divine. sacred. Rousseau says the contemporary scoffs at the Sacred, a flattening of the divine. Maybe a reappropriation. 

 

what does it actually mean to appropriate.

 

In the banquet hall in the basement at the infirmary. nah, a convent. downto the river in the grave. guitar strings for vocal cords. a poor woman's song. not a space for dance. the floors dusty and splintered. A banquet hall with dusty sheeted table cloths, two pianos and singers. 

 

After spending the afternoon in the sun with a string of symbols, the explanation of form in relationship to Engel, Escher and Bach- it is time to be alone with the circles. the orbits of concentric thought. nature vs. object. what Am i talking about with sweaty palms and cold feet. the tingle of high places, perched on the windowsill. The medium between Parisian countryside andinner convent walls. No need for a screen. To feel welcome in such seclusion. A world that is not often open to a tourist- I am given access as what? an artist. a girl. a dreamer of travel and far away land. What is beyond the linden leaves. Yelling in english. you are not welcome. and yet you are. the parody that are your politics. As the cult leader- are you honest to your truth or is your truth irony?

 

You invite a type of girl that falls for your languid language. your charm and your whit. but you are condescending 

 

I sit on the windowsill. the medium between the Parisian country side and you in bed- exhausted from 5 hours of Spangberg rehearsal. You are beautiful. a witch splayed in her death bed. 

 

N: i fucking hate jazz honestly.

 

YOur skin falling into the earth 

 

G: I just cant deal with a free horn jazz

 

your crown of hair holds the turmoil. ridding you of the responsibility. 

 

giggle and again. because I feel happy when you do. I am perfectly content in this moment. and you are too. I can tell. 

 

Me in all of your clothes because XL Airway France lost my bag at one point or the other. Luck to be in your clothes and nobody else's.

 

Spangberg: Could be anyones clothes, but Gillian's. Amazing.

 

In that beautiful tone that I love so much. 

 

You say that Danceweb confirmed many of your preconceptions. You knew the politics and the ideology before hand, but the experience is the solidifier. I stare at the steeple because it is the perfect image. I do not care for expectations. I do not care for status and I do not care for reputation. I want to see you for who you are. Interesting. For what you are. stunning? 

 

Don't play with me. Well, do, but don't think that I am not aware. I will play back, Or maybe I will not partake in the game, but rather fuck you out of sincerity. 

 

You love the act of dominating. the image. but you desire too, destruction. 

 

 

After a morning glory. what is your story. It is different now. my knowledge of you. Under the theatre of the divine. Again on my windowsill I watch nothing go by. two birds fighting. mating. in the tree. the ones that coo, they are here too, like the birch that extracts water from your system.  I am not a canary, and this is not a coal mine. I feel like perfection. A feeling that seeps. from my organs. The bone marrow is sacred. beautiful in oversized sweatsuits and platform tivas. smart over pillow talk with you this morning. and I feel content with purity. solitude among friends. colleagues. like Madeleine, I search fascinated by the moss. looking to the distance but in complete contentment. in my being. the present is here and the feelings are great. Real emotion has manifested. It is there and I am aware of it. because there is space. to. feel.

 

and you talked to me about the constant fight. not yours, because you believe that there are other ways to inflict change. Me however, I fight alongside black people to dismantle white supremacy. You say it doesn't need to be a rejection of particular people and that if ever you join the discourse, you can say nothing but yesyesyes unless you want to be attacked. I say that that is a lame excuse. 

 

Do your reading.

 

The same thing I tell everybody. 

 

Read a black feminist author. read Octavia Butler. Or shit, I told you to read bell hooks last fall. a full year ago. Read it and decide where your politics lie in relation to these perspectives. There are multiple angles. Get involved only if you have done your research and can understand empathize and find the noteworthy necessity of the cry out. 

 

My luggage has been found. it is still floating around somewhere at JFK. Decked out in a 'horse in the sunset' sweatshirt and louie v undies. I am compiled in Gillian and Marten. And what satisfaction the love and generosity and affection and protection brings me.

 

who knows what I am doing here in the bigstudio with smoke and a background of clouds. with lights and speakers and a leaf blower, 

 

Gentle is how you have been describing Chris Kraus in Art... There is something gentle in the honesty of insanity.

 

not all brilliant. but there is joy. or something there. generative. or something.. I had to move the writing to my other side as Sura Hertzberg comes to sit next to me. the Julian Weber is over and the overhead lights are on. 

 

an absolutely horrendous idea of participation. but you are so dominant and the things that are happening are so pointless. 

 

you say it daunts you but when you come to me and tell me that I look bored. you- let the ruler the stick move you. I say no I am not bored. I like the fact that I do not have to move in a major way, I can just watch the piece from the inside.

 

there is no sense making of it. not a parade. Somewhat sci-fi. 

 

I prefer to keep my distance. I like intimacy in privacy. I want to hear you from a far as you speak. take charge. lead the cult.

 

This work intrudes on your space of integrity... not like the normal indigo group.

 

We found the perfect bench and suddenly it is pouring. writing with the Ukulele because we reside peacefully under a mushroom tree.  the sounds of rain on flattened photosynthesis. there is distance to this sound while the fat droplets that make it through the trees are nearby. with the singing lady next to me. to the left of me I hear her quiet beauty. her single sounds. the intimacy of being alone. with another person next to her on the bench. she is alone with her music. feeling her feelings. And me, I am not feeling anything and yet everything is rushing pounding flowing generating pleasantries. 

 

She asks me about depression as the sun lights up the neighborhood.

 

Nik: Yes. of course. i have been depressed for most of my life. but as a child I didnt know the meaning of the word. The true analysis of my reckless tendencies did not develop until late college. or maybe it began as a sophomore when I completely cut out alcohol. or maybe before that. No It was the alcohol that was unbearable only because I was

 

wont you open up your eyes.

 

look around round round.

 

using heroine. addicted to. numb. sat alone on a living room couch, staring off into space. but the dreamland does not hit me anymore. I don't want the pain. but I will not escape through the numb. Instead there is the present way of being in the moment- within the pleasure of a situation. thinking only of the work that is being done. 

 

She asked the preacher to say somethin so so it wouldn't be long

 

But the preacher is my own soul my being that guides me to divinity. a handful of dust doesn't lead to the solidity of sustainable satisfaction that I feel from reaping the earth and tending to the livestock.

 

The numb was desired only because I felt too much. Too much what tho? I was strung up on a loom connected to gears. I was I was energetically distraught. caught between all people that I lovedand simultaneously hated. love always existed with pure hatred. anger. not at the person but at myself. I was strung up and strung out. pulled in every direction as i empathized with all of your emotions. I had no boundaries. no understanding of the grace that comes when boundaries are put in place. Not to close off, but to be my own person with my own feelings separate from your energetic demands. 

 

strung up and strung out. the counter action was numb. ness. full removal. displacement of my soul. 

 

This morning you called me a saint.

am I. a saint from the depths of the underworld.

you are writing a novel and you say it must be pointless. like a waiter at a cafe witnessing the stories of the tourists, the locals, the rambling artists and the desperate bankers. the hungover and the hangloosers. the conversations, the stories are overheard, partially, fully, you might get just one joke, or maybe you get a full play as the couple decides to make out a little before a dramatic dispute involving a full glass of water and a split paycheck left for one. Pointlessly glorious. gloriously pointless. No need to be read but anyways will be.

 

You intrigue me comfortably in your ability to love. Almost as if it is an ability outside of me. separate from me. I say that I feel your love, I speak of something that is not needy. It is all me and yet I am not the only woman in your arms. Your love is plentiful in its generosity. Your arms squeeze me when I need to be protected. held. confined. and your arms release me when I need space. space. space. When I am quiet you are silent. When I ask for silence you are quiet. when I am tough you are an animal. when I am an animal you are energetic. You listen to me when I am the one in your bed. but you listen because you are capable. because your love is not needy. I put up with nothing because you force nothing. your agenda is to feel me. and that is the extent.

 

but i feel delirious, in a haze. affection or jet lag. the affect of the morning or perhaps just post lunch digestion. 

 

R

 

last night was a performance of Mette Edwardson. It was perfect. of sorts. 

 

And I watched Inge read her book. Twenty four stories in its entirety. She tries to relay the stories from personal experience as precisely, as exact, as possible.

 

I will tell it as exact as possible. I am not a story teller. But it is a gift to be full of stories. To write them down with conviction. My stories are relevant not only in beauty- like a perfect landscape under the sun. They are a transcription of reality. Including the gluttony and the access. The the politics of a conversation. A conversation with Sura and Marten. When you say something to a group of people... Who are we. Not precisely your students but you are obviously in an authoritative position. You are the pinnacle of power regardless of your attempts at dispersement. So you give extra attention to the women in a group and refuse the attention from the men as a strategy of deflecting the usual power dynamic. A strategy that you partake in is one of flirting, or incorporating sexuality into the form of relation. An acknowledgment that is worth inviting into the space. Sexuality is always present. You claim that you relate to both men and women this way, by flirting. it's a lie. You are a straight man and your sexuality directed predominantly at the ladies, and not all of them either.  

 

A room of pleasantries. Calm. A level incomparably higher then. The passion according to gh. Many woman sitting in chairs. Queens chairs in the tea room. Gentle but piercing. Secretively syrupy. Seeping into space. Open windows and birds chirp. A gentle flow to withstand the stifle. 

 

G: I prefer a preacher to a cultural writer. A cultural writer is reactive,

 

Shallow I say

 

G: a preacher is, a preacher.

 

At last a perfect sleep. Thru the night without a stir of my heart. She pumped steady and slow for 8.5 hours. Before the sleep was a crackling laughter that filled my soul to its core and shook the atmosphere. We cackled together and I woke up to Chopin coffee grinders and the simple recording of the French airlines holding cell. Alazya. A Saturday morning. You might as well just pick up the god damn phone. 

The desire for cult life is bringing me back to my obsessive days of Charles Manson. Funny because the confrontation of cult life is sewn into the fabric of this particularity. she asks you about your performance of sexuality, your unabashed flirting with almost every woman, and I consider my performance of righteous feminism in relation to you. In relation to context.

 

And then in a chakra poetry workshop I wrote a masterpiece:

 

Slippery

Suffocated

Until treasure surface

Maybe I lose traction

Never again will I understand 

How to give into radical conformity

I know I see you as such

Multifaceted

Like dog shit

Surprise

I never expect such aggression

There she blows

Again fer show

Reread my transcript you may

Be inspired

To roll around on the floor

Until she disappears

Tickle me tinder

Fuck my toes

I know nothing worth sharing with you 

Harshities

Of climate

Engulfed is overdone

I think the things that come to mind

I write my rules of thumb

I love you mom.

Like breasts

Forever clever never however

I find you quite stunning indeed. Maybe tomorrow we can come together forever however

There are few only few very few days left

Right hand writes.

 

And then I met a woman. fell in love with a woman. and wondered about jealousy. I felt a bit of jealousy in my observations of this woman in relation to her relationship with the person that I was making love with. She is smart- asked proper questions and subtly demanded respect and attention from him. She is independent, does not stretch herself too thin. She is self satisfied, more then most. A threat? maybe it was an initial reaction, but I wanted desperately to dismantle this sinful response. devilish reaction. hellish feeling. She is beautiful. an intrigue. and so I told her after her 6 hour reading of Clarice Lespector that her reading voice is fantastic. I practice my horribly embarrassing, inappropriately not funny wit as she washes my hands with dr. Brauners before her erotic reading. One that did not fully suffice, but the hand washing was all i needed to fall in. 

 

M: Hand washing is great because it is the only body part that you can wash on somebody else while also washing your own hands.

 

later, in my description of the sun rise I described to her the blue grey landscape with pink lily pads and the mountain range with golden slits like lava splitting the surface of earth. She told me it was too romantic. We took a bath together in the Jacuzzi and got slippery with coconut oil. Romantic and not at all. I liked to open my eyes and look at her. Her amount of pleasure stimulated me. 

 

"we spent a full day together" she said to me later that morning lying together in her bed. I wanted to spend another full day together, and when I did not see her until only minutes before leaving PAF, I new I needed to see her. to connect again after being together for so many hours and apart for so many more. 

 

The jokes are still there, the nonchalance is in the giggles.

 

N: Maybe we can write letters. 

 

and then we laugh as if it is a ridiculous thing to say. it is. 

 

But sometime in the future we will have a shiny pistachio green stick-shift with a warm grey interior with a vertical geometric stripe down the front two seats. in Italy maybe, down south. I will not reduce it to a word, this potentiality demands description. you see?

 

Before our final moment of embrace I visit my other lover in his bed. On his computer in tight jeans and a blue and white blouse. daddy. your attention is fantastic. your attention is fantastic. your attention is fantastic. We also have grown into a friendship. jokes come easier then before, I can let my guard down and I dont judge myself. You do notpretend so much, you dont exude your power, you are less in control. your actions are less premeditated.

 

You sit humbly in the pew a few rows behind me to the left. you have a prayer tatooed on your right thigh. I sit with my shoulders thrown back and my spine straight, injecting myself into the holy sacred space. I am not religious, I have never been taught to be humble in appearance when in the presence of God. I am holy, my body is sacred. my materiality is no less then my ideology. 

 

I will find a church in New York. A pew that I can write from. the holy scripture in the house of God.

 

N: God has a whole lot of houses. 

 

and Notre Dam is just one of them.  

 

Since sleep will not come until later, I will utilize my time to settle in saturated satisfaction. Leaving Paris at high speed after a day at the American Library in Paris. Maybe when I am old I will work in a library. 

 

CH: You would like to work in a library? So you can be around a million books and not read any of them?

 

Charlie is the director of the American Library in Paris. and Louise Truehearts father. A rather smug sense of humor and laid back way of strolling. Literally laid back as if he is leaning against a lamp post, belly protruding and only legs move directionally forward as the torso glides along. 

 

Not Paris, but I am tempted by Europe. Louise says at least another two years in Berlin- I will still be in New York I am sure, but maybe she will renew her visa for a third time and maybe I will join her in five... or seven. There are temptations in quality of living, I am not scrutinized in Europe, I am not pierced by judgmental gaze as I am in New York City. The film on the flight looks good, but it is in French. I must choose Berlin, out of all places, I must speak German I must speak German I must live in a German speaking country.

 

And to be close to PAF. Glorious. Louise you are a lucky little fuck.

 

Can I attempt at reflection. what was it that you liked. the strength within femininity, I have gotten that one before. but in the writing, a beautiful cadence, a depiction of horror without playing the victim. But also my performance of my words. steady. low. full. of captivation. and Important because I am the author and I am the reader. "Kathy Acker can be done so badly". My own style but with a powerful undercurrent that matches her fierceness.

 

fierce like the reading I did with ....... called Slice. A theatrical reading from the closet with the door half closed and small sliver of lamplight. The audience lounged around her room as we read the pleasures of cutting. No Kathy Acker- but fun to be dramatically hidden and verbally quite overbearing. 

 

My regret tattoo fades as the scab comes off. Thinking always in adjectives. fantastic. fantastich.  Maybe we all play roles in one another's lives. some big and some small. some generic and some unexpected. #tattooparlorofregrets 

 

You have commented twice now that you find it interesting how we spend hours talking queer and feminist politics but our sex is quite heteronormative.

 

epitome

 

N: Nah, not really.

 

M: High quality hetero sex.

 

Are you alluding to a desire Marten? Would you like to tie me up? I would not complain. I foresee a future. and I hope I do not have contraband. I have the devil on my arm. the pop culture depiction. the epitome of the image of the devil. the signifier. the emoji.

 

and then we sat for hours four hours and talked about the art object and teaching as an artist. you teach as an artist, not as a qi gong master. you have the freedom to teach what you like, how you like, the way you like. "I can make it up if I want to, just as long as I know the principles of the practice." 

But it is different when you are an art object, when your work is an art object. You may claim your work as a ritual but a ritual requires everybody to enter the space with the intention of partaking in such an experience. Everybody agrees, just by entering the space, everybody is there to partake in the RITUAL. 

 

Melanie: The new york times doesnt show up to a ritual, you dont have the critic sitting there with his thumb and forefinger on his chin, looking down his long nose skeptically. 

 

But when the work is of a therapeutic nature, well what happens when you perform it. What happens to the deconstructions of social constructs when the audience comes in with their scrutiny. The process, the rehearsals are a process of shedding of opening up of finding vulnerability of empowerment etc. but when you perform your vulnerability, well it becomes a performance, it is no longer therapy, or not just so, it is not a ritual although ritualistic. 

 

Melanie: But it is necessary that luciana do this work in a contemporary art setting. In a therapy setting or a somatic practice, it would get lost. In this world of contemporary dance there are boundaries being..

 

fucked with.

 

It is important tho that the work knows what it is..

 

This work does not know. not completely. it is always in search of a utopia, one that will never exist. because it is no longer a ritual when it is being performed. it becomes a performance of a spectacle but is not acknowledging itself as such. It is impossible to fully engage.

 

You tell me I have to write. I am fat and depressed. you tell me that you called because you wanted to know how I am doing. I immediately retract. you cant see me, but my left arm covers my stomach. My right holds the phone against my ear. I fold up. fold in on myself. fucking mosquitos. I am trying to describe to you the problems that I have with my surroundings. my environment. my life. I am so inarticulate because it is really hard for me to sort it out. Maybe I just haven't tried for a few days, a week and a few days. I have been avoiding the keypad. been yearning and avoiding simultaneously. how the fuck. but i have already begun. I began when I read a passage out loud to some important people in a school of magic with unimportantly perfect people. They listened with dark eyes to the things I had to tell them. Mette with round pupils filling the whole of the eye. what was the emotion? what such affect did my string of words, my tone of voice, have on these folks. the positioning of my body in a small chair that I barely sat on, but leaned against ease. the moments of being a lioness are the moments that make me feel whole. foods. My digestion is a disaster. I was careful in the beginning and then I pigged out on bread and cheese. The air allowed for the proper molecular deconstruction of such sugars in France. The US air is of a different breed. what is meant to be here. A country living off fructose coffee and cigs. liquor liquor liquor. sugar sugar sugar. quick energy that evaporates in an instant but can be consumed just as seamlessly. Eventually you will be a ball of cellulite with a heart that beats quickly but not quick enough. out of breath. out of sync. out of time. bye. It goes to show that the story does not need to be a story every time. with a beginning middle and end. Maybe sometimes but also maybe never. the whole thing as a whole may have many beginnings many middles and no endings. They always suck anyway. Kathy Acker ended perfectly. Janis Joplin ended inappropriately and in my work I hear a tone of desperation. 

 

I want you to come see my work- my choreography- for no reason other then you want to see my choreography. you are curious you are in love you are a fan of sorts. If you don't care then don't come. If you don't have a preference. if you are indifferent. don't come. obligation expectation kill me now. If you don't have an opinion. go die. So afraid to take responsibility. Living at the whim of the money that pays your salary, the status that dribbles from your tight lips. 

 

when I read to you it was from the earlier days of writing. it is sometimes more about producing, and other times more about venting releasing breathing deep and feeling relief. I dont know which is better for an audience. I don't know which is better for me. Sometimes I push myself intellectually, force myself to recollect precision. Sometimes I let the abstract flood the screen. There is so much angst? putrid disgust? I am surrounded by rats. Ratatouille.  

 

And now the first Judson of the season. September 2015. 

 

I describe it as Rhizomatic. but it is not so precious.

 

no logic no continuity apparent arbitrariness. 

 

Sitting in my green chair- one of intellect and philosophizing, drinking wine as I grow small like Alice and my ideology grows larger then can fit in a small New York apartment. This chair transports me to an old Ghostly Castle in Ireland with dark wood and damp smells, torch lit hallways and winding staircases. Huge portraits of luxury and extravagance from a time when the gilded frame was the most prominent depiction of such. When I sit in my green chair my feet do not touch the floor. I keep them tucked up in the velvet, it is this position that allows for teleportation. 

 

Sitting in my green chair I read about Complex personhood, the way that Avery Gordon describes it as so many things, the presumption of our lives as "simultaneously straightforward and full of enormously subtle meaning." The subtleties that dictate interpersonal relations that are so rarely picked up on. I perceive intelligence in somebodies ability to pick up on the nuances, to make connections that relate past to present and dictate the future. "We need to know where we live in order to imagine living elsewhere." 

 

And knowing where we lived. the ghostly presence. the nature of the ghost as both there and not there. past and present, force and shape.*

 

Emotion exists inside the muscles the bones the marrow. the past is a force but also a shape. The haunting presence of god. my creator. The shape of force is not in the shape of a single human being. "In his attempt to own what no man can own, the habit of his power and the absence of her choice." (Patricia Williams). What is the shape of a ghost? What is the shape of power?

 

Don't miss it. 

 

Metamorphosis. in a perpetual loop of madness. distracted constantly by the image. so clear to me when I watch you try to act. "touch your hair a lot and look into the camera with big love crumb eyes" but he would never use those words "love crumbs" are only for people who read e.e. cummings.  stuck trying to decipher the language to use. glued to MTVHits in Cafe Prague with a a cup of tea. I could sit on the other side of the table. look at the wall. bricks. but more then the visuals- the sound. can I hear you as a wash and focus on the internal voice? Get in the flow of recognition. 

 

TXT from Berges: are you working?

 

Obviously not, it is thursday and I have told you a thousand times that I only work at the restaurant on the weekends.

 

N: Not at the restaurant. 

     Rehearsal in bk

 

B: too bad, I wanted to see my little dancer.

 

You disgust me. actually I dislike you very much. 

 

On your beige couch in the back room behind closed door. She cost a few thousand. Am I supposed to feel good? lucky? behind closed doors talking about your beige couch that cost a few thousand. You tell me about your legacy- soon to be- the white rich art dealer that travels around the world to find the "Bushwick of Beijing, the Bushwick of Berlin, of Paris and Dubai. 

 

what it takes to come alive

 

a multicultural man. giving voice to the underdogs. so good of you. 

 

"it's time that artists from all over the world are recognized for their skill" 

 

Thank god for the rich westerner saving the day once again, those poor people in Paris, Dubai, and Beijing have got it hard trying desperately to infiltrate into the world of high end art. 

 

But you are a bit twisted you know, in your decision making. If you were truly trying to give voice to those who lack a voice in the greater spectrum of the art world, well, maybe go to Ghana and Nigeria, maybe go to Pakistan and I dont fucking know...

But the quality of the art is important to you, you dont want to present work from a third world country just to give visibility, you want the work to be prime. Unfortunately you have no taste, so not only are you going out on a limb, presenting work that has no name behind it, but you are presenting incredibly mediocre work from incredibly wealthy countries. cities. whatever. My point being, you are a fraud. presenting yourself as a do gooder while staying so completely safe.     

 

 

and then you call to tell me that you are sorry because you are ridden with guilt. sorry about being angry. sorry about not having patience. sorry about not always being grateful.

 

N: like when you yelled at me and locked me in my room because I lost a kitty soft toy that you had given to me as a gift?

 

Sanne: Yes, and I slapped you at some point when you were little,

 

the words become more high-pitched and stifled. sobs.

.. and i dont even remember why!

 

I am crying but laughing also- a very uncontrollable sensation- slightly scary to be so vulnerable with my mother even tho she is not self conscious.

 

S: I was so impatient sometimes, when i was potty training you. One time I told you that you couldnt have breakfast until you went to the bathroom.

 

again with the exponential high pitch

 

.. I forced you to sit on the toilet for 15 minutes. that is so horrible. why couldnt I have been fun? teaching should be fun, I should have made it fun. I was so bad at making it fun.

 

N: it doesnt seem like that big of a deal.

 

S: It is.

 

N: maybe you should try being more fun and light hearted now, since it seems like the lack there of is what is causing you so much strife.

 

but i didnt say it in those exact words.

 

S: How?

 

N: I dont know, just be more light hearted about things, dont dwell on the hardships. it doesn't have to be such a big deal. 

 

S: I was always so bad at being light hearted.  I made you feel like a burden. YOU ARE not a BURDON.

 

N: even when you say that now, my reaction is, oh but I probably was a burden sometimes.

 

S: this is my fault. you are a gift not a burden. I wish I could take this feeling away from you.

 

N: you can have it.

 

S: How?

 

N: just take it.

 

And then we finished with some silence 

 

N: are you ok?

 

S: yes. are you?

 

N: I think I am fine, and if not I will call you back.

 

and then many I love yous and good nights. and we hung up. Momi you lay it on thick, you bombard me when I am already tired. You say something about sorries being selfish. maybe so but showed me what you believed where the issues. and now I can share with you what I believe the issues to be. Thank you for apologizing. I am ready. I can handle. I can take it and so can you. 

 

The next day. I want to call you to check in. make sure that you are doing ok, but instead I send you a very long text message. 

 

"Momi. two things:

meditate- free your mind

of thought, go dancing,

take a dance class. And

two- learn to laugh about

the things that are hard.

You are not the center of

the world. Your

hardships are not

everything. Your

struggles are not the

weight of the world. You

are the sun. Bright. Full

of warmth. Your

mistakes are not the

end. Ned has a great 

saying; everything is

either funny or fucked" -

you get to...

 

 

And then you said something about apologies being very selfish and self centered in a way. Yes. Once again you are correct as the attention is brought to you and your turmoil- you twist me into your neuroses once again- just the thing that you are apologizing for in the first place. But maybe, just maybe I will tell you what I have held onto- what it is that consciously still hurts me. And then maybe you can apologize for that. But on my bike ride home last night- high and insane- hung from the traffic lights- mummified with so much to say to so many people but all I hear are the ricocheted yells off the walls of myskull. And I thought of romantic love and I realized that I love my mom and I began to hyperventilate sobbing uncontrollable. Because I was afraid of this realization.   Afraid to love my own mother. Afraid to love anybody to that degree. Afraid to love anybody so intensely twisted and desperate to be loved but demanding more then anybody could ever requite. But I try. Because I love her. And between desperate sobs I began to laugh because of course I love my mom. And fuck you Freud.

 

I think your apology was selfish. But a burden is often how I feel. An underlying thread, maybe this conversation about the source will be beneficial to me. 

 

And on my bike ride home last night I began to construct your poem.

 

Momi. You taught me to breath

Momi. You taught me never to water the lawn in the midday sun

Momi.

 

 

and after a plastic box of rice and raw salmon. I am certain that it is in the bag. Today. an audition. one on one with Greg Zuccolo and Michele Laub. Maybe I did some Cambodian social dancing and maybe I ACTED like a self satisfied vacant beauty. with a spicy tongue and a strong but contained desire to get fucked. 

 

I can act her well. She is a part of me maybe. Sanne says, "I don't see you like that." 

 

Nik: yes well Im not like that but I can be, I understand the state very well. And what will make this work interesting is if you choose a cast that is subtly witty enough to both be and not be their role. 

 

Momi. You taught me to always breath through my nose when I smell something bad. because it acts like a filter. Now whenever I smell something bad I remember to breath deeply. 

Momi. You taught me how to turn a $3 allowance into $20. 

Momi.

 

Tonight I am listening to womb music for my belly by Eric Desjoux. low frequency low frequency low gravity. a professional stoner- I am gravity. she is very specific. not bad you say. I want to hold your head between my palms. arms twisted. I am gravity. low frequency. everything is better between us when you are on. point. play with me. play for me. a composition for Nikima. Everything is better. peace and quiet. by myself with nobody. sound sight words. tap tap tap. visual slide show to rumbles... I am still in my pink checkered apron and I know that you love me because I am me and not them. what is this little number. not a lot of grace. only. gravity. Until tonight. you will suffocate with me. the black pile was once my home. and now I have a brother who is stuck there.

 

beware of a holy whore. An audition is like prostitution. intimate as fuck with a stranger for 40 minutes- you perform an act- an act of intimacy- and before anything gets sentimental you pack your bag and hit the streets. possibly never to see this stranger again. Here have a bit of my soul. here let me become obsessed with this role for a few minutes. here let me try not to obsess over it any more because life goes on if i dont get a call back. but i will. i must if you have any sense at all.

 

But really tho. you call me two nights agro crying your sorrows into my ear. gushing all the things that you feel guilty about- yes girl get it off your chest. poor it all on me! keep it coming! let it drain from your insides. I am a gourd. a container of which you can fill me with your guilt. 

 

at first I was worried that you were in a bad place. it felt like something hard, something like a moment of depression that rightfully hit you after taking care of your schizophrenic son day in and day out. I wanted to be there for you. i was there for you. in my sleepless haze. i listened and talked and cried and tried tried so hard to make it light hearted. And then i sent you a txt message. and today I called you to make sure that you were ok, and you seemed expectant as if you were waiting to hear me say something. but I tell you that i am tired and i need my alone time. and you hold on for dear life because you want to talk about it. but i dont want the drama. i cannot handle it. you say.

S: Just one quick thing before you go. It seems like you think that I am not in a very good place. Im actually doing alright.

 

N: I dont want to talk about this.

 

But in my mind,"are you crazy!? It actually seems like you are in a terrible place. and if you are not then dont call me sobbing and telling me all the ways that you fucked up as a mom. Next time when you want to fucking apologize for the shit that you pulled as a parent, do it after you have an emotional break down. or before. figure out what you want to apologize for, maybe you decide that you want to call me and tell me that I am not a burden and that you are the cause of that deeply engrained feeling that I have. maybe you want to call me to tell me that I am not actually a burden and that you are sorry for making me feel that way as a child. maybe you want to call me to apologize as opposed to helplessly wailing hopeless hymns asking only to be coddled and cared for. It is twisted Susanne. it is fucking twisted. 

 

I want to coddle and care for you when you need it. but I need you to recognize when you need it. and fucking ask for it. no shame. no shade. otherwise I grow weary from being jerked around by your unsteady emotional outbreaks. I can only take so much. please. I need to be alone.

 

Momi. you taught me how to make three different dishes out of one roasted chicken.

 

tomorrow I will eat chili. and I am fine. I want to cultivate sanity. I hope you can keep up.

 

 

 

"Stupid Bitch." I left with the recycling and left my keys in the house. Thank god for my kind neighbor and the fire escape.

 

 

Sanne. this in not a joke. apologies are not meant to be selfish. Out of all the things you could have apologized for you chose something that plagues you with guilt that is actually completely and utterly unimportant to me. I find it hilarious that you forced me to sit on the toilet for 15 minutes before breakfast. I mean sure, fucked up and insane- but all I want to do is laugh about the absurdity in retrospect. You did not need to call me, you literally could have called a stranger. This confession has nothing to do with me. - here nikima, I have been lugging this baggage with me for over 20 years and now I want you to have it- this is what I hear.  And you say you are just fine. well lucky you, now that my backpack is full of your guilt. your shame. your burden. You are not a burden you say, and neither am I. Well you know what? I already new that on some subconscious level. I have been practicing sanity and peace of mind. I have found an equilibrium that makes me feel content. My self satisfaction is fairly self sufficient, I am ok with what I ask of people- more and more so every day- because I am satisfied. I am cultivating my sanity and sharing it with my friends. My insanity is transformed as I channel it through my art. I have a grasp on my insanity. I am not a burden because I do not dump my mania on others. 

 

When you call me with your load of luggage in the form of hysteria, I question my self and all that I have accomplished. I become momentarily needy and insane- a burden- because I neeeeed to talk to somebody about you and your chaos, but I do not, cannot burden my friends with this madness because it is insane. So I hold it, and go insane on my own. Now I cannel it through my words. through choreography and performance. And today, at last- four days after day one- I feel peaceful again. at last. 

 

If I could ask you to apologize for something- it would be your manipulation. 

 

 

man-ipulation.

 

We had those sliding double doors in the house. growing up. or growing down- spiraling closer and closer to hell. Sometimes we would talk- charlie susi nikima- enclosed with the piano and the green piano bench. the beige couch and the dining room table. and that horrible carpet. the beige one with a hundred loops of wool rope. I would sit on the edge of the couch. the most uncomfortable. erect spine- every piece of skin that made contact with the cloth encasing was on display. 

 

 

Early in the morning and im thinkin boutchu. yeah. I I I could fuck you all the time.

 

a morning in the Catskills. small scale mountains made of colors other than green. I am green and puffy in the downy armor that you got for me from uniglo. snuggling together in the same sleeping bag. you in yours me in mine. And last night after a three and a half hour run of True Love in the Mt. Tramper studio, I wrote you a rather embarrassing text.

 

So many thoughts of you

tonight during rehearsal.

Moments of realizations.

My boundaries dissipate

with you and I seep into

everything. I was not

wrong when I said that

you are not deep- i was

however stuck in the 

either or- sushi or

sashimi. But with you

there is no external

because there in no

internal. There are no

constructs of identity

that differentiates the 

inner and the outer. You

and me. Where my skin

ends and your skin

begins. There is fluidity

of knowledge concept

understanding feeling.

 

It came to me after a moment of intensity with Chantelle. the new girl. fresh blood- in the words of Jen Kjos. dancing together can be so correct when attacked from the proper angle. The necessity is in the withdrawal of self or the withdrawal of identity. Intimacy is then allowed without emotional intensity. It is not extreme because constructs of identity are removed. It is not draining because emotion is not a driving force behind movement. I become a vessel for transmission. I am the materialization of an etherial and ephemeral image. The image is for you to decipher (the audience) the reference points are for you to conjure. I am not here to hold your hand and guide you through preexisting knowledge. I am creating something new, that you can, if you must, relate to what you already know. 

 

The dance we have is referentially very erotic. but it is erotic without being sexual- it is without direction. without intention. it is homogenous and nonhierarchical. It is without reaction. I. We. can dance together without constructing walls. boundaries. armor. we are viscous. we flow thru one another without differentiation between internal and external. There is no penetration because there are no boundaries. 

 

And if you come with personal, emotional baggage- and you project that pain, hardship, frustration, EMOTION into the space, into the viscosity- I do not have to worry about internalizing your baggage because I am fluid. 

 

A withdrawal of identity, but an expansion of my being.

 

And then I rest. and think about this realization, because it is not an easy one to believe and yet inherent in the structure is ease. But is it structure or strategy. You claim that these two are somehow dialectical, many people claim to use structure when instead they rely on strategy. 

But tell me tell me tell me

what is this contention.

 

This one MUST BE UNDERSTOOD

 

in due time.

 

And then I think about capitalism. In relation to modes and methods of artistic creation and practice. You have this 'wonderful' idea of capitalizing on production by making choreography quick quick quick. So you receive funding for a commission at The Kitchen or PS1 and in order to capitalize on every dollar received, you rehearse for two weeks only and make a brilliant piece in no time. bang it out as they say.

 

We are walking together to Edens Expressway, for another morning workshop. Your inquiries on production are topic of conversation. Following one you had earlier with Melanie over tea. she told you about her current projects. 

 

M: she is already rehearsing for a piece that will premiere in Mexico in May and in New York in October. She is doodling.

 

I believe that doodling is one of your greatest fears.

It is October, one year prior. 

 

You often talk about morphing capitalism from within its structure. But to make a piece of art in a hurry, to get every dime for your dollar is to play into capitalism completely. I wonder how this transforms anything at all

 

Anyway, first I need a massive grant to pay my dancers enough to quit their other jobs and work full time for me for two weeks straight just before the big premiere at the Kitchen. Time. Money. Studio space. Dancers. -- it's all quite a challenge to create the proper recipe for a two week construction in this shit hole.

 

encircled by molecular fibers-the strongest on earth but so thin. barely visible. trap me in my mossy knoll. a bit dry like the proper meadow from the mid morning sun. I feel you. in me around me. You text me it h u r t s and i have a million responses but none that suffice. so i say nothing. but metaphysically everything. we touch. 

and yesterday we began to use a new strategy in rehearsal- a strategy to find the structure? Or maybe think of it on a macro scale. Structural vs. Strategic. Do they exist on different plains? Is there more weight to a Structural pursuit. Within a strategy there is inherent reference to using it as a means to an end. There is implication of motive, it is not an end in and of itself. The structure is solid. it is the end. it is the product. it is the form. it is that which dictates the rest without question. the structure is certain of itself. It is hierarchical, the structure dominates. But within the context of my choreography, can the structure also be strategy? Can I use the structure to to allow for something else to develop? No because everything must exist within the structure. And therefore everything that exists within the work is part of the structure. 

If structure is certain of itself, does it mean that I must be certain of the structure that I create? Or can (does) the structure create itself? And if my algorithmic composition - repeated movements that constantly fold back in on themselves - is not the structure of my work, then what the fuck is? Must there always be a structure to all creation? yes. but is it oversimplifying to understand it cognitively? I will always try. 

 

And as she sinks in- the reality of cyclical waves of feeling- I write you an email that sums up the sum of the whole. 

 

"Too tired too exhausted. No idea how to comprehend anything. but i think about you when i look at the stars and i think about you when everything is complicated and I want to cut a cross in my sternum because being so open is not so easy with everybody- not the way it is you. Sometimes I feel like mamma pig or mamma lion with all my cubs and like you would be such a good.. But it's a lot. Being support. Constant support. But also I am nothing and it doesn't matter and you make me feel so really so so happy and I dont even know what because I am falling into this black leather couch- post rehearsal acoustic sing along about daddies squeeze box in and out all night with this demented little family. but there is love and we talk about everything and I always go to sleep early because I don't drink. And then I wake up early and sit in moss with the sun and all the red leaves and write and try to decipher the difference between structure and strategy and then today it was system. but my sickness is deteriorating and my headache is finally dissipating. Stiff. So stiff. Dancing dancing dancing. And now we are talking about sweeping. and now I'm sure you have had enough of me. But I think that maybe you love me and I think that maybe I love you too. And pitbull makes me smile."

 

While I am gone we meet in the metaphysical and then- on your way to Toronto- you text me.

 

The taxi is coming in 15

minutes. The world is

resting and I'm on my

way. I feel you so

strongly and the body

remembers your my

arms around you.

Dreaming and I think

about the end of your

last email and think you

are right. Kiss and all the

skin.

 

Then the 5Eleven photo- 7Eleven's younger sister. 

 

and you you you again. 

 

in transit. JFK so close but not enough to touch. 

 

you say you are fading. I tell you to get in bed with you me. and you;

 

Yes yes yes oh my your back to

me and a lot of hair - let's

disappear a bit and make love like

a little wind

 

I want to say a million things but nothing worth while. All I can say is I want your fuzz. I say nothing at all and then you are gone and who knows where the time goes. Up my sleeve. Stable patient for the moment when I pull her from my cuff slowly stretching time when I need her most.  At first you put your arms around me. and then you put your charms around me. Ain't nobody loves me better then you. 

 

The evening is another of chitchat. Melanie Maar and I- we go on and on and on and everything is fruitful when we listen deep into the eyes of the other. She asks me how I want to relate to my audience. I dont want to interject a facade. I want truth. purity. reality. peace.

 

Nik: I just want to be cozy with my audience. 

 

And it is the truth, no desire to be cozy with one, but every desire to be cozy with hundreds. at once. 

 

Maria Hassabi, your work is spacious, it lasts and there is time to be. but it demands a facade. you inject me with piercing flavor. with harsh coolness. I can relate to you on this level, but it is still a facade. still an act. I want purity of form. And what is this shit about Marten's work and Gillian's work and Maria's work being pretentious? I must know what the fuck you are talking about. 

 

We sit for 45 minutes outside of Pedlar Cafe on court street. We drink chai and I tell you that I want you and you tell me that you are spreading yourself too thin.

 

Nik: I need to beat the system.

Mor: you will. 

 

It is mid October and you tell me to schedule January rehearsals now because,

 

Mor: one day the week is totally free and the next it is completely booked.

 

The epidemic of overdoing it. COMMITMENT. 

 

Mor: Its just the commuting that is so tiresome. 

Nik: hone in girl.

 

but in my mind, I want you, more of you, because together we will go places. whatever that means. I know it. stick with me. 

 

I have always set my personal standards too high. In it for the long haul. I know I will never give in give up give out. stick with me and together we will progress with time. 

 

Last night a theatrical reading of Sylvere Lotinger's most recent book, Angry like Artaud. Long winded and fairly boring for the first hour but turned out to be worth my time. I began to think about my brother and schizophrenia. A discussion between Sylvere and Artaud's psychiatrist- the one who provided him with shock therapy in the last few years of of his life. The psychiatrist argued for the normalizing of a crazy person- a man who is unable to interact with other people, and man who is unable to integrate into society. The shock therapy- a way to break him down and rebuild. 

 

Sylvere countered him with the atrocities of normalizing a brilliant mind. Of destroying the possibilities of cultivating the unknown, unrefined, the uncontrollable. 

 

I thought about Gildevin's brilliance but I also thought about absolutes. The obsessive qualities of an artist who reap the world of their obsession to a degree of insanity or disorder. But the obsession is often a search for order with the product of disorder. who knows what I am really talking about- my point being- what is my obsession. It is not god. it is not etherial. it is not capitalism. it is not power. 

 

Is it order? is it peace? or is it disorder? chaos?

 

is it people? or more specifically humanity in all of her forms and non forms.

 

But my obsession on the page is a different one from my obsession in the studio, no? what is the difference then.

 

I want to know everybody's mind. I want to read everybody's soul. I want to control you. but I use my work to give it up. 

 

what am I really saying? I text my mother:

 

Let's plan something

where I take care of the

house for some time

while you and Robert go

on vacation. I think I am

ready to spend time with

gildevin. And you

deserve a break.

 

And I know that I write this because I want to use my life. use my family. use my connections to further my work. Maybe I am banking on his sickness, but more honestly I am using my art as a way of feeling capable of coping. utilitarian. am i a Marxist? not even.

 

The people sitting next to me are idiots. met up for coffee to talk about their work in the service industry. literally nobody cares. and I am so sorry that both of you have to endure this horrid conversation. But I will try to drown you out. 

 

please move.

 

shut up.

 

wow.

 

"thats the thing about the small room, people think that it is empty until its not"

 

what are you actually saying tho?

 

im leaving.

 

NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND

 

Back in the cafe where we sat together making up a simple cocktail. Jack and Coke between the two of us. the barista's gleefully pointed at our black shirts. you were coke and I was spirit. 

 

Self awareness. you are everything. It came to me last night again and until now had not made the necessary connections. always making connections. am i my mother? not even close. I am however, very comfortable in the presence of my mother's intensities. I feel very much at home with your self perpetuated tumbling thought process. And I find myself falling in love with a similar mind.

 

andrew bird on the radio takes full attention. a master of his trade.

 

the mind as a muscle will only get stronger the more she is utilized. And the furrowed brow at the table across the floor from me has a pencil pouch stating "I DID MY BEST". poor darlin. 

 

SeanNicholasSavage is an artist. a holy freak show. Surrendering to a higher power or internal madness- interchangeable conditions.

 

There is peace in my soul when proper hyphy trap rap comes on the radio.   

 

Heartless he sings on repeat- words that extend beyond human emotion. extreme exaggerated reverential prayer to the depths of emotional multitude. The sound is the sound of the suffering soul of humanity as an entity. One of exaggeration, excess. the extreme.  My purpose is to engage with the holy, with the blessed- to be one with god. to be godly. etherial. beyond human.  otherwise, what is the point of life. living. being alive. as a plain old human being. Like with any fad, there are fakers.

His relationship to his extravagance is one of humorous self awareness.

 

The other day in rehearsal luciana commented on her belief that we are all gods. She has brought it up only once, but she often references this idea of the artist as god. the creator of culture. This is an extreme example. But even on a more mundane plain, there is an obvious new age wave of connecting with spirituality, often manifesting in astrological connections. And in that same vein vane.. there is a current uprising of gothic worship. [what is goth].

 

Is it real? You claim to connect with the stars, to be effected by Mercury, whether she is in retrograde or not. I would argue that this synchronicity is a self induced connection to the societal construct of spirituality. 

 

and then the pappa in the cafe introduces me to his little baby and tells me to "be blessed by the good things in those special moments."

 

and my response is. Um what.

 

There is an interesting contradiction here. How to talk about cyborgs. point being, we are no longer separate from technology. Beatriz Preciado talks about it as an implosion of subject and object, natural and artificial. We not only extend ourselves into our gadgets, simultaneously, products- whether material or immaterial- are the basis of our being. which comes first, viagra or an erection (etc.) So here we are, constantly existing in a presence that is expansive beyond our physical boundaries. We read about Mercury in retrograde and then Woah, shit gets crazy.

 

I do not reject the astrological influence that planetary alignment has on our water bodies. But the sensitivity required to actually feel the pull of the stars has got to be one of grandiose astuteness. In our current state of expansion from the physical boundaries of our skin, or as Beatriz would say, in the current implosion of subject and object, the physical sense of self has been diluted drastically. Resulting in a lack of sensitivity. On the other hand, just by reading about these phenomena, well they somehow become our truth.

 

The current epidemic of spiritual obsession is still denial. Our reality is beyond god. beyond religion. beyond sacred. beyond worship. We do not need to rely on ideology, the magic exists in the mundane reality of cyborgs. 

 

 

 

 

IM PRUDE

 

It was bell hooks who, the other day during an interview, startled her predominantly white audience by suggesting that "the face of... liberatory sexuality" for black woman might be celibacy. She spoke in relation to black feminists who have- to an extent- rejected sex positivity as a means toward a political end due to stereotypes of hypersexualization, exoticisation, the other, etc.

In relation to all woman, statistically there has been a drop in sexual activity among the current generation as opposed to our parents generation.

 

 http://nymag.com/thecut/2015/10/why-consensual-sex-can-still-be-bad.html#

 

but for now I stay with the current. because the present is a bit more something then usual. Still numb. still dumb from the heavy injection that made my agency dissipate, my voice disappear, and my soul flutter on the outskirts of my body. 1:30pm- maybe the time does not matter, but I remember because I was coming home from rehearsal at the Brooklyn Arts Exchange that ended just a bit after 1. On West 9th heading toward Smith st. in the middle lane, the bike lane, going straight with the lane to my right- right turns only. The white Nissan decides to pass me on my left. very fast. much too fast and I am hit like a crash out of nowhere. the left handlebar clopped out of submission. front wheel turns perpendicular to the bike and boom, quick like, flying over the handle bars. 

 

There were many moments prior to this one that took place on my two wheels- moments of imitation. A thought, a daydream, a deciphering, in preparation for such a collision. --if i get hit like so, how do react. Tuck and Roll. always Tuck and Roll. Take the impact with the whole body and roll out of it so as not to shock particular joints and muscles and tendons with more impact then can be handled. Catch myself with my left arm like I did last time and poor left shoulder will forever pay the price. The mock action on replay prepared me well for the hit this time around- I don't remember flying I dont remember the automatic reaction to turn my head to the right and contract my body I dont remember the feeling the street catch my face. I dont remember my left forearm being the second body part to hit the pavement. I have a slight memory of feeling the crunch, the compression of my lumbar spine and the left side of my sacrum. I do very well remember seeing my upper body hit the pavement with legs flying ridiculously- a few steps behind- before they caught up with time and I landed somewhat heavily on my left, lower butt cheek and sits bone. And then clearly, as if remembering a dream- as if it never happened- I remember sitting with my right leg extended, my boots still on, a man in front of me, squatting. I am clutching my face, but not touching the skin because the heat is too much to go directly on the skin. I am clutching the heat of my face and crying in sputters and spurts. I have trouble speaking, I want help up but nobody will help me because I am not supposed to move until the paramedics arrive. 

 

the white Nissan has driven on but the furious witness has chased him down and now he is coming back. I never see his face, but I think he is black. I am disappointed because it is easier for me to take my rage out on a white american guy. I only think about that now, in the aftermath, while I consider my suing options. Is it inherently evil? Money games are always evil. But should he pay for his idiotic behavior, his lack of acknowledgement, his lack of care. He never once approached me to apologize. Will my attack make him think twice before cruising full speed past a biker. SMACK. So quick and precise.

 

First the firetruck arrived. I was in the middle of the street and my first thought was to get out of their way. but of course. alas. they were there for me. and they were gentle and kind. they looked me in the eye and told me their names. each one an individual- to me, all firemen. I love them a little bit. And then I am on the stretcher. bright orange and I am being strapped down and the paramedics are much less gentle- they tape my head against the plastic stretcher- forceful- and I somewhat enjoy succumbing to the force. I have no idea how my body feels. I think I must be fine, but they -the people in navy blue dont even give you a minute to decipher your state of being. If it were truly a life or death situation I can understand the efficient brutality- but the concept of death didn't come to me until I was sedated- pumped into delirium- intimate as fuck with sister morphine. She is sexy and enticing. but she is cold and harsh. and I prefer to be without. 

 

And another version for you via FB messenger.

 

Reading while biking - not a bad a idea. Legs are good. Feet are fine. Just a bit of left sacral and left shoulder pain. No motorcycle so not so fast. Car was Nissan- a white one very sleek. Kept going until held up by a red light and the furious pedestrian chased him down. People think that I should sue. Like Chris is offering me his lawyer- I always feel weird about attacking individuals to such an extent -even when they are horribly inconsiderate evil assholes.

Yes ambulance- first firefighters- they were the sweetest, each one looking into my eyes and telling me their names. I don't remember any of them. 

And then forced onto the Orange plastic stretcher and then no more firemen, just the paramedics- and they where more rough and the one was really very unintelligent. And an iv in the left arm that hurt like trash and they tried to ice my face but the ice pack wasn't even cold and there was a moment of hyperventilating and all I wanted was to hold a hand but western medicine is pretty fucked up if not for the treatment of a life or death situation. No tenderness. Just protocol. And then at the ER and they put me on the bed and take my pants off and cut my shirt off and woah pump me with the drugs. I am sedated and dumb and numb and dull and can feel nothing and that old familiar nothingness comes back- the one that makes me want to exhale and never inhale. And then I find peace in nothing and I am aware that I am at peace and that death is not nothing and it is nothing that I want- not death- so I force myself to inhale from outside of my body. And with the breath I can usually return to my body but the morphine is strong and I have to try. Hard. Repetitively. Even tho the most peace is when there is no breath. And I wonder if you put your hand right above my open mouth if you would feel any heat at all. If it would be so hot or so cold.

They almost gave me a second dose but I told them to fuck off- in other words- and over time my agency returned with furry and everything about that drug is horrid.

I began to read your story and she sucked me out of the physical reality of the half dead that lay next to me behind curtains. Your story was nothing and everything- I so want to be devoured by an all encompassing nothing- I have come close- and I know the fear that stifles. That causes the avoidance of the void but I don't feel that fear. I feel most safe- my deepest sense of equilibrium in the unknown. And that paragraph about being addicted. Wow. I feel everything that you are saying. But I do not feel horror. No. The horror has developed into peace. Or maybe I have been refusing to succumb. "The horrifying reality that there is nothing to reveal" is actually an extremely calming concept. I want to be nothing. To exist in everything. To have no boundaries. No internal no external. To be spread amongst all things. "It didn't need to claim territory on its trajectory to omnipresence." An extraordinary line. also the one about only needing one pet around the house. But then over time my understanding of your use of horror developed.. And well.."endlessly close to bliss and yet pure darkness" sounds about right. And the piece in itself is reflexive and relational. The stuff about the story not being the actual story and all that- I think about that all the time in relation to my own writing. Anyway. You touch me from all angles and

 

then a photograph of a poster that I saw a few days ago at an art opening that displayed over a sunset scene, the words, "Fuck it I love you".

 

In your words, in your story there are so many connections. Connections to things you have said, and so often connections to things I have thought about or experimented with in my work. Among so many spot on connections I found the expansion of thought in your writing as well. "Horror has no function it is pure form, it is unreserved abstraction. In ways it is black and white, endlessly close to bliss and yet pure darkness...The truth of horror is of an affective order."

 

the OPACITY OF DARKNESS

 

"In the midst of darkness the entire body turns into an erogenous capacity and eroticism turns into combat."

 

"That’s where I am, sinking into the abyss of an absolutely sublime horror. Absolute form unconditionally liberated from function."

 

form vs. function. structure vs. 

 

and finally, your words in deep relation to my own work, "a limitless existential territory where thought and creation folds in on itself." and the constant folding of the sea as she laps against the seashore while simultaneously being sucked back into herself by the undercurrent. And my choreography moving linearly forward while at any given moment folding back in in herself-beginning from anywhere at anytime because who cares about time. and space. but rather a lack of space. or an expansive never ending.

 

Lately, Solnit's collection of essays, "Men Explain Things to Me" has been my easy read, my subway book. She is very diligent in her relaying of information. very acute, very specific. rambling with a little excess. The first essay in the collection, also the title of the whole, begins with "an amusing incident and ends in rape and murder". She talks of the war that most woman fight, two in one. One being whatever the putative topic is, and the other, a simple right to speak. "the right to... have ideas, to be acknowledged to be in possession of facts and truths, to have value, to be a human being."

 

As a child. as a girl. I was always "being bullied out of my own perceptions and interpretations."

 

RESEARCH 

 

an ethnographic study. a sociological experiment.

 

Once on the stretcher I see nothing. searching with frantic pupils in a severed head. detached from the rest with a high collar. a neck brace made of something strong. Strapped down with tape across my forehead. across the area that hurts the most and all up in my hairs. They were all up in my hairs. all of the hairs. So much noise. so many questions unanswered. hearing everything and recognizing those directed at me. trying to answer. only able to muster small peeps and the repetitive, "where is my bike". They heard this one every time. They answered me everytime. But I couldn't answer every question. not at the speed that was demanded. "Do have somebody that we can call?" no answer. and again. and again no answer. It developed eventually into, "We need an emergency contact. Can we put your roommates number down?"

"yes."

"what is her number?"

"it is in my phone."

"can i get your phone out of your bag?"

 

my bag. thank god my angry birds bag is still with me- she gave me wings.

 

"what is your passcode?" 

etc. 

 

 

 

And then she came to me like CRACKED TEETH IN A ROTTON MOUTH and I was certain that they would all be very dark. Like when you over do one thing it is so excruciatingly difficult to really stick it out, to follow through without breaking down in laughter or sobs. 

 

Like Salem MA. and on my way home from a weekend in Salem MA, the entertainment for the Peabody Essex Museum gala. a night of sad interactions, gender rolls, ball gowns...

With five hours of highway in the backseat of a 7 seater I was a bit bored, and napped intermittently. Melanie Matthieu, swept up by nostalgia, reminisced a little. The nostalgia mostly lay in the memory of Ziggy's Donuts, not so much the Museum itself.

 

N: such a weird place.

like a TV set

And like so proud of their style and their historical preservation

Not even a little irony in it all.

 

M: exactly

the preservation only looks good from a distance though, up close it's shabby and shaky and then I mean the whole witchcraft orgy

the ghost tours

you gotta give credit to those cemeteries though, pretty authentic shit.

 

N: Also so much money around the museum but then you walk a few minutes away and it's just like any kinda trash haven that is banking on the profit of a fucked up history.

 

M: exactly, the crumbling layers of paint towards the periphery; centrifugal decay, the midpoint keeping up appearances.

 

N: Precisely.

 

Patting each others egos in a our astute ability to see beyond the surface.

 

Like swans dancing to classical music.

 

So I go full dark title mode. Dark Roast.

And full spectacle costume mode

 

and neither oppose and neither compliment- they exist on their own, but rather cancel each other out so that what is left is a dance.

 

I have my eye on another. she is also dark. and SEX.

 

STATIC CHARM

 

twas another that came from a description.

 

<EVERYTHING IS RADICAL AND NOTHING SUCKED>

 

might just be the best yet. thanks to Chris Zois, my old white rich lifeguard (self titled). A psychiatrist and film maker. 

 

Und Meine Mutter called to tell me that she is learning to accept her inner loser. and I find myself reveling in this concept, speaking my insecurities, making them known without restraint without embarrassment. #noshame #noshade

 

And tonight I met with you for a short walk around the hood. Him and I for a moment around Coffey Park. A meander, to speak of such things that have been on our minds. Unsure how to begin- the uncertainty of thought. My deep rooted insecurities that keep my tongue stitched to the roof of my mouth, my teeth dry and my lips cracked. 

 

you are too stable for me.

 

and since then I applied for two residencies- one in Marrakesh, Morocco and the other in Essen, Germany- and was rejected by Movement Research for their spring 2016 season at Judson Church. Alex Romania was on the panel, that sweet little creature fought for me. to no avail. and in his honest criticism told me that the weakest point was the connection between my words and the work sample. A challenge to portray the subtleties of non-directional sexuality in an egalitarian framework of live performance on a small screen in a hectic environment. not the most captivating for the general public. I suppose I will give the MR community a bit more credit and apply again in 5 month. Eventually something will be seen and a miracle will present itself in the form of curiosity and intrigue. For now it is all that I ask for.  It would be a lie to say that the work sample was as developed as my concepts. And I oops, forgot to mention this discrepancy in my application, because, well, everything happens in stages. Like boobs, one grows a little, then the other catches up, surpasses in mass, and then back to the first. or the last- however you perceive it. But my applications in general are taking on a new form, morphing into specificity. always the same under the hood- in its formalism- but with particular articulate clarities. Music accepts its cheesy nature. what is the nature of dance? duhduhduh there is non. High strung. insecure. obsessive. destructive. whatever. a deep desire to live outside of the mundane. A search for holy euphoria. 

 

at some point there will be snow. Edward Snowden Hands for halloween. You are a complete dork but my sexual attraction to you is beyond anything I have ever felt. When we have sex my breasts doubled in size, my love handles expanded into the realm of possibility and my orgasms are forced out of me into an ever expanding universe. Our sex is directional. there is a goal. an immediate goal orgasmic explosion and the long term demands of maternity. My body knew it before I comprehended this awareness.

 

Your girlfriend is leaving again for the holidays. It was this time last year that we fucked constantly. She was out of town- always out of town for the month of December- and we were just in the midst of frantic sexual prowess. Since then we have constructed many unseen boundaries, a framework establish structured distance. We see each other twice a week at the cafe, hug each other for a bit too long in the morning and flirt the shit out of each other throughout the day. the hours pass by quickly because of each other. There is a freedom in this constructed framework. structure or strategy? We never meet up outside of work. In this way we rely on others to create the framework, to keep our sexual tension at bay. If we meet in anonymity, we have a greater responsibility. It would be a massive test of will power. But condescension will seep from my pores if I sleep with you. Not that I believe that relationships should be monogamous. in fact I find this very annoying and limiting. Such a deep rooted systemic force that is self perpetuating and cyclical. A __ that is perpetuated by a structural force saying that eventually you must settle down. Eventually you will have less energy, less lebido, you will be less attractive, you will smell worse and your physique will deteriorate. You will have less energy because you are a slave to consumption. addicted to caffeine, sugar, fried food, pharmaceuticals, money, power and you will lose the drive to stay active and healthy and happy. Typically, men lose this vibrancy or never find this vibrancy as they live in search of money and power to compensate for a lack of... Since men run the world, they dictate the future of humanity. Woman have two options; follow suit in order to attempt at equality, or obsess over body, health, "happiness" so as to be swooped up by the most powerful. the richest of the men, for security, safety and solid procreation. If a man has money he doesnt ever have to learn to take care of himself. If a woman is beautiful, she doesn't either. And in this biopolitical era of pharmaceutical abundance, nobody has to know anything about themselves because we are transformed on a molecular level that is beyond our control. Give in and give up, you are in the strong hands of white supremacy, patriarchy, capitalism.

 

And so we live to love. a synthetic love that is dictated by the strong hands of monogamy. 

Love is formless. 

 

And rehearsals are insane these days. 

 

But I speak of men and woman is if this dialectic were all encompassing. black and white. which is obviously not the case at all. not any more, and I refuse to give it such power in discussion. I refuse.

 

What is this bullshit about human nature. Maybe I won't see you today and I guess I have to be ok with that. So I absorb my attention in the fulfilling task of writing it out. 

 

But I am brimming with sensitivity. facing from the door so that I do not look up with every new presence in the room. But unmistakably conscious of my left side as the possibility of you passing by is.. there. You ask me if I am upset with you and my reaction are a few easy tears. I suppose I am a bit hurt. A bit like, oh, wait, I thought I was safe. And Maybe you are relying on my strength to not take it personally, I do not require personal confirmation. you do not have to confess your love to me every moment of the day and please, do not fake it. (although I am pretty sure that you would never, I am not certain.) I am certain of very little with you after all, some say that you are a pathological lier. I know that you lie sometimes, but so does the one that called you a pathological lier. Is there a time that lying is ok? the proper thing to do. the easy way out for sure. you cover your ass with lies. but i think that you believe them. Is a contradiction a lie?

 

Lies - the kind that keep me on edge- lies that come so easily. a defense mechanism, or a sort of boundary or wall that one might put between themselves and the world. The kind that I know well go something like:

 

G: He is a complete misogynist. He is actually the worst person in the world. literally so dumb. etc.

 

He approaches the premise. 

 

G: Hi!

with a spacious chest to chest one arm hug. like the bodies so strongly reject, the smile is dripping with condescension and the relationship is a lie. 

 

or or. I know another that you might rebuke, revoke. argue till the day turns dusky. 

 

M: You are so FREE, such an amazing fantastic group of dancers

and later to me

M: She is that overdone extreme kind of harshness that is so unattractive. a bombardment of DEMAND.  attention seeking attention grabbing wow.

 

A complicated situation as a I understand the unforgivable and unavoidable paradox. A desire to civilly engage. the need for confirmation and of course etiquette. manners. of the fucking stone age. although the stone age was a lot less uptight. I know that you don't doubt me, question my ability and...

 

But you listen to me. and you can swallow your pride even when it comes out too strong in the beginning. You follow the trajectory of the conversation as opposed to driving your point into the ground. You allow me to drive the conversation. 

 

M: but im just so tired of overly sexual work that tries to shake patriarchal views of sexuality.

 

N: so.. like this piece for instance?

 

A conversation that was definitely a curious extension of yesterdays, but with the context of having seen the piece twice.

 

Thursday night, the night you were not particularly taken with, was the first of three for the week, but the fourth out of six shows. It was our first sold out evening and the audience was packed with judgmental inquisition. Curators, particularly haute members of the dance world, a crowd that arrived with the intention of scrutiny. You were among them.

 

A difficult audience to cradle. I take a full assessment in the first five minutes but I keep gentle track throughout. Tracking the audience in there spatial shifts, energetics shifts, discomforts and relaxation. My goal is to guide the audience through these shifts, these states, without promoting one over the other. SometimesI am bored, sometimes I am uncomfortable, uneasy, uncertain, lost, elated, satisfied, cozy.. I will experience these without judgement- assessment sure- but no blame and absolutely no intention of something other then what is. As a performer in luciana's work, it is my job to guide you through your own experience. Slowly, steadily I shape your experience. I will let you go, let you fall, let you do whatever is proper for you. But I will always be there. fully there to guide you. 

 

When I am anonymous, this is easy, easeful. I am "anonymous" when the audience is a wash of similar tonality. When the audience is speckled with personalities of particular strength and presence; when I notice the space that is being taken up by a particular human... It's a bit more fun.

 

Oh lorde. like i could cry. I just want to sit and write but I don't know where to start who i am what i care about - no no no - this has nothing to do with anyone else. and yet as we (me) said 7 nights ago on the eve of the new year, I am a little bit of everything. And it makes me cry because it is a daunting and overwhelming proposition. a whole lot to take on. But I want it more than anything. 

 

You claim to be excavating systems of delivery.. I say, we are beyond excavational ability. You say that art and the involvement in this world of creation perpetuates a responsibility of morphing these known systems of delivery within themselves. But aha, it is rather about finding new ones, because of course you can claim anything to be a system of delivery-- rather-- working within a vast frame-work. Cyphering through the already massive collection of systems. not to choose one, but to take on all, a bit of everything, a bit of it all and reconfigure. or or or is there something inherent in embodiment of everything that is the development of something unknown. yes i think this is something. onto something as the americans say. or like, the known no longer matters, it becomes a wash. and I often feel this mentality as a misogynist viewpoint because it is often easier for the white male to get away with a claim that removes the idea of focused work-- but it is very much work-- just a dispersal of such. And maybe this is the next step, a dispersal of misogyny. like instead of trying to dismantle it or uproot it, let it turn to dust and blow it away. let it dissipate by stretching it sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo thin. 

 

Gildevin and a schizophrenic brain wave.

 

CORPORATISM

 

I really don't care for the first thing was a truck a milk truck and then a truck and then a Mexican. a corporatist only has room for a corporation and doesn't have other ideas. I think thats where the supreme court went wrong. because they did that whole money speech and finished it with corporations are people. not privatization - as an off shoot of capitalism. corporations are a new modern invention. they have there place but they are not the end all be all.

If I dont like something, I often find that it is a symptom of a medical condition. if a person in power does something that I dont like, it is usually a function of an undiagnosed medical condition. 

 

In the united states there is a stigma between mixing medical and political. "why" I mean I dont know if you care but, I think the Bush family really likes the idea of freedom-- could be slight paranoia -- 

a general distrust of caucasian people. often times these predisposition's have historical roots. I can trace the bush family fairly far back, historically. like back to ancient Egypt. 

 

N: why the bush family?

 

for whatever reason, the concept of power comes naturally to them- predisposed to being in charge. that is literally what they are for. 

 

N: are you particularly interested in people in power?

 

I wouldn't follow that train because I think we might be getting into negative town.

In a natural hierarchy the navy comes before the national guard. 

 

N: like in rank?

 

like a lion vs. a gazelle. a natural hierarchy. 

I dont know if this helps but I am trying to be political with you. Governors of state are allowed to shut down states. the national guard can help shut down a state. juris prudence. the method in which laws are called forth.

I dont know if you are going to like this or not, but built into the idea of the holidays is the idea of singularity, a choice, you have to decide who you are going to lean towards. a person with the title governor is inherently imbued with power. I mean that makes sense right?

 

Now what I will say is that I prefer the navy over the national guard and it is about me right now, again, I am literally trying to be helpful. Im assuming that you still like being political and for me that is a topic of conversation.

 

N: you just want to talk about politics?

 

Yeah, and i am inclined to help you be a better you, that is what I was taught to do, i don't know if you care or not.

 

N: Alright well I have to go plug in my iPad cuz its about to die.

 

Well i don't really know where to find extension cords these days.

 

We are sitting front on the porch.

 

Its been a while since ive really sat down to write. like really given myself a moment or two to dig into the arteries. It was a lot of negotiating the external that kept me from being alone alone with the tic tic tic. We fucked to oOoOO and now 3-51am on the headphones makes me feel you a bit more viscerally then two minutes ago. oh boy i am a baby gurl. gruel. Ain't nothing more to it. I will stay this way and if you recognize the power the influence the sneaky and non demanding incursion, well good for you. a bald eagle in the treetops . bare. late January on the BoldBus to Eugene OR. Timeless scatters. what is the point if I'm never famous. I want to disappear into oblivion. in my past life? I told you, a black hole.

 

self doubt. nah i don't got any. I have a lot of work to do. oh how fun. University of Oregon library I'm coming. Silently cuming for you. underneath momi's work table in her work room. How the hell do I fit. Is it possible to be too malleable? ONE W EVERYTHING. nah not possible. I don't need to be a whole. or a hole. the thoughts of a poststructuralist dipshit. heeeeeyyy. a relic in time. The History of Sweden. a collection of 4 books - thousands of pages each - a collection of the current to decipher the past that is now. history is just as much now as it is then. History is not what it used to be. maybe an editor can tell me who I am. How I see the world. maybe an editor can give me confines. perimeters. surface area. I am figuring something out. and that is very specific

 

editory

 

break down the barriers. there is nooooooooooooo000000000000000000000000ooooooooooooo differentiation between us. 

 

How many ways can i say nothing. A BALD EAGLE. Gildevin in the treetops just a white head overlooking. overlook park.

 

Grandpa in his chair.

 

G: That's my spot, your going to find another one.

 

N: How about like this?

 

I perch on the arm rest. 

 

G: (a bit of a laugh) that could work. i guess that makes you my ho and me like a a pimp.

 

N: nah, youda ho. im in a place of power sitting above you.

 

G: (simple satisfactory recognition)

 

is a sick person allowed to talk about pimps and hos? Gildevin always was fairly outspoken. never cautious or soft with his interjections. Nothing has changed there. Gildevin have you always been schizophrenic?

 

Boy you want it to make sense so badly - to have an arch, a narrative - and yet the other day you texted me:

 

Btw, your show was

amazing!! You were such

a fuckin standout. I can't

believe I watched

something with no plot

and no narrative and felt

emotionally engaged and

amazed for three straight 

hours. It was like if the

replicants from blade

runner had their own

version of soul train

haha, cyborg

transhuman dance party

where everyone burns

twice as bright :)

 

Im slow. Im young. There are a few of you that are geniuses in this world. you are my friends. I am sure that you have massive insecurities. Unedited Pretension

Am I? I only ask because I often think that I am but never without question. But then again I am questioning the meaning of a word as opposed to a reality. Shall i define genius. well first said disposition requires the ability to spell the effing word. 

 

Albany OR. a minute to pee on the road.

 

Same place different time different direction. Just following the asymmetrical arrow of life.  Derrida is a good past my bedtime read. Yummy Cheetos on the BoltBus. You are not a choreographer. You are interested in something as a performer, particularly power. the power dynamics between you as dancer and them as choreographer and now you as choreographer and her as dancer.  You use dance to hash out personal shit, to figure yourself out, understand your feelings. You are not a choreographer. there is no dance. it is all conceptual, not concept in a Deluezian way, but German conceptual. Poor Guattari, never gets credit.

 

Doomz day kidz. 

 

I can write but I cannot reread. 

 

Walter Benjamin on collections. and every addition changes the "identity" of the whole. but it is never whole because the collection is forever expanding. a constant becoming. 

 

obsessive. am I an academic?

 

I am whatever I say I am. If i wasn't, why would I say I am. 

 

nausea. swampy.

 

 

 

How do you know if somebody is mentally ill or just an ass hole? when people are assholes they are functioning under faulty pretense. when do you excuse people and when do you not? 

 

I hear what you are saying and i understand that that is what you believe and i just want to say that that is not what i believe. 

 

not because it is going to change anybody's mind but because i need to say it.

 

Sanne on assholeyness: 

 

if somebody has a broken leg you wont tell them to pull themselves together and walk. it is ok to say what you need to say but you don't need to say it in opposition to the other person. 

There assholeyness is a curse. it is harmful to them. Gildevin is hurting himself more then me. say what you need to say, but don't disregard what he is saying. in the end, labeling doesn't matter as much.

 

Standards. I have different standards for myself then I do for others. And different standards for you then for you. In fact I don't have any standards at all for you. I judge myself based on what I know of myself. I have personal expectations only because I know myself, to a degree. My expectations are contingent on that which I know, or think that I know. Therefor if I set my expectations too high, the comedown or the disappointment can be detrimental. Complete horror. I prefer not to expect anything from anyone other then myself.

 

Baez sings Dylan. 

 

right. but it has a fleeting quality. it really makes sense but somehow it escapes me. i suppose thats why writing is important.

 

Pomofos leading us astray. a critique of Michel Foucault.

 

He may not be a complete advocate of neoliberalism, but his attacks on the welfare state are decisive elements of the neoliberal critique of the state. 

Im a bit tired now to decipher my thoughts but I want to talk about the welfare state and when the homeless man asks for money and...

 

I was sitting in the bath, Juniper had just arrived from Eugene and momi asked questions about school. The talk was on philosophy, existentialism in particular and phenomenology. Academic by nature, so her inquiry on postmodernism seemed logical. 

 

S: Yeah, I was always into Existentialism also.

 

They conversed about consciousness not being predisposed. the idea that we as humans have free will and that our consciousness is developed in relation to the experiences that we have.

 

and me from the bathtub, I said something about Merleau-Ponty. Like bringing philosophy back to the materiality of our being as opposed to intellect being all holy. It's a rejection of the Cartesian, hierarchical ideology. the Intellect as godly

 

holy

 

sacred.

 

S: Do you know about Phenomenology?

 

to Juniper

 

J: Yeah, it rejects the notion that the pure consciousness is the source of knowledge and asserts that the body's experiences are the primary source of knowledge.

 

and me from the bathtub. lived experience, which makes perception and perspective important, the way that we perceive and relate to objects.

 

J: rather then perceiving things objectively as existing human-centrically, phenomenology opens up the option of subjectivity in relation to consciousness.

 

S: Do you know anything about Postmodernism? Gildevin brings up this word a lot, and I don't really know if it has relevant meaning.

 

J: Yeah, a little. Not academically so well, but in relation to art its like the materiality of the art is not so important, I mean, the object is not what matters, but rather the meaning.

 

and me from the bathtub. Conceptual art is very postmodern.

 

J: And there is no definition of art because it can really be anything, there is a fluidity where everything kind of bleeds. Its a breakdown of structuralism as the focus is on individuality and autonomy, like everybody has equal opportunity because everything is one and the same. So style is no longer relevant.

 

and me from the bathtub. And historical eras kind of lose relevance, or like vertical perception of time in general is unimportant. It is very elitist.

 

S: so Phenomenology is not postmodern?

 

J & N: No

 

J: Oh and reality is all perception, there is no objective reality.

 

and me from the bathtub. politically this mindset can be extremely detrimental. If you think about healthcare or something, with no objective reality there is no unified need because everybody's needs are different which is a common argument against welfare and the right to healthcare.

 

Its such a dispersal - Uber, Airbnb, postmates etc. no benefits, no unity as workers, sure you get to make your own schedule, but who do you go to if you need a a pay raise, healthcare, etc. there is power in numbers, and postmodern companies disperse the ability to unify workers and simultaneously degrades the notion of laborer or worker. It is extremely enticing and seemingly glamorous in relation to art, but realistically it perpetuates class discrepancy, racism, sexism and all that crap, while supporting those few that have the ability to "be independent" and work as a freelance artist. And furthermore, postmodernism is an academic development, inherently elitist. I don't feel particularly in tune with Marxist ideals either, as value has taken on a completely different form, or formlessness these days, but maybe more interesting or relevant is the way that Silvia Federici talks about woman's unpaid labor.

 

Carmina Burana

 

Sitting in on their choir practice because they are in love. The kind of love that bell hooks talks about except a bit less preachy. I wanted to ask her something but I cant now remember. 

 

I sent the book to the one that I think that I love just a little bit more then usual, after reading only 150 pages. Many things to say in relation to her first 50. I sent two books, All about love and Bluets. A bday present, to Belgium just a few days late. One a bit overly spirited and optimistic, the other a bit too dismal and depressive. Each one a hammer driving the nail home. From front to back bell hooks on love and Maggie Nelson on blue. I really like that. a book that talks about nothing other then its subject matter. I suppose those two writers sat down with the intention of writing about their respective topics of choice. 

 

Maybe bell had no idea that her book would be all about love. Over time developing it, the work became clear, the truth of her quest showed itself and everything revolved around love. the rest sent to the grave. Surprising to me that more books don't have bloopers, out takes. Like Walter Benjamin's story- version one with all the content about being a Jew during the nazi regime following version two, the edited version, just a boy living his own politics. I haven't read it yet, either version. But I hear from a credible source that version two is much stronger. I can imagine.

 

Kim read my palm at the wedding that happened in Portland, Oregon. A matrimony declared between Sanne and Robert. She looked at middle fingers, the way that they drastically lean toward the ring finger on both hands.

 

K: Oh!

 

she declared that while I was an organized person, I greatly needed creativity first in order to be capable of accomplishing organizational feats. She was taken aback by my huge sagging mount of luna

 

K: You must must write! You will published, and not self published, anybody can do that, but like really published!

 

She was enthusiastic. and I was pleasantly surprised, Kim had no prior knowledge to my writing habits.

 

Point being tho, that creativity is definitely first and foremost for me, like no ability to get anything done if I have been neglecting the creative work in the studio or the keyboard. but who cares really. 

 

I want to talk more about love before we get back to postmodernity, white supremacy and Welfare lol.

 

and now ginger lemon, hot with water. Carmina Burana and a drippy sleep.

 

The conversation tonight with sis. vulnerability and disempowerment. She told me about Nile, the Brit taking a year off from Oxford to travel to the US, spent some good quality time in Eugene, OR - a real tourist hotspot. like really? They have some affection for one another but she spoke of him in relation to his air of confidence. The kind that comes from the "in crowd" as she called it. Those who have been fed from a silver spoon. This is how its done, this is how you do it, now do it well. And it works for many, following the path that is readily made. Unless of course you become an alcoholic and try to to rebel but are too sad to do it in any productive way drugs become your get away from mamma and the rest of the hard hard world. 

 

Nile was very good at it. He was in the midst of accomplishing his destiny and he could do it with strong footing and pride. Quite put together on the surface of his shiny white skin, and quickto judge others on their less then shiny surfaces. Underneath though, packed with insecurities.

 

J: Deep rooted insecurities that come from having two much structure, too many expectations from family and extended societal constructs/ influences.

 

This is a habit.

 

N: Like my friend Henry, the poster boy of white America, middle class from Boston, a name with a long lineage, well educated, good physique. nice boy with sparkly teeth. He said to me once, "oh, you gotta steer clear of people with insecurities." But what ive noticed is that hes gotta stay far far away from people with insecurities because he is actually fraught with them, but he doesn't even realize it himself. And with somebody like that, as soon as you get a little deep, test the waters a little and question their reality, well the defenses come up and boom it's a fight. A fight against somebody who is not down to question his beliefs because until that moment they have worked out just fine.

 

J: Yeah and it translates to intimacy to, like when I open up to him and become vulnerable I have to simultaneously give him the upper hand.

 

N: totally. You have to give up some of yourself because fundamentally this person is incapable of opening up to you and respecting you fully because they are caught up in trying to protect their own pride which keeps them from reciprocating this vulnerability.

 

J: Right, so then there is this disempowerment that comes with the vulnerability because I am still letting him hold onto something that is fundamentally at odds with my beliefs, but I wont say it because I want to feel vulnerable and open, so I hold back and become slightly mute.

 

N: Its in these moments when you realize how badly you need to be dating a feminist. Like somebody who will talk and talk about what they "know" sure, but then turn it around and ask you, "but what do you think?" or whatever it is, throwing the conversation back at you because they are genuinely curious about your perspective and they will literally force it out of you even when you dont think you have anything to say. And then of course it turns out that you do..

 

J: Yeah, but you need somebody that is really aware

 

N: Yeah, I mean why do you think im having sex with a 47 year old?

 

J: It funny that you bring up a 45 year old, I was just thinking about my Physics teacher. He was much older then me but I always felt like he really respected me, like saw me as a real person or like a woman as opposed to a girl. I hate the word girl.

 

N: Yeah, or like, just a human. 

 

The convo went on and on. thru Harry Potter and the Alchemical formulas used by J.K. Rowling,  thru a deep analysis of I Love Dick and Chris Kraus - this took place in the bath, and right before my phone died we talked about Momi. 

 

A More Covert Equivocation

 

does it have to be effortful in order for it to be worthwhile? Life that is. 

 

J: I feel like Mom does that. She becomes so passionate about something that it becomes so personal and then she loses track of how she is affecting the people around her.

 

N: like Kraus becoming so obsessed with Dick, but not really Dick, more like he was the unlucky prototype to fit her already waiting obsession. longing for a subject.  It's a complete disregard of his humanity, his feelings as he becomes her toy. the outlet of all of her neuroses.

 

With momi its the same way, I mean she even said that she was relating her relationship with Robert to an art project, I mean common, how frightening is that? She puts all of her vivacity into one person and they become 100 percent involved in something that they know very little about. Where does his autonomy go in relation to her? She has so much going on inside her own world, which is really great, but this world needs to find refuge in inanimate objects, in creation, in art rather then fully in another human. 

 

J: Yeah, I feel that. 

Brain on High

 

I suppose this is where it gets complicated as a choreographer. Or maybe not complicated at all. In fact quite the opposite, for me. Ok so the way that she wanders is almost impossible to describe in a paragraph, its more like, oh god I hope you are experiencing these meanders thru non chronological order over the coarse of digesting these pages. Sure, but to describe the what is a whole other matter. All I want to say is, I think about people constantly. I think about what they think, how they think, how they relate to the world, to other people, what they believe in and what they despise. I am obsessed with people that I cannot predict because there are so many out there that reek predictability and I immediately do not care. There is a difference between obsession and love, but it is complicated when I begin to love somebody that I am obsessed with.  Or I become obsessed with somebody and then I think that I love them but maybe Im just obsessed. But what is my obsession. My obsession is in the not knowing. and i do have to say that love is something that I do not know. But. stay focused. the obsession is in the unknown. It has been like so for a long time. 

 

Sometimes Babies just gotta be a lil bossy. 

 

So here I am - just like Chris Kraus, just like momi, and Juniper relates also- in a predicament. using people. as opposed to loving people. But what a heart-wrenching horribly sad and desolate realization. immediately my soul drops, envelops my heart and they both wither. But i know that the simplicity of this statement is not what i believe in. In fact using people is our reality no? I dance for luciana achugar- i submit myself to her process, I have committed myself to her, an unsaid agreement, and unwritten contract, luciana, you may use me. and I will use you. When I ask you to come to the studio to develop my choreography with me, I am asking you to trust me. "not so quick to trust, are ya?" I don't know. I honestly do not know. 

 

And now it gets loud in here in this mock Israeli cafe that sells beer and has a blue and white tiled floor like something you might find in Palestine. I should give up my seat for the rich white couple that just walked in, I mean, I didn't even order a single drink. But Dark Side of the Moon just came on the stereo and how freakin often does one get to hear such a feel gooder? Breath in the air. don't be afraid to care. Funny cuz I am more afraid then you will ever know. Run rabbit Run. something about the sun. Categories. I am unpredictable. I am unknown to me. sappy yapper. drunk voices talking too loud. like white noise you drown out the unnecessary chatter in my own brain. But what is the necessary then? That which finds itself appearing on this screen. I have a headache. too much stim. like at the physical therapist. wow nobody cares. As if I were to go into the politics of the no Fault bullshit that runs my life since my bike accident. But this is not a political essay, so I will spare you from the sad excuse that is the American healthcare system for those of a low socio economic class.

 

Just quickly tho.. I have a doctor who has been evaluating me under no Fault. I recently received a letter stating that I must be examined by a particular No Fault physician to decipher what Geico will continue to cover, etc. fist, a 1.5 hour trip to get the designated examination office. I walk into a small rectangular waiting room in Forte Hamilton. packed with people - black people mostly, many latinos, a few Indians and a Russian, many of whom couldn't fill out the paperwork as it is all in english. The line extends out the door just to pick up the paperwork. A few hours later I make it to the front desk, pick up my paperwork, fill it and hag out in the waiting room for eternity. Then called to another more intimate waiting room before I am at last called into the examination room. Maybe 20 seconds max w this doctor as a move my head to the right, left, up, look down, now touch yours toes. I try to explain that I dance so this is all fairly easy, but my abilities are still restricted when it comes to my work. I don't think she heard or cared. I got a letter one week later stating that my No Fault coverage that provides me with PT has been terminated. But surgery is still covered. Literally fuck off.

 

I think you are wrong Sammi. I think that Kanye West is insecure and doubts something. or like, did at some point. In order to get really fucking good at something, you have to critique yourself. scrutiny. Many years of thinking I am not good at things has developed a deep rooted precision and pervasiveness that refines my skills over and over again. I will never settle for anything less then the best. I know that I have a long way to go before I am the best possible me, of course an unattainable feat. So i work day in and day out refining my skills. my tools. my keys. If Kanye never doubted himself then he never had a chance to refine his tools. maybe that is why he sucks now. 

 

love,

nikima

 

And then I immediately think again about obsession. 

 

and then the realization that it is not you that is avoiding me, but rather me needing to avoid you. just a bit to regain my autonomy.  I can love you best that way. When you are not me and I am not you and I don't bombard you with my own expectations and I can see that you are amazing super wonderful, but going thru it your way not mine. I mean I am not going thru it your way, but mine. 

 

Influence and then take a step back. Let it settle. Maybe a sense of strength is produced in the span of an intimate relationship between two headstrong powerful stubborn larger then life people. It is rare that you see two of these people that just seep into everything, influence all that come near, guide and... It is rare that you see two of these types together in a shared egalitarian intimacy. This is me. I am me. I will be constantly altered and morphed and transformed by those that surround me. I will not overpower the ones that I love and I will not let them over power me. you know what i mean? huh? yeah of course.

 

Love - like the real development of love for another human, in congruence with self love - needs physical distance. space. Im not tryna talk about space and time. but i needa tell a story. 

 

Story time. XFM

 

You know that feeling. the one that you get. like heat. like all your breathe leaves and you are left just cells without any oxygen like every molecule infused with heat. like melting into oblivion with no sense of your bodies boundaries, just sensation maybe centralized in your pelvis but only because that is your center, your most protected and cradled orb of energy. and you feel the absorption of heat and the expansion of cells and the borders dissolve and your pelvic floor opens to the earth - release like liquid or just heat with no substance. and your jaw relaxes and your cheeks and the skin under your eyes become weightless and your eyebrows drift up your forehead just a little and your pupils dilate because you are falling into yourself but also through yourself into the rest of everything and you are nothing but heat. no substance no thought, fully open and available.

 

Well sometimes I feel this after a few sips of a Hendricks Martini. and sometimes I feel this when you text me things like 

 

and soon it's you and me

time. Spot on and in the

middle kiss

 

or

 

Can't we Saturday a little 

- make out a little I 

hold your hand or

even around your waist

 

or

 

And then we can

disappear into each other

for a few hours

 

And the other feeling that I was thinking about today was slightly the opposite, a dissatisfaction. But in relation to the one that has come up a lot recently. Obsession. Ok ok. retrograde. to where?  Approval? Juniper and I talked about it on the phone. seeking satisfaction from others, from the external because of the emptiness within. Stretching oneself too thin, I am lost. I disappear. I rely on others for recognition, to prove that I exist. because I exist only in other people and how they see me. not even how, but if. and then what am i? i am nothing, just their own reflection. of themselves. And yes, there is something appealing about this, to dissolve into ones surroundings, into others, to be another's reflection. 

 

Its like the plan is never the outcome when it comes to writing. The words are my own reflection. 

 

Framework

 

The serious moonlight. face to face with the man who sold the world. badoom dakadaka. and today we talked about new age bullshit as the capitalization of an appropriated eastern culture. It began over the discussion of my use of the word CHAKRA. omg. I mean shit. your issue is words that are used without a scientific grounding, whatever dude. like really. If, with each Qi Gong class, the circling of my hands around my belly button in the direction of my digestion provides me with prominent digestive ease, well fuck, ima trust that Qi Gong helps with digestion. And it sure ain't based on any scientific studies. But then we got a bit more specific, and your "note" on my writing became a bit more clear in your own brain. your head, your mind, and your brain. anyway, you approached it from a political standpoint. 

 

SA: I just think that if you are going to use a work like Chakra, that has so much political connotation attached to it, you have to do it well.

 

N: right, well of course. I am using it precisely for this purpose. I know it has political connotation and I want to bring that up, and I want to recognize it as a word and as a meaning and as something that will make many people cringe, and maybe some people will take it at face value and that's just another fact of humanity - fairly unavoidable - like Drumpf for president. But I dont want to hide and I dont want to..

 

SA: here is the thing, its not cool to appropriate, and its not cool to be ironic, so the the only thing left to do is actually believe. 

 

It was sarcasm. but i went with it.

 

N: wrong. I am doing none of the above. It is not a commentary and it is not ironic and I don't believe like a devout Buddhist.. But at the same time it is a fairly good reference point because, well, it happens to be pop culture these days. like hippy alternative pop. 

 

Rock n Rollers

 

Anyway, Im tryna put words to feelings. and Chakra's describe an energetic local, which is a prominent part of feelings, no?

 

Regardless, I will think three time over about the political language that I use. drip drip drip. I want words that cause you to think about a million other things. so many things not a thing matters.

 

#3Doors

 

pretty things

 

all the pretty things

 

I returned home today with melancholy and infinite sadness. It was David Bowie that brought the tears gushing. literal uncontrollable shakes convulsions taking hold. letting go to the the spasms. holding tight to Leo's flabby belly. fur draped over my shoulders keeping the muscles from seizing. open mouth, tilted back - up to the sky but no vision. look at those cave men go. I cut my mousy hairs as he kept belting - absolute beginners - and I feel like a girl again. thank that beautiful lorde. 

 

changing time. now and then. present tense to past.

 

I mean its a bit sappy or something. but i shake now, with minor cold sweats. what have i actually eaten this week? mmm but food, who really cares, a bit of qinua and a cabbage, you sustain me just the way i need. and the rest, the nourishment, comes from the work. What a glorious fraction of love. a fraction of the hole. Im an absolute beginner, but im absolutely sane. and i feel. the effects of this life, like a gitty joy. im literally shaking. with eyes completely open. nerves. corny and real. such joy looking over, two college students sharing wendy's fries four rows apart. and the oversized man sitting next to me on the jetblue, so conscientious with his excess body. so polite, holding himself together.

 

I absolutely love you. 

 

You with your XL. I try you on for size. and well, yes, I like it XL. 

 

maybe even XXL

 

And then Emily Zimmerman was so keen on me writing a bit about the likes of working with Marten Spangberg. I said something to her on our way back to the Henry museum in Seattle, she said it was key, but honestly I dont recall what it was that was key... maybe she is a bit boring. How wonderful. shalalalala. 

 

I suppose its like a bit of David Bowie and bit of Rihanna. a bit of island breeze and bit of rock n roll disco. and sparkles and a bit long walks in a meadow. its a bit Carona with lime and a maraschino cherry. its a bit like jetblue on a landing strip, or more like ready for takeoff and the end of the first song on an excellent album. Its a bit like the lights on downstairs and a bowl of cornflakes. a bit like black and red but just for a second. its like gentle and a bit blustery or flustered. Its like never ending. Hurricane.

 

And then its as if I could cry. like that LIMINAL spaaaaaaaace.... it is the conversation at large. It is this that is most cared about. mmhm. Actually who really knows what this conversation will lead to. and like, I want to ask you to sleep with me. but like not sleep with me, but just sleep with me cuz I want to be cozy, but I dont know how. Like I really actually dont know how to ask. And even now as I write these words I say them - in my head you know- but with your accent. How the hell can you say that we do not have a collective unity here. right? like this is us together and we infiltrate one another, hopefully we are open to it, whatever is in between. there is no avoiding. And that double space sneaks in every once in a while but I don't like it so I always retract. Also like am I here? Or invisible. and aren't we all invisible. Also seen, sure but the context is invisibility within invisibility within invisibility etc. and I want to touch you but also I am a bit uncertain as to what it will feel like and is that maybe fear that keeps me from doing it? I mean like you are there brushing your teeth. Or like so uncertain. about what? well like I have these moments of autonomy and then these moments of connectivity and is ther a differentiation? And then you go to bed and I am the only one awake until the next door opens and wala there you are coming out of another door. opening. come home. Give me context. so much to work with. Are you there? are you thinking about, what is it then that crosses your mind when you depart into your land of autonomy. the invisible city is throughout. I mean walk down the street in Marrakech and you are still brushing your teeth. I was certain that you had finished. nah, like me it takes a long time. Twins? Even the streets tho, like the ones just outside the door. If you come downstairs again. I will ask. but I dont know what.

 

And then you say goodnight from upstairs but I call you down. Like everybody here, there is sensitivity. I stutter one million times over myself. But it comes out I suppose how it needed to. Not forcing, but yes an exhausted nudge or two. next time its an easy, do you want to snuggle in the big bed? But it is true. I also want non of the directional sexual. The attraction I feel with you, well its childish. a bit shy but really strong attentive desire.  To touch. Slowly. on my terms. like the Bonobo, I will choose the temporality. You mention this thing, like nobody around here really hugs.. but I get that, I really get that. It is a huge threshold to cross. I mean why cross it so quickly - just to get to the other side? Maybe just hang out in the threshold for a while. feeling cool with the ambiguity and the multiplicities of possibilities or not. All the unsaid and the unknown. FEELINGS. I know I may be young, but I have feelings too. Thanks Brittany.

 

Today on our pilgrimage. Around the entirety of the Medina from door to door, gate to gate. The eclectic measures of a stagnant space. And at every door we notice. Well half of them pass by fairly unnoticed but always a little. mmmmm but the truth. the truth of the walk, unrelated or only slightly related to after affects, was the moment that we spent in between cities. Standing neither here nor there. Not the old nor the new, but right there in the threshold. with cars and motorbikes speeding by, such immediate confusion or curiosity in this proposition of two people standing, stagnant, waiting? just there, in the threshold with no intention of going to a place. I suppose you genuine folk would call it a liminal space, but I go ahead with becoming minoritarian - something like airport textures. And those in transit. all those that pass thru, there is a paradox in these two words 'in' 'transit'. transit means nowhere. it implies somewhere. Point being that this transient somewhere is a blimp in time. a hiccup regardless of duration because it is constantly reestablishing itself as being nowhere. We, the two of us standing in the doorway, we are in nowhere. We do not exist. The transient fellow sees acknowledges and then hits the refresh button. We are an emblem, a bit of junk in the junkspace that draws only a bit too much attention to the space that is not a place. We, the two of us standing in the threshold and reminders are forgotten immediately, or such is at least the intention. There is no place to stand. no space for stagnation. It is only there to move thru. to travel from one to the other. And this is the truth of what is still relevant when we speak of liminality.  This is a rite of passage (a political right) that is taken from many many so many. No you may not enter. No you may not exit. But to stand around and wait for nothing. to feel content in the in between in the unknown, well we know that is unheard of. And then I am standing there with the speed passing by. I hold onto slow gentle chill and I am certain that you will forget me just as I forgot you. But I will never forget this gentle slow and I will never forget the other human that met me there at this same speed. 

 

I must sleep for just a few hours. be invisible for a time. 

I must sleep. be invisible for a while.

 

Keep your cool.

 

Somehow the energy is renewed to its fullest every time. Sun Power. I am excited about the autonomous unity. yup yup. and what was it that left my mind just before drifting.  The bee chillin on my bread and bugs in her bed. He likes the sweet more then anything. I also like sweet. gentle. dear diary. Maybe he will finish sucking up my jam on his own. I can imagine that breakfast can only be so long for such a small flying critter. 

 

and soon body work.

 

But what does this have to do with yesterday. She flew but yes, quite bloated. 

 

You asked me what it is about. Well I might as well stick to the point no? Like bell hooks, she has this whole book on love. It is an academic preach on that complex reality. blah blah blah dumb sentence. I want you to know that love is so much of what you describe, and yet I will take it a step further, like to understand the process of learning to love. I think that may be the sentimental part. Whatever that means, sentimentality. sure sure. Just another very important reoccurring theme in my book of themes. hah. whatever.

 

And this Moroccan choreographer.. im bored. Get back to ya later. 

 

And then I realize that wow. duh, there are reoccurring themes of interest. Here in the pleasant cafe atmosphere. But it was an escape. an escape of something that is festering. Now I think there is experience, at least a bit in the position that is held by Hana. Yet dismissal is also prevalent. I go back to black. Obey. Just a way to keep typing. black black black black. I go back to. But the importance is in the... how do you say... HIERARCHY. sure, existing power structures, but the conversation is specifically hierarchy because the claim or the proposed interest in this collective was the dissemblance of such. And if my daddy thinks im fine. 

 

But daddy dont know shit cuz yeah, this is about us.

 

But also, the universality of pop culture. Its another one that I wouldn't mind to read about. just a little. And then I begin to think about the 48 hours and well, what you once said to me, this thing about my writing. "some of it is just totally not interesting." 

 

N: But is it disrespectful to read something totally unedited?

 

SI: Disrespectful to who? the Gods of literature?

 

N: People's ears..

SI: Well they are not locked in the room.

True.

 

Relating to Arab poetry, like the OG Arab poetry that was written with cadence, with the intention of being sung, or at least read out loud. If I were to read, and just keep reading like on and on and on and you might listen or you might not and you might recognize the non importance of all of it. What kind of fuckery is this. In the autonomous reading of a book, one might be driven by interest. When the work is spoken, mm, there is company. You are not alone. and yet the cosmos is yours. relate or don't, just as you wish.

Lisa you talk to me about loneliness.

 

I told you that i was trouble.

I cry for you on the kitchen floor. 

 

suck my feet. carpet burn. 

 

you talk to me about loneliness. Those days in the past that were forlorn and laden with books. Ha, the days in the past, as if. "If I am depressed and I call my mom to complain she always says, 'have you read a book recently', 'no', and then voila."

 

no time to regret.

 

Time spend with my fictional friends. 

 

And so much of my work, yes it has been 

 

N: Do you feel cool? 

 

Stickle: In general?

 

N: Right now.

 

Stickle: our little conversation stressed me out a bit. i know now you were curious about relationships generally too. its cool. its just a complex thing that i dont talk about lightly/publicly and i started to feel judged at some point. i know that was not your intention. i care about you and what you think and i just wasn't prepared to feel all the feelings that rushed to me when we started talking about this deep stuff. so it's taking a moment for me to return back to the work i came here to do which has nothing to do with him. but writing about it like this helps. thanks for asking. lol, is that what you meant?

 

I cannot help but to provoke. Never settle. Compromise? not even. But I learn a lot from you as well. Diplomacy, care. simple steadfast solidity. and confusion. To confuse is not my intention. In fact I am often unaware of the implications - these are the things that cross my mind and I am not in fact judging you. I am open to you this way because I trust you. like very intensely so. and I trust that you have considered your actions extensively and well, have something to say. I dont know what you will tell me, in fact I hope not to inflict your words with agenda. But to hear your truth in relation to my inquiries. 

 

Anyway, it goes on. and I want to talk about the way I would do it, or the way I did it the other evening. or maybe it was night, like right before bed and most people were already in bed but I was downstairs still writing and you were upstairs brushing your teeth and then I called you down and stuttered over my shyness. There was some unknown in how I wished to relate to you in the moment. like a complete intimacy or this desire to be close physically without the intention of singularity or an end goal following sexual protocol and expectation. I don't want to get hot with you, but rather, something more like love. A development of love the way I understand such a concept.  This development is one of physicality, inherent in my being. I cannot love without touch. And I am beginning to understand that I prefer not to touch without love. cynicism is not my conversation at the moment. 

 

As a I stuttered, I began to realize what it was that I needed to say to you. Why I had called you down in the first place. It is a beautiful thing when a human gives me the space to say what I need to say. It is a particularly rare to feel this with a cis man. and I say this with context in mind. Like that moment when you need to share something really intimate, something that you have not discovered on your own. that thing that you have not codified. that thing that maybe it is not even possible to discover on your own. A similar intimacy to one you might share with your mom or your best friend if you are close to either, but these words, they are particular to a lover and cannot be configured with a friend or a mother. 

 

It was this that I wanted to say. No, not this, but more like, a feminist approach to sexuality, a dispersal of directionality. a decentralization. I asked your permission, 

 

N: I just want to love you

 

R: I love you too

 

and if love is granted, well then I must tell you this,

 

N: I feel a sexual attraction to you, but it is a sexual attraction that I hope does not produce contention. 

 

And today we made lunch together and I described to you my feminist approach. This feeling of needing to say something and being given the space to actually say it and be heard. 

 

This concept that you brought up, this one about hierarchy, or in fact I think I brought it up. Regardless, this idea of being above somebody on the ladder. In order to dismantle the...

 

But now I am overcome with feeling, like a deep sadness that lives deep in the bloody fleshy cells tucked under the skin and protected by the ribcage. What is in there? sadness? loneliness. Ahh yes, the pleasures of being alone alone alone. 

 

I forget about you when you are not present. I forget about you when you are not making yourself known. I am satisfied without you. I am satisfied in my aloneness. And yet, quite willing to melt. But I melt only when you are nearby. Easy to forget, or maybe it is more like that desire for... Incomplete thoughts roll aimlessly while XXYYXX plays cyclically. Only incomplete because I feel as tho these very words have been hashed out for ages and there is nothing to add. And yet the lack of focal precision comes from a scattered attitude. trying desperately to hold onto the autonomy while being threaded from every direction in every direction. threaded through the pinhole and pulled taught. Like maybe I want to sew you all together. And is it through words that we talk about relinquishing control.

 

You mention that you want to teach a class, but there is fear. To share something that makes so much intuitive sense but may not be translated to others - whatever, I began to ramble because I did not feel as tho you wanted to answer my questions. But it all makes sense, the way you fear teaching because you fear the vulnerability. Well first you may want to open up to your peers, you know just talk about the things that you don't really know. Not everything needs to be fully hashed prior to leaving the lips. I mean common lets talk about the unknown. 

 

In the beginning the little kitty cat, you know, the other one, mentioned that we were a very open group. I felt it too in the beginning but some have closed off a bit, and some never quite opened up to begin with and well it is difficult for some, Emy, who wishes for ease and communication. You are playing with fire. Not everybody is strong enough to let others in, to dissolve into nothingness. Hold on tight to those boundaries they are what protect you. From what? oh god, from disintegration. The Cure.

 

closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer

 

When I talked to you about love, it was not much more then theoretical feminism put into praxis. One million times I have been the victim of sexual attraction. the container for your desire, the vessel for your ejaculation. and a coerced player in your twisted game. 

 

But love is about permission. a constant permission to give and receive the extensive unknown nature of loves possibilities. 

 

closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer

 

closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer closer

 

What a waste of time.

 

So here I am with the desire to love you, to be physically close to you and I must must must tell you that I am also sexually attracted to you. ya dig? But not sexual with intention. Rather, an abstraction of sexuality with no agenda. It is non-directional and hypersensitive and tangible. Eroticism in its most minoritarian form. constantly morphing moving transforming becoming. with no goal, expectation or intention. NO AGENDA.

 

Back in the old days, like long ago when I was still a kid that wore pink rhinestone studded bracelets and matching platform flip-flops, well in those days I used to cut.

 

I was rarely allowed at your house because momi was under the impression that you were a bad influence on me. Partially true I suppose but def a double edged sword. One time we snuck out of your house in the West Hills, the one that Angelina Jolie hung out at. It wasn't so hard to play such childish games, your parents were always fairly oblivious. One night we snuck out and used the idealized freedom to mutilate our little wrists while stationed on the suicide bridge. named for the many suicidal attempts of jumping into the abyss. We cut together, maybe a couple of times but you did not inflict this behavior on me, in fact I continued to cut thru middle school, straight into high school, took a short break and was back at it thru until about age 23.. Eventually getting sneakier with the positioning of my razor. The sneakier behavior was essential, for I was caught and destroyed multiple times. A lier and a cheat. You first turned me into a monster.

 

Action precedes potential or so they sayyyy. But I dig it, this whole philosophy and sci-fi parallel universe thing. there is power in potential, not something that can be exhausted. While I am working something is at work. the Subconscious.. Or something else. Something even more alien. and it is quite cute to witness your excitement about such a topic. Own it, its all I'm sayin. Sure, so you have some extensive philosophical knowledge about certain theories of knowledge and ways of deciphering. This is great. And will be thirstily consumed if you utilize your pedagogical skills. There is hierarchy in teaching. You know things that we want to learn. So teach and take responsibility for your role. This is not a discussion. and of course sometimes it is. and when it is, stop tryna teach, or just back off a little and let the discussion develop. 

 

Whatever, the story was of my past. And particularly that time when you had an AGENDA #always. 

 

I used to wear a watch. I liked the watch, it was fairly small, silver with rungs. Not expensive but also not so cheap. I wore it for years. Eventually it was used for little more then protective measures. I would cut thin lines, small enough to be fully concealed by the wrist band.

 

Funny how disgusted I feel reiterating this tragic disaster. Oh the depressing depths of childhood. The story is fairly unimportant. So I use it to reiterate the manipulation of the one that I called daddy.  

 

She cant surprise you anymore.

 

Darkside

 

Daddy. a word that I have actively avoided for a chunk of time now. But comes up sometimes when I am moaning oh god oh god oh god, yes yes yes, etc. And yet still I avoid. Maybe the connotations are a bit too close. Is my subconscious at work?

Privacy was not a thing. I did not have privacy in my bedroom. I did not have privacy in the bathroom. I did not have privacy in the bathtub, nor my bed. 

 

Just after a fresh cut, I dreaded being upstairs alone with Charlie. I mostly dreaded being home in general, but I had hysterical fear when he came home from work. The mood was never a given, always contingent. When he needed a little entertainment, when he wanted to be involved, there was no avoiding. 

 

I was getting ready for bed one evening. Dark outside with a particularly bright yellow light in the bedroom. The walls also painted yellow. Sis and I, we shared the room, but she was somewhere else escaping neuroses. Anyway, I had almost avoided confrontation, he was still downstairs and I was only minutes away from switching off the light. hidden in the dark. protected by the abyss. And then the stairs creaked, you know, the middle ones that I skipped when trying to disappear. Fuck. heart to hearth, the earths core. Sunk. I still hadn't put on my jamys, no faking it. Gotta play it cool. Don't rush, don't close the door, don't go quickly into the bathroom, pretend like all is good and oh wow I am so hyper happy to see you. Hysterical laughter when he reaches for my wrist. 

 

C: Why are you wearing your watch to bed?

 

Hysterical laughter as I desperately twist from his grasp. Impossible as he forces the front of his body against the little backside of mine.

 

Are we the same size?

 

All I know is that my butt is too big, that it protrudes too far into space because it touches him where his zipper is. 

 

Now I am not only pinned in a lie, but also pinned against his body. And if I move from this position he will surely out me and my sneaky cutting habits. As long as I succumb to his twisted desire I avoid all confrontation. As soon as I pull away, he is malicious. 

 

hysterical laughter. and then I cannot take it any longer.

 

I squirm from his grasp and he pulls watch from wrist exposing the pink slit.

 

Fake furry, I am sent downstairs to show my mother. She is more destroyed then angry, as if I have proven the world to be a travesty incapable of mend. 

 

desolate destruction. I am the inflictor of your depression.

 

It isn't until now that I have somebody telling me to DO THE STANKY LEG.

 

So there ya go, action with unspoken agenda. 

and maybe it makes it a million times important to me that I ask your permission. I want to touch you without intention but laden with sexual attraction. And so I ask your permission. 

 

You are seemingly on the same page and I feel a regaining of confidence. Thank you boundaries. I will establish the boundaries that I need. and they are not your generic type, nor mine.

 

Space. Maybe love is just a whole lot of space. 

 

And again I think about legacy. 

 

Art is documentation of a particular time and place.

 

 

Maybe now is when things get a little sad. Like those feelings that hit before the time is ending. But what is sadness if it is not an emotion. A lack of emotion. Or maybe this feeling, this lack of feeling that I experience is preparation. It is more then a response to departure. It is a gentle stillness. A peace that cannot be disrupted. A short lived hibernation. Safe inside something is brewing. to be conjured into existence.  Through the tentacles of my brain and rhizomatic veins, the magic will soon flow. From one pot to one much bigger pot of mint tea. I have come to share a little something. a small something of myself that I hope is received. To share a moment with you, a blimp in time. Of such sun that dawns a relinquished soul does it always make sense. In a blanket of warmth alone with love. this time the entire family cares just a little and as always I have the steady nerves. Holding strength when others fall apart. only to grow tougher with every step up the mountain. I am everlasting and never ending. Content in my content. material and basic. heavy and situated in everything. flying and opaque, insipid nothingness will begin tomorrow and I will be America once again. You have no idea the amount that is processed in such a brain.

 

Today at Kesh I told them to listen as opposed to raise their voices. and to feel the internal sensations of every shift. There is a very particular quality that I assume everybody understands. I assume everybody feels. but I think this is a personal quality that is a bit less universal then I imagine or hope for.

 

And then there is sadness. but this time real sadness - the kind that brings warm moisture - as I realize once again that I am not seen. that i am not heard. that I am not precious. that you like me, you like to have me around because, sure many reasons, including that I make you feel secure and confident in yourself. Not because I am precious. Not because I am everything. but because you have emptiness that I am capable of filling. I am overflowing. always overflowing. and there she goes, the salty tumbler. rolling down healing cheeks. It was close. there is still time. always time and never is also an option. peace and quite. I am content and diamonds are forever. 

 

To be Momi

 

Caretaker

 

You once told me that you were forgetting english. How nice.

 

Once again I know nothing.

 

Or maybe this is my tactic of departure. Soon we will disperse. So I remind myself that you are not perfect.

 

Perfection is limitless. eternal. forever.

 

back to an autonomy.

 

But a new form of autonomy, the autonomy of the alien. A collective alienation. Collectively alien. I am with you thus far. but alone. perfect.

 

The future of Darkspace is in mind and she lets out long exclaiming exhalations from the side room downstairs. Tough skin. tough love. Someday it will be the sounds of new life, of ripping tissue. Now it is the sound of old friends and nostalgic scriptures imbedded on skin. Diamonds are forever.

 

and for now Rumy has a poem that goes something like... 

 

Sup.

 

And the day has begun. All words. So many words. Art these days. words. Even the tattoos are words. looking over your shoulder as you type them incandescently. I forget the meaning of that one but no desire to check. We are composed. or perhaps it is our fallback our in between our gentle way of proving ourselves. Or perhaps we are using them differently. in such a way that is a dispersal of meaning a dispersal of direction and intention simultaneously we write. Me alone but in space. you alone but available to every eye.

 

But like cant we speak with images. encompassing many many many words at once. Are we stuck?

 

there is no hope there is no future. so you say.

 

hmm. the extremes. But relating to people. What do I want to talk about? what is it that does not cause me anxiety. Friendship lasts forever. Preach preach preach. Is it possible. to just have like a. taste. 

 

It is already open. just by being here. 

 

yesterday we had two realistic encounters of what it is to be in Marrakesh. 

 

In Dias performance. to see the faces. the transformation. 

 

it was twenty seconds and fifty people were there. A performance worth having. And we talk about social sculpture. it comes up again and again because this was an intentional proposal among the applicants. I could sit outside with you but it would be a relaying of your words and well I don't really want your voice in this collection of stutters. 

 

Not when there is no counter point. or a bit of a balance. My first NusNus. Fuck this. But why.

 

A world without need. on a spiritual quest. and I am still curious about the modesty of spirituality. I don't think I agree. But i cannot say for certain because I do not precisely know what you speak of. Halo. 

 

She writes that she needs to pee and a while later she needs to pee and then she goes pee. 

 

I want it to be about last night. 

 

Orange. I have to keep writing because I have committed. but all of a sudden I hate words. You say, one can connect more deeply through non physical manners. Sure I understand that much of a relationship is an unsaid energetic transference. like tentacles of receptivity encircling one another and expanding infinitely. I understand that our energetic frequency is more important then who knows what. but then this conversation about having the sexual feelings. the desires but not acting on them and its funny because you have all these ideas. these concepts these ways of seeing the world and relating to things and words and sayings but then like, your not actually set or certain about your convictions. I mean like, you say one thing as a reaction to a discomfort or a preconceived perception, and then its full Shaggy, wasn't me, bs. you are reactionary. 

 

codependence autonomous. 

 

Take it all really seriously.

 

Interesting the way you discuss this transcendent way of relating to somebody without need. I get it, this finding ones own personal satisfaction, an internal equilibrium. and then relating to another from this place like two entities coming together. Coming together to form a third entity. uncontainable, the alien that is the relationship. I always wondered about the phrase 'power couple'. I always wondered about the phrase 'power couple'. 

 

And then you talk about therapy. like its so necessary for development. 

 

Tell me about this thing where you try to make people fall in love with you. 

 

And I think. Fuck. I love you.

 

So love.

 

Oh god its so overdone. yes. but there is something too it. like the word in itself is so meaningless because its been so overdone. so fuck it. lets move on to description. everything is description but not everything is philosophy. I think you are very smart. If you listened a bit more maybe you a genius. But excessive inquiry is only an option when you are accessible. I think you are amazing. tell me not to become an introvert when there is sadness but you you please don't cut me short when you are not in the mood. or recognize that it is your inability to go deep in this moment as opposed to shushing me with opposition. Manipulation is a phycological afterthought. maybe you never thought about it in the first place. Diamonds in the sky. I think that you are also beautiful. all of you. 

 

you tell me you don't need. but you do need. you need a lot a lot a lot a lot a lot a lot. maybe you can learn a few things from the ones that don't claim to be precious. that don't claim to be the boss. that are not recognized as such. What is nostalgia. stop with it. stop banking on emotion. or don't stop. I will not partake.

 

we had a talk about collectivity and the necessity of an underlying fabric that supports the development of a shared unity.

 

Nostalgia. it is cheap and superficial. artificial and plastic. There is a particular relationship with nostalgia these days as so much of the contemporary pop culture commodifies longing. Or maybe more specifically, pop culture is nostalgia and vise versa. But this is all known, and maybe more pertinent, there is an integration. The 90's are the now. But a renewal of the 90's with an added layer - nostalgia. It is no longer a subcategory of contemporary , but rather the fabric that perpetuates the current. The present and nostalgia are not mutually exclusive. The current world as we know it does not exist without nostalgia. The current world as we know it does not exist without the superficial. without the artificial. It is all a game and we are all dealt a massive deck. 

 

When I am involved in the thinking writing, the sadness or the longing is very much forgotten. One by one the members of the "collective" dissipate. dissolve into cells or sparkles or whatever it is that is ungraspable, unknowable, gone from my perception. There is fluidity to an unstructured suction gone dry. This makes departure slightly less shattering. Does the social sculpture dissipate as soon as the material is shattered? Is it a coming to terms? what is the meaning of this silly little phrase.

 

more to return to in the future. Must continue the weaving of a simply imperceptible thread. The individuals disperse, the entities stay for ever integrated into the ever expanding fabric of the universe. Cheese. superlative campiness. Utopic realisms. with a side of nostalgia.

 

The fear of unity. a distance that cannot be transgressed. does not want to be. exists only in its separateness. there is power in this dynamic. 

 

Full and hollow.

 

soon New York

 

good ole New York 

 

But to transgress this sadness. to desire this transgression in reality. To hope for a shared alteration that results in unity.

 

And in the air of the Anthropocene - a word that still does not exist - we must collectively learn to die. Not as individuals, but as a civilization. How exciting. 

 

Yamamoto Tsunetomo's 18th century Samurai manual, the Hagakure, has some proper advise: "Meditation on inevitable death should be performed daily." own the end. But end is only that which is desired to be discontinued. Yes the end of life as we know it, but the beginning of... the order of things. is not permanent nor stable. Is it individual mortality that shocks our casual faith in permanence? This civilization is already dead. 

 

And this is my home. And what do I do? I treat you- city- like my living room. Nothing invisible here. Nothing unseen. Avoid this and ignore that but the casual encounters with my various misfit family, you give vibrance to the ghosts of life. 

 

I walk into the bookstore. Today consisted of 5 places. the studio. the anarchist feminist bookstore. a conjured lunch with a few groceries no more then $10 for everything. the queer socialist bookstore. and the studio again. 

 

Bookstore # 2 was extra nice with a queer couple, old in purple.

 

QC: you have a tan

 

N: I was just in Morocco

 

QC: where?

N: Marrakech

 

QC: what did you buy?

 

N: not a lot actually, some sandals and a Tajeen

 

QC: did you go to Yves Klein's blue wall?

 

N: omg no. I cant believe I missed it.

 

QC: tsk tsk

 

I feel like I might barf

 

QC:  did you fall in love with a Moroccan boy?

 

N: no, but I fell in love with an Iranian boy.

 

QC: is he beautiful?

 

N: of course

 

QC: will you bring him here?

 

N: maybe someday.

 

I still feel like a might barf.

 

and then I bought a Limonata. and with my back to them they disappeared.  and then there they were, walking out the door hand in hand. and I am left with the heroine addicts at the far table. three of them, with bodies that are confused.  

 

and I might go to the bathroom and stick my finger down my throat. I don't feel so hot. Jetlag?

 

and three more hours of rehearsal..

 

 

And rehearsal is perfect. I love my ladies. why are guys so reluctant. Takes them so long to realize how to dedicate their soul to something worth while. something amazing. Can't you see the future?

 

The night time overtook me. To bed early but in and out of sleep. and then dragon breaths after a wild chase from the next room. I got up in a haze and there she was - that black cat with the mouse between her teeth. dragon breaths. And the stunned mouse motionless in the witch cats chompers. playing dead? smart mouse. Leo slinky, but releases mousy twice to add a little excitement to the game. On the third attempt at recapture I come with a jar and lift up the mattress where she is hiding. Mousy disappeared in the wall. If she is smart, she will never return. I have faith in an ecosystem. And in Regina Ullman's depiction of the mouse in the walls.

 

And then sleep again. with the ghosts and vampires. and dripping sweat in my nudity. I need a layer of protection from this world. there is no safety in nakedness like Clarice Lispector talks of the naked monkeys. safe and naked. I dress in La Substance and peace comes. 

 

I am awake. with 100% certainty that I am a witch. Forgive me for what I have become. Put a little love into my lonely soul. It is less necessary to study the witchcraft of others. much more important to practice and develop my own. Yes. I am a baby. still a little critter. with plenty of pieces to lay in their proper positions.

 

But there is melancholy in the air as the NY primaries speak to Hilary and Bernie is still grassroots. Something here must change, a simple shift in understanding. Sure Bernie you speak for the people, you are proud to say that you are not on Saudi payroll etc. I am proud of you too. But we must not rely on grassroots. small scale folk politics will not take over and transform post capitalism. Bernie you are the leader of a potential revolution. We rely on you to dominate to take hold to be the voice of the people to move beyond small scale to demand attention to accept with open arms large scale financial support. We cannot win with small scale grassroots tendencies. Morals and ethics do not win a revolution, they do not transform capitalism. The masses have something to say. Now let them say it. I know that you are paving the way. But we need you more then ever to lead the legacy. lost on the highway. 

 

Put a little love into my. lonely soul.

 

But I am a witch. and I have work to do. Burn me at the stake. Because I am ready to die a million deaths.

 

And when you come home you mention that the NRA is the only big money that Bernie is dealing with. And I realize that it is necessary as an artist to unite with pop culture because this is the NRA of art. Ok maybe a ridiculous analogy but point being. we cannot make a difference as a grassroots organization. We are. I am not partaking in folk art. I am post capitalist takeover. I am metamorphosis and transformation.  I am the future. What the literal hell am I talking about. Shut up.

 

Suddenly, in rehearsal working so diligently, I stop for a moment to sit and eat a bite of cabbage and rice, and I am sucked into a black hole. of sadness of guilt. A realization that I am evil. or perhaps I am capable of being very evil. Thinking back to when meine mutter was visiting from Portland. A lovely visit. but not without challenges.

 

There we are sleeping in the same bed together, taking the train together, taking qi gong together. I very much want to share my life with this woman that I love so unconditionally.  A week in which we are together 24/7. I was in charge. I was the leader. By friday I was overwhelmed to the point of backlash. Like the devils tongue in Master and Margarita. Forked like a serpentine but coming from the mouth of a conniving black cat. I pulled the race card. I made you the other. I made you self conscious on a superficial level because I needed to separate us. Instead of telling you that I needed some time alone, I triggered emotional pain and forced psychological distance. I hurt you to protect myself. And in the end we cried together and I told you about the pain that I have felt as your little brown baby growing up in a white family. I dont know if it has anything to do with race. the pain that is, the feeling of alienation. It may very well be a concrete excuse, an easy way to direct blame toward the abstract xenophobia that existed within our family. I never felt fully human. fully excepted. I was an object of desire, played with like a toy and forgotten about when playtime was over. The sun has my eyes golden. Saying things mostly decipherable. They get darker when I look down. 

 

I needed to express this. this race discrepancy. this feeling of alienation because I needed to get it off of my chest. I didn't know it until it happened. and then it gushed. and you mostly listened. you didn't understand but you listened. and now I am curious about your analysis. And I wonder if race has anything to do with it - you the oppressor, me the victim. and sexism - you the oppressor and me the victim. It's all so impossible to categorize. My pride is overwhelming.

 

Sanne I don't believe that you are racist. I don't believe you alienated me. But your husband did. And you were so caught up in your own turmoil and internal pain that you didn't notice the trickery. the manipulation. the abuse of power. Or maybe you did notice but were to too weak to fight it. Or maybe you were fighting, but not hard enough. I don't know. but I do believe that Charlie was is is was a racist. And it is hard to say it because- well according to bell hooks I cannot love an abuser. This is a game of conviction. I needed him. i relied on him. i cherished him. i learned from him. he is a part of me. and I need to exorcise that part that is evil. that is manipulative. that cuts where it really hurts. I don't want to open wounds. I have to move on. and relax my mouth.

 

And then I overheard the man at the table across the way speaking to the woman about wanting to write a settingless novel. but then deciding against it because its never been done. Try. a settingless novel sounds impossible. You should definitely try. What is this epidemic of the 21st century youth. No setting. no base. no tradition. How exciting.

 

In my bed. In love with a few. Not gonna fuck around. Deal? sure Anohni. Your voice sounds familiar and I feel guilty while asking for money. Or maybe it is an excuse to retreat. It's only four degrees and I retreat because I love too soft. ask for very little but feel eternity. I live for the moments of bliss. In the car with you, your hand over my eyeballs. I cannot see, only a little, but it is my bike route and I dictate our traversing location thru the cracks of light between your fingers. I am spot on and you pinch my cheek with all five fingers. A smile expanding into your palm. You have not allowed me to hold you for years. Daddy? In public...if you call that home full of old friends public - I swoop your chair, your bar stool and you back up into me, fitting right there at the edge of the stool my arms wrapped around a protruding belly. Maybe it's a little bigger every time. It's an American DREAM.

 

You ask me if I have anything to share with you. We hold each other in expansive desperation, nose tucked under right cheek I squish you against the bed. Sideways because we fell that way. We are silent but I am screaming. You ask me if I have anything to share with you. "Yeah, my entire body."

 

But keep it gentle, keep it light, keep it easy and nourishing. Because "you don't lack wild" says momi. But right now I worship truth. and the truth is love. I worship love and I do not completely trust you. The other you, the other one that I love. You tell me that you like to take things slow. "This does not mean that I am not doing stuff."

 

How deeply I know this concept. always doing always happening. constant. slow. steady. We find each other. excavate one another from the ruins. You are an emblem, valuable only because I say so. Your value is not inherent, it only exists because I say so. Your value may expand if others decide on it. But it makes no difference to me. I have chosen you from the rubble and I am loyal. I will never not love you.

 

Messy. There is something about a song that is so perfectly contained. perfection can exist in the algorithm. Perfection does not exist in my body. On Saturday I broke down at The Kitchen. Stripped bare, organs hanging from nerves. Skin melting into the audience. You disappear into the performance. I watch you dance and as I watch you dance, I watch you disappear into dance and the audience gently sits together in a stadium. a nest a vortex. a simple nothing. Nial Jones. and the first one - Ben VanBuren - so gently discreet, so gently genderless.

 

Im sorry. 

Im sorry.

Im sorry.

Im sorry.

Im sorry.

 

sorrynotsorry.com

 

I felt nothing and then I cried. Only because I was home. Home is wherever I cry. My living room can be the streets of New York City. and PJ Harvey, it's your turn.

 

a desk would really come in handy now. 

 

The lack of trust is mutual. I don't trust you, you don't trust me. I send you a postcard. you write me nothing in return. You invite me to your beach house. I don't show up and I don't tell you that I am not coming. I invite you to lunch and you sound rather unenthused. You call me back because you have a stroke of energetic generosity. I am kind but reserved at lunch. The night before we hugged each other with desperation. Today our last hug before you leave, we touch, there is strength but it is forced. stuck. and it goes limp frighteningly quickly. We are afraid of one another. In a heightened confidence, in an err of cool, we are nervous. Nervous of the power. Power that is there, already there, standing grand and static, waiting to be stepped into, worn out the door. Neither of us want to adorn ourselves before the other. We must slip into these garments at exactly the same time or else. We are on the fringe of destruction. We have been on the fringe of destruction for many years yet we care for one another so we play it safe. We are modest because we are fairly gentle folk. Are we naked? or is there power in stripping. 

 

REJECT

 

she finds me utterly destroyed. avoiding the focal point that causes depletion. Empty. Over eating fills the void. gluttony. gross. I am disgusting. I talk down because self inflicted pain is easier to hide beneath. a blanket of disgust is thicker then the impunity of agony. She finds me utterly destroyed and the dishes happen of their own accord. Three episodes of Archer - and I can no longer avoid the void. REJECT. leave it. alone. I am falling. again. but I was steady in love. and now I am falling again. like utterances of undecipherable hieroglyphics. nobody cares. everybody waits for the days of unity. I don't want them. REJECT. let go. alone is a fancy way to stay sane. filter out the manic. A fresh bottle of Hendricks on the shrine. Unopened. But the withdrawal is quicker if I shut off cold turkey. you left on Monday. Tuesday you still pump thru my veins, withdrawal started today. tomorrow day two. Friday day three - the worst and final. I tend to heal quickly. If I let you go with a few episodes and a whole lot of escape I will forget. Sisters never leave each other. On the last day of school you brought me the fire escape and we watched people undress. On the trampoline I told you that I would never come back. The stars were effing huge that night and I slept in your bed after you told me I was family. I am nonsense. Who do I yell at when... is it my emotions that take the blame. or freaky sensitivity. obsessively gentle, I will bite your tongue. I am yelling at you because you are all so unclear. What do you want? Not you. protect me from nothing. you happen to be everything except my writing my energy my spirituality my dance. You happen to be everything except for my glitter my eyeballs my desert and my olives. You happen to be everything except for pop culture and a little boy my man and my philosophy. You happen to be everything except for the rainbow and a crop top and ascrunchy. You happen to be everything except for Christina Aguilera and karaoke. Hummus and Tabouli. German Romanian and Arabic. You happen to be everything except for a Gangsta. You happen to be everything that I reject.

 

Throwing up in the kitchen

 

Just a little one - comes up out of nowhere. Surprise! a little barf in the back of my throat. I continue to talk to you as if there isn't sour bile in my mouth. Sunrise. But honestly I am so happy that you are home.

 

How many teeth. 

 

I think I just disappeared. flattened against my bed. sunk into non existence. Laugh together. silly. Philosophy. Easy when I am the caretaker or the giggler. There are expectations to stay light. There is another side. Dark. serious. Demon tendrils. That lash out in hyperventilating gags. no breath. until the skin around my eyes turn inside out. swollen. Until my body resumes a shape and I am conscious of form again. 

 

Sanne: I get tired of being put together. Sometimes you gotta let go, otherwise you become your own self help book.

 

Day three of withdrawal. commence.

 

I intend to experience all phases of life.

 

PHASE 1

 

Biking home in oblivion. Eyes squinting - closing the shutters to the world-wind. whirlwind. In nature, pollen is the sharpest against a glossy defenseless slug. eyeballs.

 

PHASE 2

 

N: I spent the morning connecting

 

NI: what the hell does that mean?

N: who cares.

 

NI: I mean connecting internally or outward?

 

N: It's all the same anyway.

 

NI: I don't understand.

 

N: You wouldn't

 

NI: just cuz your not making sense.

 

N: It makes sense if you think about it.

 

NI: I cant think about it unless you shut up.

 

N: you do realize that you are the one asking questions.

 

NI: I wanted you to do the thinking for me.

 

N: and then explain it do you?

 

NI: Yeah.

 

N: no way.

 

NI: why not?

 

N: see! there you go again.

 

NI: with what? 

 

N: Tryna get me to do the thinking for you.

 

NI: So I should never ask questions?

 

N: Do whatever you want.

 

NI: Ok

 

N: Do you know what you want?

 

NI: No

N: that's cool.

 

NI: you think im cool?

 

N: who cares.

 

NI: about what?

 

N: about what I think of you?

 

NI: I do.

 

N: so you want me to have an opinion about you?

 

NI: yes.

 

N: oh

 

NI: do you?

 

N: what?

 

NI: do you have an opinion about me?

 

N: yes

 

NI: what is it?

 

N: I think you already know.

 

NI: HOW WOULD I KNOW IF YOU NEVER TOLD ME?

 

N: once again, asking me to do the thinking for you.

 

NI: why wont you tell me.

 

N: because I want you to think for yourself.

 

NI: but its your opinion.

 

N: no its your opinion.

 

NI: I dont understand.

N: thats too bad.

 

NI: will you explain it to me?

 

N: no

 

NI: I think that you are a bully.

 

N: arent you trying to figure out what I think of you?

 

NI: yes

 

N: 

 

NI: im insecure.

 

N: I know

 

NI: you do?

 

N: obviously

 

NI: how

 

N: because I listen to you.

 

NI: oh

 

N:

 

NI: I like it when you listen to me.

 

N: 

 

 

AVOIDANCE

 

stuck and avoiding. being. with my dissatisfaction. how the fuck. Alone and yelling. Incapable sadness. like nothing. mute and distant. no feeling. BLANK. actions. I am not put together. I am not steady. I am not content.  I have pulled myself into this fat pickle. safety. did you fart?

 

leave me alone.

 

I have projects that i could busy myself with. I don't want to. I don't want to. Stanley Kubrick is a creep.

I have been alone long enough.

 

Can i let you love me? My pain is not so bad. I ask I ask I ask I ask I ask for love. from now on. ask for love. ask for it. dumbbutt. 

 

PHASE 3

 

in between it all im stuck.

 

PHASE $$$

 

money in the bank. shorty what you thank. Momi says to harness the soft. gentle. I will put down Kathy Acker for now. 

 

reject me, I dont mind. But I call to tell the truth and you don't avoid. Instead I tell you that I need to be able to talk to you and inversely I would like you to express whatever it is that you need to express to me. This is maybe just a concept and not worth writing about but I will only discover my truths thru active participation in deciphering the brain flo. 

 

 

Must I fit it together again? It never was together again. ok what are you actually talking about. yup that is what I mean. I suppose I don't want to be special anyway. "not special but super extraordinary" has meaning more then extra ordinary. we talk because it is easy, there is no judgement or drama. you tell me everything but you are sensitive. You are an example of sensitivity and again I want to write because I want nonsense.  Those couple the way they should. the meaning is the meaning whether together or apart. non sense. none of it. Don't make me fall for something that this is not. Ok wut you talkin bout bitch. shut up. never again. all im saying is let me live. separate entity. make it easy, you for you. Im never going anywhere. take it for granted you want me to be ok always ok as if those sad things don't matter. You say aren't we telling each other stories. my answer is of course but my answer is also I am always fine. I am always good. because your stories your strife is caused by the girl in your bed and the girl on the other line. maybe this is the deepest. does deep matter? no but do you actually feel pain? does it really hurt? does anything really HURT? or is it all just a bit crazydramatic.. well listen. I am here. my own little planet. she was her own little planet. and regardless of the distance between us, you will always orbit me. because I am gravity. maybe sometimes you will retrograde. and i will make fun of you because what is really the meaning of all this nonsense. and then maybe sometimes you will spin out of orbit like the baby made of dough and you will be, for light years, adrift with not a single orientation and maybe you will like it.

 

The sadness, the gentle tearing pain in my chest, it is not a result of your lack of affection for me. no this is not lacking. it is not a result of your sexual rampage or your abundant affection for others. No, the sadness is a product of disappointment. I had you up there like an angel with a little halo encircling your self absorbed little head. You had me convinced for a minute or two that you are worth cherishing. You got me thinking for a second that perfection is a truth. Today that cookie crumbled. again. I was reminded that in your personal glory and your extremely endearing charm, you are a sucker and a pet. with so little self contentment and responsibility. Is everybody in need of proof? a daily reminder that YOUR life is worth while. that YOUR life is so important to talk about. All of this is fine too, but what happened to self reliance self satisfaction. Life is a self fulfilling prophecy. I am life. I am not so interested in loving you when all you need need need. what happened to not needing. WHAT HAPPENED TO NOT NEEDING> you are a bit of a liar just a little sneaky without realizing your games. and therefore I must slowly inch away. mustard. just a bit for protection. and so i am sad. because I am tired of protection. you exhaust me. protection. from what? dishonest humans. and the ones that think so profoundly that they are being honest. Me I'm dishonest, and a dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest. Honestly it's the honest ones you have to watch out for, you never can predicts if they're going to do something incredibly... stupid.

 

But Captain Jack Sparrow forever an idle. idlewinds. Don't tell me that you prefer to relate on higher grounds, through higher powers that overcome need - sex sex sex the fundamental need - and then suck my blood till you're full. You don't want me to need you. YOU DONT WANT ME TO NEED YOU. and yet you do. just enough so that you can need me and i am always AVAILABLE. Well you are self riotous and just back off a little. 

 

 

Expression.

 

When suddenly all of a sudden that word felt fresh. you said it and i thought mint. or buttermilk. sunshine and spaciousness. blue and yellow. It's not about what I need to say to you but rather desire to express. to feel the feelings and let them be strong and encompassing. I wonder what it is that I am feeling and I know that when I had "casual" sex without attachment the sex was shitty. The sex only began getting good when I began feeling attachment. a greater sense of connectivity. a mutual bond. when it is easy easeful so extra nice, well I don't realize recognize the spiderweb being finely spun between entities. But when you pull away I am aware of those few threads that snapped. or maybe nothing is broken but oops I'm hanging from the edge of the cliff. I am a goat. a mountain climber, I will regain my footing no problem. but I know. I know now that we have been weaving. and that you are not the safest spotter. Does it mean that I withdraw? it means that you are not the center of my life. you are unimportant. or only so much so that we can have a little easy fun and a little easy love. Juniper you told me that you fall in love with people when they are vulnerable, when you see their flaws. 

 

I will think about this one.

 

I don't know anybodies flaws. Or maybe I know them too immediately - and I love them fully but you are not given the choice or the martyrdom of opening up voluntarily. I know you. flaws and all. But also, not completely. And I want to tell you that I felt this. feel this. that I was hanging for a hot sec. That I have regained my footing and I know something that I did not know before. We are friends. you are fairly infantile and I don't really want to partake in your dramatic teenage gamery. So there you go. Maybe we can still get each other off. the impersonal way - not me not you - just pleasure. and casual.

 

the trouble with pleasure. Hello.

 

Trouble with tribbles.

 

We live illusions. on the pretense that everything is a power struggle. games. 

 

Phase 5

 

N: I just realized something.

NI: what?

N: We are not so compatible in this very particular way that is actually a key component to being intimate.

NI: Hmm. let me think about that for a minute. Yeah, you are so right. Thanks for pointing that out.

N: yeah no problem.

NI: alright, well see you later then.

N: but stay for tea obvi.

NI: cool.

 

as opposed to the farce that makes up humanity.

 

Mom: I cant really handle you. we need to take a break.

Dad: Nooooooooooooooooo my life is over you are the love of my life how will I ever live without you etc. 

 

Utopia is logically quite simple. as if we all fill the role in the pre existing power dynamics. yeah right - this is not living. 

 

first I must know what I want. then I must ask for it. Even when I don't totally know, I must be supported by my loved ones so that I can ask for it.

 

Imagine to strip away insecurities and power plays. -- refer again to Phase 5 -- conversation void or farce.

 

We are disillusioned until proven otherwise.

 

You know that you are the only thing that saves me as if i were being saved during those moments of transcription. you know i am fade out. like always and forever those feelings of expectation destroy me. I think that you love me but I know that you don't and it is only because I have not yet learned to take it easy. take it easy. take it easy take it easy take it easy take ita esay tkake it ase takaye it ease yo touching me forever yesyesyseyseyseyoiu you know who fade out again forever it ais foevery that i always go to understandably so i don tknow where they are coming from sub until otherwise transcribed into blubber gibberhash of high kytes like yeah right who knows filler works words of jjoy that base line that drop of the hat undisclosed behavior that brings me peace of minnd you I'm not coming ever again this is not what you think is the realest behavioreality so what if you don't understand what meaning is beyond your grasp anyway but i know that the flow of glitter is what bugs you the most and i am glitter and giggles. gurgle my salt water salty wisdom from eyes never dry until you dry me out from all your disengagement disintegration and a blabber attack comes to a close.

 

and so forth and so on.

 

If only we could all learn to express our feelings so intricately and clearly. lol

 

what a dry cruel bastard. "freedom is an unclasped bra". forever and for always. 

 

a picture book? like duh.

 

again again again again again. baby talk has always been my most intimate but shes been dormant for too many weeks. like so many weeks i cant even count.

 

and we back but i still deny my poetry. barf. the entrée. 

 

gentle diligence and pink light

 

come thru the window. 

 

but boundaries are a product of knowing yourself and acting on your needs. I have accomplished autonomy. I have discovered my soulessness. and now I move on to collective autonomy. friendships in twos and threes.

 

Gildevin once wrote a poem for IB Senior English. It went something like;

 

One joint two joint

Red joint blue joint

Five joints

That's how many Seuss smoked

 

Honestly not sure about the punctuation. But I am sure that my brother was a genius. Does schizophrenia negate genius? I suppose he is a different person. Or perhaps he is getting better.. Back to normal? If health is just normalized disease, then yeah I suppose, back to normal. You lack a little imagination Freud, but I will continue with you for a moment or two. Gildevin got a A on that poem. the end of the beginning of the rest of eternity. death. a little something I like to call... a current FAD.

 

Fabulous. 

 

It's not a story but a lively critique. yeah right. gentle diligence and persistent half assing. I had to distance myself from the group because I am a loner, halfway between intro and extrovert... Sometimes its hard to stay happy when everyone around you is so confident in their ability to communicate. When it is too many in one room and maybe I am a little tired or worn out, when I have been spending many hours in the company of queens, well I begin to realize that I would rather be alone. but first I feel an inability to engage. and then I feel an inability to listen. and then I feel an inability to care. and well then I dream about somebody someday who I might engage with eternally. and then I think yeah right Nikima, that will never happen. and then I think but I want it damn it. and then I feel alone and depressed in the midst of the nest with so much impenetrable chatter so I call my sister. and then she is everything I could ever want. and I am no longer in need. and I all of a sudden realize that I will eternally engage with her and she she she will always understand and we will fucking get each other, to planet X and back and she is just enough giggles and just enough cynicism and just enough genius and just enough empathy and just enough book smart and just enough gentle care and open ears and we are foreverever half sisters half friends.

 

J: That would be so weird.

N: what?

J: If you got married, imagine, whenever we would hang out there would be a man around.

N: oh god that sounds horrid. no I wouldn't allow it.

J: yeah I would just ask him to leave. like whenever I come over "Sorry sir, im gonna need to ask you to leave immediately."

 

a very dry tone with little inclination but somehow we are both cracking up. pure joy. elated pessimism.

 

was Gildevin cynical? I cant remember at the moment. but i have a feeling so.

 

We talked on the phone before I left for Croatia (well Zurich technically, but destination wise -- the sun and sea and figs and olive groves). What more could a lizard sea horse ask for. Anyway, we talked on the phone for a long many minutes and I died consecutively forever. Every moment charged and yet fully content. There is no question, as there never was.

 

We talked on the phone and I asked if you remember my brother

 

N: I mean prior to him going crazy.

I feel as tho I am holding on, grasping at straws, but it is a gentle question and I do not ask out of pain or nostalgia, tho the question is far from void of such feelings. First you mention a time when you had my car, for a whole summer until Gildevin decided that it was his property. You made the exchange in the Plaid Pantry Parking lot. He worked there for a bit during the takeover, the transformation from sanity? to madness. 

 

N: But he was already going crazy during this time. 

 

So you told me another story about meeting him at the Tree House (one of the more commonly attended houses on the hill, filled with all of my favorite college boys). You had obviously met him a handful of times, and you always take the liberty of lightening the mood. My heart is not heavy with you, but gently vast. 

 

 

And then I see a photo of him in Uncle Viktor's flat in Vienna - 9 of us - the Jagudajev clan - and he already has those eyes. Fierce and over extended. searching for truth with the realization of retracted impurity. The eyes have seen too much and there is no turning back. the eyes settled in madness but are searching wildly for sanity. for good. for ease. 

 

Where you easeful in your jokes, your cynical humor? or where you easeful in your imagination? The land of mystery that played out inside your skull. I remember looking up to you. full copycat for many years. it was always a slight disturbance. but we were a team. I was proud to have a you as a brother. your whit and your intelligence.

 

You recently said to me

 

G: I was never the smart one.

 

Maybe it was a compliment and I began to think about my intelligence. a rounded form of being, engaged on all fronts. aware and capable. You were brilliant. maybe you still are. but smart is a whole other ballgame. smart is about making decisions, being able to see the atrocities while simultaneously finding peace within

 

Maybe it is difficult for a self realized genius to be self assured. satisfied. content. capable of handling. 

 

But what do I really mean by this statement. I suppose I speak of the type of genius that is recognized - a patriarchal genius - with breadth of academic knowledge. 

Gildevin was a mathematical wiz. A Chemistry major at Reed College. Gildevin would rather play dungeons and dragons then play with people. Gildevin was cynical with an incredibly quick wit. Gildevin was easy for me to idealize, caught in a wake of inferiority. Gildevin was always extremely judgmental. Gildevin loved T.I. and was a fan of Brittany as well. Pretty sure he introduced me to Rihanna. Gildevin had long slender fingers and was extremely articulate. Obsessively so. It runs in the family. Uncle Viktor who will never eat from another persons plate. 

 

G: He was in school in Romania and some of his friends were having a party. They had all made food, the whole table was full of different dishes. Everybody sat down to eat, Viktor went into the kitchen to rewash his cutlery and when he came back to the table, all the food had been eaten. 

 

Auntie Angela spends five minutes folding one shirt. Auntie Angela squeegees the shower walls after every shower to clear the condensation and moisture.  Auntie Angela would never put her bag on the table. Auntie Angela scolds me for not scanning the floor for excess after brushing my wet hair in the living room. 

 

And George. God I don't even know where to start. He claims to have been the worst but, as he was in prison for four years, was forced to live by somebody else's dictation. In 2015 I visited him in Israel. I was not allowed to lie on his floor. I am always lying on floors. Literally constantly. We eventually agreed on a Yoga mat. Although, the next day I laid down directly on the floor and he didn't say anything. My father is lazy. He is not a FatherTM. Thank God. But he tells me grand stories of the burning bush and how we are descendants of the Jewish "secret service". Maybe you know about the Levy's?  

 

We go out as a family fur Eis. Viktor may lack a sense of adventure but he is grounded and contained. A well rounded mentality that allows for extensive talk on emigrants and border control. He is logical and open. Capable of hearing without falling into restrictive forms of bias. Auntie Angela Brainwashed and stubborn. Stuck in her ways but a lover of adventure. She will befriend whomever but her spirit is in the grave with her parents. Buried in the rich earth of Israel under campy black marble slabs with colossal portraits of Grandma and Grandpa. When kitsch is ones truth. When camp is ones reality. When material wealth is ones guide. When spirituality becomes a generic form of obligation. 

 

I cannot speak politics with my Auntie.

 

And meina Vater.. He is the laziest, the most sensitive, the most incapable of dealing with hardship and angst. But there is so much more to say about this one, a complex human and yet simply a cynic. A jokester. a jester. a sneaky and private joy. 

 

ZUMBA

 

T: Don't get excited, these woman are all religious. I am probably the hottest one there. 

 

N: As if religious negates hotness.

 

Amazing. 

 

 

as if I could make a soundtrack to my writing. all instrumental Kanye bb. 

 

EPIC

 

Quick Skype exorcism w sis. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love my sis

 

A basement studio in the 2nd district, Wien. a miniature studio w a slightly warped wooden floor. one mirrored wall and one set of ballet bars. Everything square. even. tiny. and old. one fan against the mirror and the other in the left corner. I take this corner as the Jewish moms enter, high pitched hebrew bouncing off of the encasing. They are literally yelling. I am almost certain that the teacher is Puerto Rican as she energetically engages her 8 or so mammas in exaggerated hip circles and mega thrusts. She has a big body. In charge and dominant. I stare only at her ass and her footwork as we step touch step touch to salsa, reggeatone and Israeli classics. The chatter does not stop during phrases and the mirror begins to sweat with condensation. One woman exits into the changing room and engages through the open door so as not to overheat. In between each phrase is the mandatory water break. I do a few lunges and stand around watching. energetic tongues, the room is far too small for such woman. Somehow the room contains explosives. the walls and floor and mirror have obviously been through a lot fairly equivalent to the skins of these woman. Retained. 

 

 

and then a letter from a friend 

 

Hey babe, 

 

First off, I am so excited to spend the summer with you. But right now, I have an email full of deep thoughts that I have been meaning to send you for... months? years? I don't know. So here's a disclaimer : I'm about to engage in some real-talk here. There are some dark parts and they come only with love.

 

Hanging out in Morocco reminded me of how much I love spending time with you, and how deep our relationship runs. But it also reminded me of some unfinished business between us, or like big questions or things that we maybe haven't processed together. It's going to be hard for me to be specific here, because so much time has passed, but I'll try my best. I'm sorry it took me so long to write this. 

 

After I left New York I realized that I had felt overwhelmed by our relationship. At a certain point after leaving, I understood my departure as me 'running away' from not only a lot of my own shit but also from shit between us. Apart from all the sweet memories I have of that time, I also remember obsessing about you, what you thought, what I would like to say to you to change things. I think I felt judged by you, and like I wasn't good enough. I remember, one time specifically, trying to express my feelings about that kind of relationship stuff and then you told me you really didn't know what I was talking about. If I remember correctly, I was trying to explain it in terms of us being competitive with each other. I couldn't believe that you didn't feel competitive with me. It made me feel like all the thoughts and feelings I had been having were insane. But I know that even though I can get stuck in one mindset, that I didn't just invent those feelings. So I guess I'm trying to open up that conversation again and reframe it. 

 

On a career level, I have never felt competitive with you in the sense that I have and will always be happy when good things happen to you and to your career. I will never be happy if you fail or make bad work. I will always be there for you, vouch for you, and be supportive of you. As a support mechanism, I think I need to get better at giving you feedback in a really honest, straightforward way. Maybe you need to get better at hearing it? I'm not sure. I do know that I care so much about what you think, and so I assume that you feel the same, which makes me shy away from bluntness and deep questioning. For example, in Marrakech I refrained from asking why, in a piece that is trying to get away from identity politics, are we turning and shifting around ourselves? For some reason I didn't feel comfortable asking that. I should have known you could take it but I hesitated- I'm sorry!

 

....

Just now after reading only two paragraphs I will respond a little. When you said this thing in New York about competitiveness, yes i thought you meant professionally - and I stick with this, never having felt such a way, as it seems you also don't. 

 

and yes. I judge people constantly. I am always assessing what people say and how they say it how it relates to things that I understand and how it relates to things that I don't relate to and where such ideology comes from and blahblahblah. I was in the past much less able to separate myself from my loved ones and therefore had a subconscious need. a need to constantly express my way of doing things as somewhat of an attack or judgement on you or whomever. this comes from a need for control and and a delusion that I know what is right for people - a self riotousness. I am still constantly assessing, but I have learned something extremely important since we lived together in NYC, I learned that people have different lives from my own, that people have different desires then me, that people need to and want to do it their way and they will resent me if I take their engagement with the world personally. I have learned and am learning to be alone together. To observe peoples actions that are different from my way, to observe them not in relation to me! but in relation to that person. I used to sew thick threads of need between myself and my "loved" ones. Now I try to let the love do the sewing. not me. relinquishing control. it is a lifelong effort for me. particularly control of myself. in a gentle way without be destructive. and just to say. I have never thought of you as a lesser being then myself. there have always been things about you that I look up to. that I find extremely strong and admirable. you have a strength that teaches me eternally. and a passion that brought me back to the child. I can cry now without suppressing. I can feel overwhelmed without trying to avoid because I can do it gently. without hate and disgust and shame. I assume that some of your inner termoil in how to relate to me had to do with my own harsh judgement of myself. I am working on being kind and gentle and relinquishing control. But I will not give scrutiny. assessment. analysis because these are the things that push me forward, keep me inquiring and entertained. When I scrutinize you it is not out of judgement in the sense that I have a preconceived notion of what is right for you. I know that I have been this way, and I work very hard to leave this behind, and I suppose I am very thankful that you bring this up because I am reminded that I am/ was this way even when I didn't/don't realize it. - i honestly was so caught up in myself that I didn't realize that you felt this way. honestly. and you say that I should get better at hearing scrutiny, I am sure you are right. and please, I can only get better if you trust that I am strong enough to hear it and you go for it. I will hear it. it may take a few days, as this email took a few days to sink in and be able to cope with, but I promise that I will hear you because I want to be sensitive to you. I want to know you fully. to fly with you make magic with you be eternal sisters etc. 

 

you will help me to see things about myself also. and this is always a grand endeavor. This comment about my choreography is however, light work, this is not scrutiny, this is a question that I would be super happy to talk about. It is not hard for me to talk about my choreography. it is hard to talk about myself. so please. all of your input. please. dance and psychoanalysis and philosophy etc.

maybe not my looks :)

 

as far as competing for attention in social groups. I have never felt this way. we have different ways of engaging. different things to say.  and because of this.. maybe defensive, but it doesn't strike any cords. let's keep this one open for now.

 

this need for approval makes me think of a little internal dialogue that I wrote a few months ago.

 

 

PHASE 2

 

N: I spent the morning connecting

 

NI: what the hell does that mean?

 

N: who cares.

 

NI: I mean connecting internally or outward?

 

N: It's all the same anyway.

 

NI: I don't understand.

 

N: You wouldn't

 

NI: just cuz your not making sense.

 

N: It makes sense if you think about it.

 

NI: I cant think about it unless you shut up.

 

N: you do realize that you are the one asking questions.

 

NI: I wanted you to do the thinking for me.

 

N: and then explain it do you?

 

NI: Yeah.

 

N: no way.

 

NI: why not?

 

N: see! there you go again.

 

NI: with what? 

 

N: Tryna get me to do the thinking for you.

 

NI: So I should never ask questions?

 

N: Do whatever you want.

 

NI: Ok

 

N: Do you know what you want?

 

NI: No

 

N: that's cool.

 

NI: you think I'm cool?

 

N: who cares.

 

NI: about what?

 

N: about what I think of you?

 

NI: I do.

 

N: so you want me to have an opinion about you?

 

NI: yes.

 

N: oh

 

NI: do you?

 

N: what?

 

NI: do you have an opinion about me?

 

N: yes

 

NI: what is it?

 

N: I think you already know.

 

NI: HOW WOULD I KNOW IF YOU NEVER TOLD ME?

 

N: once again, asking me to do the thinking for you.

 

NI: why wont you tell me.

 

N: because I want you to think for yourself.

 

NI: but its your opinion.

 

N: no its your opinion.

 

NI: I don't understand.

 

N: thats too bad.

 

NI: will you explain it to me?

 

N: no

 

NI: I think that you are a bully.

 

N: aren't you trying to figure out what I think of you?

 

NI: yes

 

N: 

 

NI: I'm insecure.

 

N: I know

 

NI: you do?

 

N: obviously

 

NI: how

 

N: because I listen to you.

 

NI: oh

 

N:

 

NI: I like it when you listen to me.

 

N: 

 

anyway, point being that my "approval" of you is totally your own approval of yourself. or this is how I see it. like the word approval seems so worthless to me. and yet, I am curious about what you mean by approval, because I think you are a very smart person, I am curious about what this concept is to you. and it would be super cool to give it to you if I understand what it is and I am capable.. so tell me more about this thing that you are asking for called approval because I am super into asking for what you need these days. Or like, I'm totally bad at it, but I like the idea and I am really working on it. 

 

....

 

Why did I hesitate? Why did I refrain from going deeper with you about your work? I really don't know. But the question points back to why I want to reframe a conversation about our relationship; it's not because I am competitive with you about career stuff. It's really really not. It's another kind of emotion, linked somehow with competitiveness no doubt, and I am thinking it makes both of us a little defensive. What do you think? 

 

I think that sometimes you and i compete for attention in social groups but I also think we are quite good at that game. It's never been a problem for me to share the attention with you. On the contrary, I feel like where you go for it, I back off, and then I come closer when you are ready to back off. Or something like that. In social settings I am super comfortable giving you your space and also sharing space with you. I like it! 

 

Maybe I am just looking for approval and you can't see that or don't want to give it. That's fine. More than fine. I'm in process of learning that I don't need everyone's approval! I love it that you weren't raised on approval, that you do things because they make sense for you, because you want to, and that you don't need to know what everyone thinks about it. But maybe sometimes I need you to come meet me halfway? I don't know. 

 

In morocco you and I had some really good chats. But it feels like there is a big chat we are not having! And I am asking for your perspective because alone I can only see it from my side, which doesn't really mean anything at this point anymore. Sometimes I just don't know what I mean to you. I know you love me. But I don't know what you don't like about me, what about me frustrates you, what or why you can't share certain things with me. Your aloofness about the deep deep shit, the dark corners, makes it hard for me to know what emotional ground I am walking on. It makes me scared there is something really big or problematic that I'm missing. I don't know how to feel because I don't know what you're feeling. And i think that's what made me freak out and obsess about you in NY. 

 

....

 

And then this last paragraph arrives and really throws me for a spin. What deep dark shit. what makes you think that I have deep dark shit that I have not expressed to you. have i not? seriously? but like, have you asked? have you listened to me so much that you know that there is more that needs to come out? if so then why don't you ask? I am not holding back on purpose louise. I hold back because I don't think anybody wants to hear it. because I don't even want to hear it because it is overdone and cliche and lame lame lame. or so I have thought/ been taught. and this is coming from the reactions that I have received in the past, this comes from the need to not establish friendships on the basis of my needs. I am so terrible at my needs in relation to other people. I don't know what I need from other people except for respect. I am good now at demanding respect. love? I don't know. If you really want to know about stuff then ask. please. I beg you. ask. because I need instigation. I need help because I am really good at being alone. fuck. and because of this, maybe I miss out on a little bit of you. 

 

I never felt emotional dependence. not on a conscience level. I suppose this is another one that I need your help with. 

emotional labour. what does it mean?

no I did not have a healthy balance of anything. I was struggling to overcome depression. and thank you for your solid grounded glittery help. I have always needed your help, since you helped my kick my heroine addiction. I have always felt a bit of shame in receiving this help from somebody who really stood by me and loved me for all bs. A lot of people helped, but most of them were not aware, or are no longer in my life so much. You know me in ways that nobody else does. Not even myself, ya dig. 

 

and now I talk so much about me, but this is what you ask for no? for both of us to talk about ourselves and become closer through it, either a deep spiral into myself or into you.

 

....

 

And it's funny to say this because it reminds me of all these thoughts about emotional dependance I used to have. Am I, or was I, emotionally dependent on you, actually? At the time I was convinced that you were emotionally dependent on me. I wanted you to acknowledge it, and see it as labor, and better yet, see it as labor that I was and still am happy to do, that I like it because I love you. So it's not about competition babe, fuck that. It's about emotional labor, and about how hard it is to know if you are finding a healthy balance of give-take. Back then, I badly wanted to talk about that, and I felt like you didn't, and it made me hold a lot inside. Can we talk about it now? Can we process this stuff together? 

 

I'm asking because we are about to spend the summer in a hyper-stimulating environment and I want to refresh our relationship now rather than put it off. I realized that I was a bit anxious about being at danceWEB with you after spending time with you in morocco. 

 

BUT actually, the above is only one measly reason why I want to process my departure from NY with you. Here is the big reason:

 

I was just at pa-f for elsewhere and otherwise. At one point we were talking about magic, the space within ourselves that it powerful, mysterious, and unknown. Violence, patriarchy, and capitalism have taught us that that space is worthless, hysterical, bitchy, crazy, deviant, dark, fucked up. These power system make us wonder "deep down, am I just a crazy stupid bitch?" and they make us fundamentally doubt ourselves. 

 

I remember when we were in the subway talking about extensory and you were like "oh, you don't trust me" and I was like "yeah, wow, I guess not". and the MAIN reason I want to process with you is because I really really can't abide by the fucking man getting in between you and I, meditating our access to the magical, and the dark, and the wild spaces between us. that fundamental lack of trust is not our fault. Let's clear that space somehow and make room for a new trust-- something we can grow from, not something we are avoiding. 

 

Maybe when we get to Vienna we can do a ritual of some kind. We can also ask each other's vaginas questions and do pussy divination. Lol I have so much to tall you about this last paf trip and so many fun things to try. It made me want to write you and it really made me want to do magic with you. We still have so much to learn from our relationship. it's a new thing now. But yeah as your friend I am asking for you to help me change the way I relate to our relationship.

 

....

 

I love that "I am asking for you to help me change the way I relate to our relationship". so fun to think of it all as its own entity, not me not you, but the relationship. woopwoop.

Louise< i have always seen you as one of my total and best of friends. this will never not be the case. as far as falling deeper into one another's magic, I am beyond yes yes yes for it. I will come as close as you let me, because I am still afraid of rejection.

 

....

 

And who really knows the author of the next paragraph, could be me or her.

 

Please come closer and open up and tell me how you see us now and how you saw us then. If I hurt you or if I make you feel badly sometimes or if actually you think I am super competitive or cold or uncommunicative then by all means don't hold back. I want to make space for renewal and I'm ready to experience a bit of pain and shame and discomfort in order to come out of it a better friend. 

 

I will try to push into places that are not open for business if this is also something that you care for, as i suppose I am asking of you. 

 

Ok- I'll leave it at that. Just know that all this comes with love. I am not blaming you or criticizing you. I'm just trying to see a bit deeper so that we can both know when one, the other, or both of us are dancing in the dark corners and know to not be afraid.. or like to be afraid while we are holding hands. 

 

I'm leaving brussels in an hour to go back to Berlin and for 10 days!! Before danceweb happens. Nuts! Can't wait to see you!!! 

 

So much love my darling pointy bird, 

love forever, birthmark babies.

 

PS. I wrote this yesterday but didn't have a chance to send it. Remember how you told me I will love Italy - yeah well, it's a bit embarrassing how right you are omg. Like everybody is brown and generous and obsessed with sparkles. So generous, and close to naked all the time. This particular town, Santarcangelo di Romagna is small and totally dead nine days outta ten but during the Santarcangelo festival things get crazy beautiful. Really actually quite impressed by this festival -- background.. Silvia Bottiroli, the director of the festival was in ny last winter for realness and Marten put us in touch. We got coffee. Talked a lot. Got coffee again. Etc. anyway she invited me to come to the festival as a guest. So I'm here now real quick staying in her tent and seeing shows and meeting bombdiggity artists. Yupyup. Back to work. Just the way I like it.

 

Anyway, I wrote this response to your mail in the private cobble road near the top of the little hill. Above the rooftops with a bell tower and fig trees as backdrop. It was the peace and calm that really allowed me to go inside to feel you my love. Perfecto. I am glad that you sent me this mail. I am glad that we can and will forever grow together. Eternal.

 

And on my way down the winding steps of the old city I came across a museum of buttons in which I found some wonderful words, "the button is also an object of communication and seduction... The mystery of the threshold beyond which the desired and disturbing unknown exists... It is the imagery and physical boundary between the external and internal world.." Anyway, maybe we should unbutton each other or something. xx also, was thinking about our piece, I want to be just like you, idealizing artists etc, were thinking about me during the creation of this work?

Anyway. U r a masterpiece and I love you to pieces. kiss

 

Yours 4 ever, 

Louise

Nikima

 

Back in Vienna where the emigration crisis is on fleek. Not funny.

 

N: yup, racial profiling sucks.

G: All profiling suck. 

 

Driving back from Bratislava. lying on my fathers lap as he heals my left shoulder with reiki love. Extra heat emulating into his slightly hesitant palms. Dad. I am learning to relax. The aunties argue over one another in Russian - something about tough love vs overprotecting or sheltering the kids. After a long while the forceful conversation settles in the upper register and I sleep for a sloppy minute. My leg falls asleep and I jolt out of submission. He is so gentle and a little sweaty. I lay my head again against his shoulder and he holds my head. Somewhat awkward and so nice. and then an undercover cop with a single blue light stuck on the roof above the drivers seat speeds by on our right. There is hushed and concerned chatter within the car and I realize that we are being pulled over - three undercover cops stalking our ass.

 

Two of them come to our car, not proper etiquette im Orstereich, and ask for identification. The elephant in the car, George's criminal record, is quickly stated. out in the open. Not the most gentle of families in general. We stand around and playfully blame one another. They ask George too many questions and he shakes a little as he smokes a stogie. But his eyes are smart. confident and settled. The kindest eyes. Gentle and self assured. 

 

They take his passport and give him a summons for the following day. Worst case scenario he is deported back to Israel. Best case, they let him alone and we at last know for certain that his past has been expunged. That all those thousands of euros that went towards clearing his record were not payed in vain. 

 

Monday morning 8am we head to the immigration office. I get a detailed tour of Vienna's underbelly as he points out this castle and that building, prison, jail, courthouse etc. 

 

G: I spent two and a half years of my life in that building.

absently, 

N: cool

G: Well not so cool actually. But it was the first time that woman were fighting over me. Like literally fighting each other. 

 

I try to stay loyal to my family but a visceral reaction takes hold - a very strong urge to barf. the purity of disgust. I know it quite well but have not felt it in a while. Often associated with sex - as it used to be - or any situation that involves over intimacy.

 

 

It was an email exchange and a short story.

 

Hi Medalist, 

 

What’s going over there in Aust-ria. How was your tour in detail, where did you go - what did you do? I want to know everything, how warm was the water? Did you a wasp bite you? Did you fight over small things and did you have bad food? Did you crash the car and what did you really do to the policeman? Sunshine in BXL and rain as usually. I’m bored with myself and have not much fun but it’s ordinary and that makes it a little better. I will got have Mexican food cooked by an Italian dude tonight and that can be ok... 

 

hey. oh gosh how to even say anything when everything is swirling. roadtrip hmm. haven't even had a minute to reflect. or maybe I am reflecting on the incredible infinite possibilities of friendship. the magic of being alone together and the intimacy and glory that can come from playing forever with somebody that i love. every second is either a deep spiral into myself or into her and it just goes on and on and on. Like when will I make the effort to share my thoughts and when will I make the decision not to. and then so much of not making any decision whatsoever like obviously just being together and alone but always together. and then that moment of needing to do it my way, eat the food the way that I eat it. touch her the way that i touch her. my timing. my decision. my way. because I am also v malleable and pleasing and easy and easeful. But to take the reigns for two, to negotiate the control the power for another. and the love. like the wonderful realization that I dont have to pussy foot around this person. I dont have to walk on eggshells I dont have to worry about bipolar behavior, unwarranted negative withdrawal.

 

Meine stepfather - sisters dad - was the most unpredictable. His lack of engagement, his deep dark withdrawals were usually a sign of something nasty and was best to leave him to himself otherwise, well, it was extra nasty to be in his line of perverted demented sociopathic fire. out of fear of this wrath, I learned to be extra careful around people when they retreat inside of themselves.. come to think of it, my mother also was sometimes irreproachable.. regardless, it was like family w Melanie which brought up these intimate ways of engaging. and I was melting at the possibility of such generosity - even when she seemed to have fully disengaged, I could approach her and was received with love and affection. a lovely kind of proof that her withdrawal had nothing to do with me and that her deep dark places are gentle and safe and maybe even calm. the safety of my vulnerability was so so nice. 

 

but mostly laughing and giggling and being appalled by the world having constant epiphanies and reading Lispector to each other on the massive rocks naked with the forever elements. me like a lizard or a sea horse, melanie more like an otter or something a bit more restless. alligator love. always wanting the next thing. a sucker for visual stimulation and me - stimulated by a whole lot of nothing. happy to talk to fish and barnacles and to hang out with ghosts and praying mantis. but eff the mosquitos all the way.

 

and then we were driving polo past all of the poppy fields and the never ending meadows twice caught in a vortex of eternal time - driving down hill, what looked like an extra short road on the map turned into hell. the eternal road. hot and forever. eventually stopped to ask how close is the lake, only to be met by the devil. literally the way those eyes bore into my soul coming closer and closer to the passengers open window. cautiously so as not to alarm, I stepped on the gas. as I pulled away, looking to the right, and there hanging from a tree. omg. literally a small black and white picture of the actual devil in status and form.

 

we drove until we came to a gravel road and then we drove more. we stopped as two cars - another green polo twin - sped up hill in reverse. after a short effort in multilingual communication, Melanie promised that she would reverse out of the pit of doom if necessary so I continued into the abyss. At the bottom of the hill was the end of the road. the end of the road was the beginning of the lake. a huge lake. three cars parked and a grip of locals wading. We swam far and came back to the devil. his car blocking us from our escape.

 

the great escape took less then 10 minutes. If I had been driving, we would have spun deeper into oblivion. Melanie is really good at reversing up steep gravel roads.

 

It happened one other time, unwarranted time warp. We stopped in a town for wifi. we ate fish and stayed for 6 hours in the cafe. we went for an extra American swim and tried to leave but found fresh aubergine and loitered around the car for a while. There was preparation happening for an annual festival with live music and a huge beach bonfire. We wore matching t-shirst, white with "far blue" text. won in combat in Split. We met two Italian Sailors in Split, because of these t-shirts, in fact, the initiation of conversation happened something like

M: look at the cool t-shirt

N: omg they are matching

M: what do you think they are for?

N: should I ask?

M: duh

at which moment i did a bit of quick weaving thru a shit load of fancy tourists and tapped the shorter one on the shoulder. 

N: I like your shirt

etc.

we had drinks and spliff in the stone living room of Split - like tourist clean. Eventually coaxed them back to our car and bartered the shirts from their chests. We had another spliff overlooking the water and moon and walked them back to their boat - Far Blue. 

This was our first city night - finished with a nest in little Polo. 

But i digress. Matching shirts led to sweet Croatian wine on the wall jutting into the water, speaking about underwater sea creatures and the value of labor or lack thereof - the post modern epidemic of privileged non materiality. We talked about the 99% and the need for an icon - a figure an image an emblem. we talked about the necessity and the globality of pop culture and Bernie Sanders. 

And reminiscent of the Salem witch trials, they lit a huge mound of straw on fire with a ceremony that began with woman in white fabric traversing the water in a canoe with torches and circling the straw singing or chanting or something of the sort. it burned.

As the fire turned to embers and the fire trucks went away, the local teenage boys jumped from land to water over burning bush. We danced to the worst of the best music - the whole band in black and white tripes. so awful amazing. and then wow ice cream and the night turned to dark wind and we walked the wall to the edge of the dock and I was attacked by a vampire and my knees grew week and we held on to each other as everything screamed inside with the wind. and the Macarena made me laugh and I felt like a boy.

then it was time to go

we drove in the dark, thought we drove too far, turned around, drove back into town, turned around, and sped from the past as quickly as possible. We slept this night on a small cement platform on the beach on the side of the road across from a "bed and breakfast" with a few old people residing, one of which coughed all night and woke up with the sun and the mosquitos. We left quickly with the witches on our tail. and swam and collected rocks at the beach next door.  

 

Sincerely,

a little shiny bowl of magic. (Dad's sincerities) 

 

ps. yes to it's a rainy day. i want i want. both and all. kisskisskisskiss

 

 

I actually do care. I try not to sew threads between us. I try to enjoy the laughter and the overeating, the stories and sitting on the floor together. I try to enjoy it without sewing threads between us. without needing. without caring. without asking or expecting. I don't believe you. I never believe you. I do not get excited about promises that you make.

 

Maybe if you were honest with me, no I do not want to go out. no i do not want to stand up. or maybe this is a lie also. maybe the truth is more like, I would really like to go out but I need to take it slow and I need your support. and I might say something like, what kind of support do you need? and you might say, I need to lean on you. or you might say, i need a little coaxing, some extra words of love. and I might be more then happy to give this to you because I had the morning to be quick. the morning was for swimming and eating salad and walking quickly. I take care of my needs so that I have some love for you. And maybe you will cry less, maybe you will ask for what you need and feel less of a need to verbalize you constant pain. I literally don't want to hear it. and maybe if you don't become such a drag, I will be more open with my support when you ask for it. and maybe if you don't spend so much time telling me about the shape ofyour teeth and the many aches that plague your body, well maybe you will get a bit bored lying around doing nothing, in a house that would suck the life from anyone if they stayed locked up in the dark for hours on end. and maybe you will remember that every time that we go out you feel good and even better the next day. and then maybe you can work on habits that feel good. 

 

and then I tell you that there are a lot of things that I have to say. you say, me too, and literally walk away. 

 

actually what is wrong with you?

 

don't tell me that there are things that I do not understand because i am young and you are old. I have long in depth conversations with my mother on her well being in relation to the world and it makes sense and she learns from me and I learn from her. Her way of thinking is logical. sensical. she explains thing to me when I do not understand and vise versa.

 

and i opened the god damn window. so why the hell are you closing it.

 

G: what do you know about depression?

 

yeah well, a whole lot actually.

I asked for honesty i ask you to ask for what you need from me and I will do the same with you (prior to explosion) I ask that you talk to me about the ways in which you put forth effort. Tell me about the lovely things. I want to hear about your curiosities and your fun. I want you to be a child.. 

 

A talk with Bouchra Ouizguen after a fairly nice piece of performance art called Corbeaux in which many woman repetitively omit guttural yells from a roof top in Santarcangelo. White scarves on their heads and all you see are their necks - the strength of the necks of these woman.

 

I ask why the white scarves? She talks about wanting to cover everything up so the minute details become apparent. the neck. but more interestingly she talks about making space for the audience to recognize their limits. 

 

I think about this. 

 

I made many associations due to this costume choice, particularly to unpaid labour, housework, hanging up clean laundry. Communal vs domestic labor...

But also a safe? space for woman? She discusses the Hamam as a safe and powerful space for woman. The work is not void of association even tho the intention is not to perpetuate this image but rather to enlighten the audience of ones own limitations. Are my associations limitations? The work may not be intentionally political, yet it is political. All woman of non homogenous racial orientation doing a powerful repetitive action brings up the discussion of the unity of woman, the power of woman, in relation to masculinity. a "male" space. a "male" energy. So I suppose the limitation is in our reality. the interpretation of such work as having an innate womanly substance is a response to the reality that patriarchy is real. A societal power structure is at play that enhances the relevance of providing a public space to empower and unify a non homogenous group of woman. 

 

And there is a particularity that makes it even more relevant as the performers are not trained dancers, they are connecting through ritual as opposed to technicality and training. I guess what I mean is that these woman probably don't practice differentiating between unity and autonomy, they probably don't spend long hours finding ways to protect there boundaries while simultaneously being vulnerable, it is probably not part of their daily work to practice permeability without completely losing oneself. Or in the case of fully losing oneself in performance, it takes a lot of practice to be able to resculpt, or put the pieces back together etc.

 

Today I lost myself in a digital ocean. Must have been the Pacific. Wow.

 

Imagine if Corboux had been a group of men. oh god.

 

But then imagine if there were some trans men in the mix. This might take it to a more intentional political level. Maybe a bit more inline w a current conversation.

 

There is no way that Bouchra is unaware of these political implications. She is aware, but it is not at the forefront of her art making. Yes I understand this very much. and yet I think about context and I think about the need for such a thing. Just as racial non homogeneity is important, so then is fluidity of gender. Not that I think this work is lacking, in fact in the context of heteronormative Italy and Marrakech, this work makes public a very important reality. But I believe that there is a more important discussion that needs to be had, or the one that I think is currently most important is not that of safe space for woman to unify and strengthen, but rather the the conjuring of feminine power through the unity of a non homogenous group of gender queers.

 

But Marcus Ohrn also thought it necessary to have this powerful group of woman doing this strong repetitive action in this particular context as he gave the story of his dear grandmother. In Sweden, the house runs on patriarchy. When Marcus was a boy he asked his Grandmother, if she could do anything different in her life, what might it be? She responded by saying that she wished for a more wild, destructive life. She wished she could have lived outside of the etiquette of a Swedish woman. The patriarchy is strong in Italy as well. 

 

To get drunk and say stupid shit, to act out, this is a man's privilege.

 

And then to the choreographer, 

M: I am really looking forward to seeing it up close, seeing the whole body.

 

in action. 

 

What are you excited about?

 

and she says intimacy.

 

Does this work have anything to do with intimacy? 

 

Well it didn't when I saw it. but I suppose the original iteration no longer stands alone when the same work is shown in a different space, but same context. Unless I choose not to see the other iterations. Now that I know about them there is no turning back. Bouchra. No way will I get bored of repetition. When the work is so far away, in the context of the roof, I see necks and heads and head scarves. When the work is on eye level, in my energetic vicinity, I see those little details that you spoke of, those minute intricacies that you described in French.

 

You were expecting the intimacy, I'm not huge on anticipation. I avoid caffeine for this particular reason. Although I feel it a bit when I think about you and the next time we may be in one another's energetic vicinity. Tonight, for Mara Oscar Casiani, I promised to meet you on the basketball field. And I feel that low churning of organs at work, the same that results in taking a relieving shit before performing.

 

I teased you last night for kissing Bouchra's ass during the talk. You told me that you don't play the game, you were being honest in your praise

 

FAR BLUE #crocodilelove #farout #howlingstonehendge

 

Our car of wonders. the Mercedes firetruck with iridescent electric blue hood and rims. Her interior is plush velvet with one full wall of nut butters from around the world. She has a trap door that leads to a massive cellar full of rocks. collectable. and the roof is adorned with a hot tub swimming pool bathtub aquarium. in which many creatures live. and medical mud lines the bottom. 

 

And a night with you. Shall I divulge? I have a moment or two, early for Philipe Quesne and missing out on the cool kid party anyway. I always had a thing for the rule breakers. the aloof non conformists. the alchies. They also happen to be the most hilarious. And they all think that they are so smart while also having deep rooted insecurities. I suppose it's a responsibility to have access to an extra bit of brain. Anyway the moon is half and last night after Mara Oscar Cassiani's collective basketball escapade...

 

There are two types of people. hah. yeah right. but for the sake of such an analogy, lemme give you two polar opposites. In the context of people working in performing arts, there a two types, those that expand into the universe during a performance, and those that shrivel, like a mole rat, hairless and self conscious. Of course, there is every gradation of grey in between, but not so worth mentioning in this moment. Its always a bit of a shock when somebody shrivels on stage, particularly when this somebody is a superstar at the bar or the afterparty. There are plenty of people that are fairly average in the every day and again fairly average on stage. It is less so prominent to come across that fantastical intrigue at the bar and then to fall into excruciating embarrassment or horror when you watch this person wither where you might expect them to flourish. It is a similar kind of shock, slightly less shocking and a bit more presumed, when going home with the life of the party for a one night stand and being predominantly disappointed when the lights and clothes say peace out. When all of the diva drains and all that is left is a pale mole rat on top of the sheets. 

 

we tried a little anyway, you of course had your mind on your partner with whom you had conversed with for many hours over skype just earlier that day. I of course didn't know this until after we attempted at a fairly awkward hookup. Its always funny to find out about the intimacies of your distracted mind after we try.

 

N: You like to be dominated don't you?

 

M: Yeah.

 

N: Same.

 

not the full truth, no, in fact, I do not particularly care to be dominated in bed. Rather, this was my way of saying, sorry I will not force you to have sex with me so that you can forget about your partner or maybe play the victim who couldn't control the crazy sex fiend that pinned you to your own bed or whatever whatever. It's not domination that I desire, its engagement. Its openness, availability and yeah, a whole lot more, but lets not get greedy.

 

In Vienna we had a meeting with Maliki Sehgal. It was a hurting discussion on the meaning of mentorship.

I sat next to Reza and we entertained one another with hushed your mom jokes, utterances under our breath. Other people sat around and complained about Tino's lack of proper mentorship. same old same old. 

 

your mom cant pull it together

#lastnight

#word

 

my mom is nasty like all the time you know never with the words that she uses but the way that she uses her body like all over the place all nasty and provocative. I wonder if the words are meant to be heard. good thing there is a soundscape omg. 

 

and then today there were those moments, you know like that animal aggression. but it is harnessed or it is not so much aggression until I burst but like do you think she would shave my ass? but wow. i mean i don't even have anything to say because I am collectively drunk in my brain. it numbs me slightly.

 

And then the boys, who may have been even more bored then Reza and I, stole my iPad and gave us a little gift.

 

               

The Nalin/kanya Antoine/juliensehgal Von hantelmann

 

 

 

 

 

Please look what we wrote!!!!!!!!!!!!hahahaha

 

 

 

Fgybjmknjk,😿👨‍👨‍👧⚽️⚾️🎾🏀🏉🐀🍃🐭🌰🐹🐅🐃🐄🐓🐲🐉🐊🐸🙉🙊🙈⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️💨☁️⛅️🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🐾☀️🌓🌖🌑🌔🌕🌒🌚🌝🍌🍌🍌🍌🍊🌒

 dfbfbggyghgggbhhhhhhhhhhhhgdftgfngtdtgyuytndyrrhtfjytjygmjyfmhtdhttthfgrndgrdgrdgrdthfhtdgrdgdbvvvvvchbbbfdgfdvfdrgdgrdgtftnalin Tino kanya Dorothea b.    Bibb v bbbbm.n.b.v. 🐰🐏🍊🍠🌜🍠🍌🍩🍩🍩🍮☕️💙💚🎨🎨⚽️🏀🏉🎹🎸⛳️🏆🎩🎯🎭🎵🏉🎶⚽️🎼🏆🏆🚂🚂🚨🚨🚀🚀🎭✈️✈️🎶🎶🚥🎼🚦🎼🎼🎼🎼🚘🚔🎩🎩🎪⚽️😈😁😡😨😮😤😪😠😠😛😟👿😲😳👿😈😭😽😑😲😎😕😸😕😸😏😷😖😲😭😐😨😨😏😳😳❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ ❤️💞🎽🏈💥⚾️🏈🎷💃🎯🚉🎯🚊🎳🚌🚍🚓🎫🎳🎪🎫⌚️📱📲💳🔋👛👛💰💰👜👜💰💰💰👜👜⌛️💰📞💰📷👜📷💸💸💸💸💸👕🔫🔑📯🔆🔅🔊📃📅⛔️🔅📆 ◀️🔼🔽⏩⬅️➡️⏫4⃣↙️⏩↖️↖️⬆️⏩🚮🚮🔽▶️🚰♿️♿️♓️1⃣♉️🇩🇪🏩🇦🇺🇨🇱🇫🇷🇮🇪🇲🇴🇳🇴🇷🇺🇸🇪🇦🇪🇦🇹🇨🇳🇩🇪🇮🇱🇲🇴🇲🇾🇵🇭🇸🇦🇨🇭🇦🇪🇻🇳🇧🇪🇨🇴🇭🇰🇮🇹🇲🇽🇵🇱🇸🇬🇧🇷🇩🇰🇮🇳🇯🇵🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇮🇳🇯🇵🇳🇱🇵🇹🇿🇦🇬🇧🇫🇮🇮🇩🇰🇷🛅🗽🏭🇳🇿🏨🇵🇷🏫🇨🇦🇮🇩🇮🇩🇰🇷🇳🇿🇳🇿🇵🇷🇪🇸🏯💒🇩🇪💒kaka🇩🇪🇭🇰🇩🇪🇩🇪🇩🇪🇩🇪🇩🇪🇩🇪🇩🇪🇫🇷🇫🇷🇫🇷🇫🇷🇫🇷🇩🇪📲🇲🇾🇸🇦🇸🇬🇸🇬🇸🇬🇿🇦📷⌚️a clock is now a(📲)kanya no,njknhknjknjknhihnkjnljnohbibuibjknjknhjhbubyyvftrctcrcfrckfryfryvt,📁💰👜💸tfyftytvgbhjkjjuhugbil jgygbi,mob yvft himjinnz🚅🚄🌇🌆🌃🌉👓👞🚿👚📯📭📬💉👔look down gjyGHGGHGFHGFGHFTFTHFHTFHTFTFTHFFHFCFHCFHCTFFHTF📩📩📩📩📩📩📩📩📩🔫💿💸💳👝👛👓👜👒⏳⌚️📱⌛️🔋🔌💸💰💎💎🔞🚷🚯🚳🚱📵㊙️💮🈲🆚💹🈹㊗️🈷✈️🚀⛽️✈️🚧🚦🚥🚔🚓🚎🚍🚌🛄⛽️💸💸💸💎💎💎🔦📀💿💡👜👒👟👙👔👟👢📉🇩🇪🇩🇪🇧🇪🇨🇴🇲🇽🇳🇱🇭🇰🇧🇷🇨🇴⛪️🇧🇪⛪️🇨🇴🚓🎯🎮🎮🀄️🃏⚽️🏆🎳💰💰💰💰🌂👠👗👘👢💄👞👓👒💸

 

 

 

By:Nalin and kanya

 

I have a sense of what the books of the next generation may look like...

 

Sometimes it is as a if I just want to send one big fuck you to the whole fucking world like middle fingers up from here to nowhere who cares. It is too much. I give to much and what is in return is one million little games. rolling the die as if there was once a life dependency. I will sleep because I am alone. and there is nothing in it for me. For you yes you take what you need. what you want I am your confidant. I make you feel proud to be alive I am your you are my idle my superstar I adore you and obsess. I am your groupie and you cant live without me. objectively me as fulfilling a particular subject. I am unimportant but my identity is your crack. Die for me and when you come.

Oh god. It began again before it ended. and in between I realized that vulnerability is not the easiest but maybe something to strive for. Within the work it is this vulnerability that I strive to accomplish. Who is she to tell me no with my feet up, balancing at a 90 degree angle from my knees. After reading the text, my most common feedback was, "beautiful writing but more concrete sort of literal stories or framework would have been nice to give it a slightly more graspable air." or something like "beautiful poetry." I want to be vulnerable, but my abstraction is in fact a way of hiding behind illusions. Can I can I can I write the literal stuff without wanting to vomit my entire body out of my mouth? Sure I can write it, but read it, well maybe not so much. I will try. But if art requires this stripping and teasing and retracting and reinitiating ritual then what do I get rid of if not the literal depictions of a reality that we know all too well? Maybe these less then delicate rambles.. I suppose I must try before I ask. Anyway, I came out here for a reason, the sun and this ping pong table in the backyard of the boarding school.. I meant to write a bit about vulnerability but I fell asleep with fat cheeks turned toward the last sun.

 

And now over an extra love dinner, garlic and yogurt dressing. Wow you told me today that she read our entire fb thread.. why the literal fuck would you. I suppose if harsh emancipation is what you need from this creature, your boyfriend, then reading our love notes to one another is a proper way to fuel the rage. Just go for it girl, bite the bullet, you don't need this depressive fool. 

 

and then full circle full stop we made it back to the set in which we met, this time in Vienna.

 

But the absorption of our affection for one another did not lead to emancipation, rather, I found myself speaking to both of you about your love for one another and your need to reconcile or at least to try to work for the longevity of the relationship. And so we agreed again that nothing had changed. When the couple is in town, the boyfriend is off limits, when she leaves it is a free for all.

 

I will see him again in two days. She will not be around. Your bf is special. He went down on me two mornings ago with one or two fingers inside and his tongue keeping steady rhythm and I new I would come for daddy. He came up for a breather and I sent him back down. Don't stop. breathless the words barely uttered. I am rarely forceful, but this time I knew. He complied immediately no question just resumed and I watched god eat me. but god only in so much as the sun is god, or a lion is god, or an alien. one of immense power, but power only in so much as the sun has power or the ocean or a white dwarf star or black hole. You become the sun in these moments, or Aslan, but not from the movies, or the desert or the grand canyon. All I know is that I feel massive amounts of pleasure when I see your face, mouth open wide, eyes tight shut, all of the wrinkles and weather worn skin like the surface of a vast landscape you become that which is eternal, that which has been forever, a vampire of the light, a unicorn of the day. A face that is shadowless, in which I can see everything. power, but specifically the energetic kind, solar power. you are the face of a lion, or the face of the sun. you are not human. you are much to emblematic and simultaneously dissolved. And I am nothing, not in a degrading sense but rather in the sense that I have no understanding no comprehension of being. I am only sensation and completely vast expansive forever - something like all of the meadows that span the earths surface I am all of the sand that makes up every beach. I am every single star and all of the darkness in between. I am air and every species of bird that has ever existed and still those yet to come.

 

We have never shared an orgasm, but sometimes you get into a steady in and out rhythm that allows me to breath into my perineum. I relax in repetition. Peace and safety and security are consequences of duration. I need this installation in order to connect to even the possibility of coming. But it is often these glorious moments of durational repetition in which I find myself in ecstasy or perfect bliss that you you you are ready to come. and so it is finished before I am ready for termination. 

 

N: The only reason that I wouldn't want you to come is because I want it to keep going.

 

In the context of my bladder infection, I suppose termination was for the better, you obvi had my well being in mind. jk. But you make this joke before I think it. I think you are very observant and unafraid of constantly morphing. This is a rare attribute.

 

Your stories are long winded and eternal without ending without climax - there is a sense of purpose and direction as you search for words, your outcome is often premeditated. it is utterly fantastic when something unknown escapes those vocal chords. Maybe it is a more feminine approach. You tell me about the woman that wade into the water in the morning, or maybe they don't wade at all but rather hang out on the dock in various grades of water wear. You paint a nice image but the point of the story is the politics of these people, the sort of unannounced, unformulated, discretely almost subconsciously realized social conduct - but with complete awareness. A collective and unspoken agreement. A structure without imposition.

 

 

And then Oma strikes with her rebellious words - this little activist living in the backward and upside down dug deep and buried Eisenerz.  I am thankful that meine mutter made it out alive. 

 

O: They have never a responsibility because they are born to be a subject, led by those in power.

 

But I still suffer here. Wrapped in many sweaters eating Zucchini from her garden I am peeing blood. Maybe I take it a little easy with such desperate love.

 

How horrid it is to travel in pain. Unending hours of sour secretion from the unknown tissues down below. That sour longing to pee and a constant discontent as the pee either does not come or a toilet is inaccessible. On the train now to Laon I think maybe I am good enough to write -muscle relaxants and ibuprofen have done me well - but the thoughts and the nausea bring the sour patch kids back in action. Wow the gothic look of eastern rural France is so tempting. But I don't love the language and I don't particularly relate to the people. France is definitely not for me. But I can for sure dig an excessively pointed rooftop. 

 

Beach House does me wonders.

 

If eternity is timeless then I will observe the wonders forever. In time until absorbed into nothingness. I will die before death. I very often do.

 

Discrete beauty like a quiet sunset over reflective pools in French countryside will forever be my romance. Take care of you take care of you take care of you take of you.  Can I tell a story of mirrors and girls summoning the reflective power of the moon in a pristine lake from the inside of her elementary school theater/ cafeteria. Can I tell the story that continues up a wooden latter and then disappears into an infinite well of reflection? No, this story has already been told a thousand and one times.

 

That which really interests me is your process of discovery.

 

At some point, breakfast boy, the one who wanted just to be my friend in College but thought it would be super fun to make out for 5 minutes whilst watching an excellent film called Perfume. Anyway, at some point he wrote me a quick email that was nothing more then "How is your European dance camp?"

 

danceWEB. have you heard of it?

 

I respond in full. 

where to even start i mean holy shit its all insane and yet i keep my cool like almost totally. Its funny, those first few days of constructed "getting to know each other" - so effing stressful for me but as soon as everybody just chills out I can totally love and engage and feel super honesty intimate and excited about being with these people. Really it is quite an excellent group -- I feel lucky to expand my network of colleagues but also there are some for real homies here. no doubt. 

we all live together (65 of us) in a boarding school. each w our own room (two beds wutwut) and a bathroom. each floor shares a kitchen with a tiny fridge. Im on the second floor with a more discrete group, like the slightly less audacious, which is quite nice. mostly quiet and clean. and family. My love Antonia lives on the 5th floor and Trueheart is on the 4th. She sends all of her love in your direction. But honestly I really like a lot of them. like really really. and baby boy Reza, who I met in Morocco (Berlin based) is lovely but a bit too caught up in neeeeeeeeding attention all the time. Its been a bit of a whirlwind with The crush -- he is a total disaster but also totally put together and maybe a bit of a sociopath (if this can be a partial diagnosis) but I love him sort of unconditionally and forever. of course not without reservation but its also so nice to practice intimacy with somebody with whom I feel constantly stimulated by.. however his gf is here currently and well.. he is a pathological lier and doesn't use condoms with any of his lovers... but her and I, we talked about our respective relationships with him last night over a few too many drinks in the vip tent (this place breeds #fame like nobodies business) and we cleared up A LOT of weird and uncomfortable uncertainties and feelings. She is priority when she is around and when they r not together, its a fucking free for all. anyway, its good this way because I can practice intimacy without commitment - or something like this.. of course it occasionally gets a bit complicated because the fellow, as much as he tries to avoid confrontation and drama.. well he is a bit dark on the inside and sometimes v destroyed by the sadness that is humanity. So it goes. its really crazy to commit to taking on somebody else's darkness or whatever, like working through it together etc etc. As much as I love him, I am honestly quite glad that he has a gf.

 

anyway.. I get a bit scared of people and darkness and all this stuff that I tend to avoid, or maybe its more like a v slow process of opening up and diving in... Do you ever get dark? or like, do you ever feel the need or necessity to.. idk.. dive into the internal void and make peace with your daemons? I feel like this is so important. and sadly rarely done. 

 

Vienna is an undercover police state, like how many times have i been yelled at while biking by another biker (in german obvi) about being too much on their side of the bike lane etc.. But it is also quite nice to be here. and i really am obsessed with getting to know the layout of new cities. I am quite quick at it, if I do say so myself.

 

I miss you. 

 

but this week was total dance. like ballet every morning w Janet Panetta (I take from her in NY, total badass) then Marten's workshop titled something like, Have you heard Kendrick Lamar's new album .. followed by vogueing with NY legend Archie Burnett. so funnnn. weeks prior have been a bit more artistically generative workshops like full 6 hour days with Maria Hassabi or Jen Lacey. So many big big big names here, and the theme they are working with this year is combining these superstar choreographers with superstar visual artists or curators.. Anri Sala, Philippe Parreno, Hans Ulrich Obrist (Serpentine), Klaus Biesenbach (moma) etc. its a bit silly and all white men but also kinda like totally fun - we had a sleepover two nights ago with Hans at the Leopold Museum and our mentor, Tino Sehgal, has decided that he wants to be my mentor like for real, post danceweb, so he has been introducing me and making me sound extra special to all the important people. After the sleepover I went up to Hans to thank him and he was like, oh yeah, get my email address from Tino because I would love to hear about your work .. I was like, damn. Anyway, its funny how it all works and I try not to think about the fact that I am also benefiting so intensely from all these straight white men being in power because they just love love to take care of pretty girls with a bit of brain - i mean of course it is not so simple and I know that I actively utilize all of my skills, but sex appeal is def one of them. Its also not that I cut myself short, I know that I am fucking good at what I do, but it is just interesting how famous woman engage vs. famous men. Like this desire that men have, to be the guru, to have a following, to take responsibility for the development of a younger persons career in a very proud manner. while the woman (choreographers) that I have been engaging with are much more weary of holding this omnipotent place of power, so much more humble and discrete about their guidance. Also holding a much more fluid or constantly morphing position and not actively demanding external recognition and responsibility for somebody else's development. Its like as a woman you just know that you have an impact on people, you don't need reassurance. Of course it is also all in degrees, some men are much more discreet then others and vise versa and all in between... 

 

I have been writing this email over the coarse of the last few days, and now everything is coming to end. classes are over and today we will all go to the lake. I am tired and happy and wide eyed but stronger even then I was before. I love you like always and often wish to have you next to me. On Wednesday I go to Oma Maria in the Alps for some kind of talkative decompression and then on 20 or so I travel to France. wow. life goes on and if I anticipate I have synchronized massive fear, welling tears, frantic horror, and infinite ecstasy welling inside. so i don't think about the future because I might explode or implode or just die. 

 

It is everything to be here with Louise. and I am in love with Casper and Antonia. and there r others as well. but for now I just take a little shower and drink green tea and open my heart even a little more to all of it and you.

 

kiss forever

 

 

But I bring this up now because I neeeed to focus a bit of special attention on a topic of discourse I find to be EXTREMELY important. In general terms, the topic of a more predominantly 'woman's' way of engaging with power vs. a 'mans' way, or maybe its like a feminine and masculine thing.. but for real I'm not so keen on these words either. So tired of the binaries.

 

Kill it before it dies. It was an immense two weeks. of horrid bladder pain, depleted energy, massive doubt, volcanic insecurities, utter bliss and desperate attraction. I ran more then I've run in the past three years because of you and we baked cake and bread and ate cloves of garlic together. We were cute, and literally everybody knew that we were fucking. But I didn't know this until a few weeks later in Berlin when the bladder infection still prevailed. I brought it up among the homies.

 

But I digress in time

 

On to the next.

 

Alone in Brussels and its fucking hard to detach. Fully useless. no serotonin. no joy. no triggers. 

 

And I begin to retract again into myself. the reminder that I am alone. Again a late morning after a night of extensive cybersex or collective erotic poetry, we make good art. I think with you, and I am reminded as I hate myself a little for waking up late again, that I think alone even more. So many partners. So many distractions. maybe neither of us know how not to work and so we desperately fall into each other to distract from a constant duty. You fall more regularly but I am receptive to your need. to your fire, to your want. you trigger it in me. together we access the infinite. that light which is never found in the eternity of a black hole. It feels drastic. I want to fall forever but somehow it seems like an unattainable wish. 

 

Or is there an environment that makes it possible?

 

Now in Berlin, a Friday afternoon, I walk the length of the Turkish Market along the canal. New here I don't know names. Maybe I'm in Kreuzberg. The flat of Isabel Lewis is my home for one month and it feels super good. Sometimes I think about Tino and Isabel cuddling and having intimate conversation in this bed. When I at last lay my head, I think mostly of the perfection of such pillows. A little more then a fantasy. But pretty much just that.

 

Mickey: I love that flat, it's so pure.

N: ha, sure

 

I wonder in all how many people have shared those sheets. and I wonder if Mickey you might wanna come over sometime. 

 

So much shaving the bottom half of the head around here. Hippies and hipsters and turkish people walk these streets and there, there is a woman with an avocado tattoo. I cry a little as I remember Portland. A woman without a bra. Is it a little bit of nostalgia so far away from family? I can leave New York and it is definitely not to be with the hipsters. But I can leave New York for a little soft relief. There are a million people here also - most of which are blank w super average style. very behind, but maybe the ones that matter have a moment or two for me. There are one or two of you in NYC that I will leave behind. but mostly it is nothing more than an expansion. spinning my web. sos. lost at sea. never ever. with a sense of alone together. 

 

This is important in relation to you. How can I continue to sew a missive quilt that spans the circumference of earth if I am lost and falling forever with you? I don't know if it is possible. But it is impossible not to fall with you. Or perhaps if we developed a rhythm one of being together and being apart, if someday we were to practice being alone together, maybe then I can let myself open eternally. As I said a million times, this is safety. And yet I don't know if this is something that WE want. or if rather it is something that I eventually want with somebody. It is possible that this. this is the RELATIONSHIP that you spoke of. the codified engagement that is not a lack of love but a loss of the contingency of being in love. of constantly dying together. is it not possible to have both?

 

and a pomegranate tattoo walks leisurely by the donut shop window.

 

Colorless. literally why.

 

I think we share a certain taste in movies. I think we share a lot. 

 

last night was fireworks. All the stuff I do not say when we make love for real. set. engraved. words in pink bubbles. so many pink bubbles and short vibrations that open a sleepy eye for you. before my computer dies.

 

let me give you something wonderful.

 

M: Lets undress a little

N: I'm all yours fully

undressed and ready for

skin

M: Me too super nude

 

N: Sticking my butt against

u

M: More

 

N: Pull me in a little closer

M: A lot closer

N: Your hand on my belly

My hip bone

 

M: Lots of skin and the heat

between us

 

N: Your lips against my ear

A little tongue

M: Mmmmmmmm

Gently

N: Super gentle

My neck between your

teeth

Soft

 

M: Like mountains

 

 

N: A vast landscape of

treetops

M: I love you

N: I love you too

M: And I whisper it into your

body

N: And I shiver

 

 

M: Slow slow slow

My hand on your hip

N: Slowly down the back of

my thigh

 

M: Another hand drawn

mystically to your right

breast

 

 

N: I part my legs just slightly

Come a little closer

M: Come a lot closer - our

legs twined together

I can open you a little and 

you can feel my hard a 

little

N: Pushing against eo in a

bit of extra desperation

I melt a little into u

And encircle u in warmth

And wet

M: And hard

Endlessly

 

N: I pull you inside of me

M: Oh my teeth against your

collar bones

N: I'm open and wanting

 

 

 

M: And I let you wait -

suspense and yet I give

you just a little

N: It's perfect and a little

wild

I'm screaming

And tingling

 

M: My eyes close I come

deep inside you

 

 

N: My eyes open and I see

deep into the sun

M: I melt into the sun and

your skin is on fire

 

N: Fire shooting from u into

me traveling into my

heart

Struck

My chest

Full of fire

 

M: I'm dripping

There is only you and me

Worlds vanish it's now

and nothing is closer

N: dissolving wet into each

other

Skin sliding

M: Mouths

N: All of the possibilities

Falling into the cavern

Endless

M: I want you now

N: I'm all yours and forever

 

 

 

 

 

 

And now I go pee

M: Ok me too

N: Bed

And sleep

M: Sleeeeeeep

N: And kiss after kiss after

kiss

M: Kiss after kiss kiss after

kiss

 

cute like pikachu.

 

a lullaby.

 

suck on this. 

 

babyboi.

 

This is a long distance love affair. it is a game and it is a fantasy. it is a figment just like my reality. We are fake and the truth. Clever and good looking. I am honest only when I feel like shit. a big sack of flesh and bones. skin and blood. festering soars and bulging organs. I am honest when i think about philosophy and plants and how strange everything is. I am honest when nothing makes sense but I do it anyway. I play games. and I honestly play them because otherwise I am stuck in this disgusting swamp of honesty. and it sucks. So I wear clothes that look sexy and I write emails that make me feel important and pretend to need you. I pretend to care about the cleanliness of my kitchen and my full fruit bowl. I pretend to care about Abra and Frank Ocean and the words of affection and adoration that you give me. I pretend to think that I am clever and that the other clever ones know it. I pretend to think I'm pretty and care about my hairstyle and the smell of the soap. I pretend with superlatives. and I care. deeply about pretending. It is pretending that gives me life. makes me exist as something greater then I am. It is the game that gives me power and purpose and control and worth and value. I love to play. and pretend games are my realism. is it #posthuman or #purehuman

 

My clever and attractive friend. there is something super special about our love. A friendship that unites in heavy weighted chemistry. We talk about little more then work. We motivate each other to do that which is most important.

 

And a little excerpt from a little somebody.

 

...

I don't want to be a spectator anymore.

 

A spectator has to give a shit, 

and if I'm expected to take responsibility

I just don't get to where I want to go.

 

Getting anywhere at all requires hanging back, 

being lazy and judgmental,

cold in the face of all this performance stuff, 

ignoring all the usual desperation from the stage, 

and the bullying and preaching,

and manipulation

and shock tactics,

and the good cop bad cop routines.

 

Holding back the love

and refusing to look impressed.

 

It's only at that distance

I have those brilliant shifts

that stick in my head.

 

And the shift isn't yours

it's mine,

and I know it's mine because I wasn't talking to you at the time,

I was holding back.

 

I want to watch things in a place that leaves me alone,

and lets me keep my distance 

from you and the rest.

 

I want to be in a crowd

where nobody cares

who I am,

or what I think.

 

It's not that I can't join in,

it's just there's something I'm looking for

which I find best when I'm in a group

alone.

 

And I showed this writing to my friend Gillie,

who suggested I look in a dictionary.

 

And a spectator is someone who watches a show or a game or another event,

and an audience are assembled spectators or listeners,

and I like the idea of listening.

 

And I understand we started using spectator

to make clear each watcher is an individual,

but sometimes I feel more individual when I'm in a group

alone.

 

And I like it if I have to walk around,

in fact I do it well,

secretly so nobody notices,

and also hanging against walls where I'm not meant to be.

 

I pretend not to be interested,

it's a state of mind that suits me

and my body lounges nicely.

 

Sometimes I'm looking a bit natural,

which is that brilliant human thing I work hard at

when I want to disappear.

 

I'm representing myself watching you

and you're busy representing whatever you're representing.

 

It's all quite self-conscious.

 

But my brain gets into gear then

and starts thinking of a lot of things,

which is why I watch performances.

 

I don't get that when I watch sport.

 

I'm not against the group

but I'm not following stupidly.

 

I'm making the sounds everyone's making,

and getting the sense we're letting the thing happen,

in a lazy way.

 

I'd prefer you didn't try to liberate me.

 

Sometimes I like it if you come up close

but I'm not what funding bodies might call a real audience member, 

so we can maybe start from the idea I know a bit,

and it's ok if I don't want to hear the story about your Grandfather's orchard,

or whatever.

 

---

 

Facebook's made it harder,

because before you could escape quickly afterwards if you hated it

and not hear opinions,

but now you get home and switch on the computer

and have to ignore a lot of stuff.

 

I try to stay in a lounging mood,

not arrogant but distracted enough not to notice.

 

I have to be distracted enough for my brain to stay in gear,

and it doesn't seem to matter if I'm bored or entertained.

 

It takes a bit of discipline to stay distracted like that

in a focussed way.

 

...

I just want to hang around and somehow disappear,

which is when things get interesting for me.

 

Politicians and producers don't always understand that.

 

How performance is a place where things might happen

that have no obvious function in the usual world

in the usual way,

and I need that.

 

I need that and it comes in different shapes

and some of them involve seating and some of them don't,

and I'm not so bothered as long as I have some space

and time,

and nobody tries to teach me how or what

 

footnote (Audience by Jonathan Burrows).

 

that is all that is worth anything. 

 

...

 

jump mother fuckers jump

 

And then here I am dying a little, or so it is, the best meditation - lying on the bed staring at the little piece of fluff hanging from the ceiling. It's a gentle illusion, looks like a dot on the ceiling but moving slightly and weirdly disconnected. Here I am dying a little and thinking about how annoying it is that people keep trying to tell me what it means to be a man or what it means to be a woman, like codifying into this binary and all I want is for people to exist outside of their gender norms and just shut up about it all. 

 

Maggie Nelson talks about the horror of having to introduce herself to her classmates as a totem animal, "The game placed an icy finger on my identity phobia".. I know the feeling. She decides on otter with a beautiful passage to follow, "To feel small, slick, quick, amphibious, dexterous, capable. I didn't know then Barthes's book The Neutral, but if I had, it would have been my anthem --the Neutral being that which, in the face of dogmatism, the menacing pressure to take sides, offers novel responses: to flee, to escape, to demur, to shift or refuse terms, to disengage, to turn away. The otter was thus a complex sort of stand-in, or fake-out, another identity I felt sure I could shimmy out of."

 

A little more where that came from. "Whatever I am, or have since become, I know now that slipperiness isn't all of it. I know now that a studied evasiveness has its own limitations, its own ways of inhibiting certain forms of happiness and pleasure. The pleasure of abiding. The pleasure of insistence, of persistence. The pleasure of obligation, the pleasure of dependency. The pleasure of ordinary devotion. the pleasure of recognizing that one may have to undergo the same realization, write the same nots in the margin, return to the same themes in one's work, relearn the same emotional truths, write the same book over and over again--not because one is stupid or obstinate or incapable of change, but because such revisitations constitute a life."

 

And I know that in the context of Helene Cixous's piece, The Laugh of the Medusa, Nelson is writing women. She is doing it the way that has not been recognized, she is making the new history, "it's not a dream, though it does extend beyond men's imagination, and for good reason. It's going to deprive them of their conceptual orthopedics, beginning with the destruction of their enticement machine..."

 

As much as I wish to avoid, the conversation on gender binaries is not over. Far from it. Again on Saturday night, the same conversation with you in which you dabble in the idea that writing is an inherently masculine form of engagement. That Cixous is engaging in and perpetuating masculine forms just by projecting something (literal words) into the world, something lasting, something concrete, something omnipotent. You talk of the spiritual as a guide. You wish for a different kind of engagement like my Oma living for her garden, "when I can no longer work in my garden, there is no longer reason to live." So you talk about the impossibility of the neutrality of the act of writing. But there is nothing inherent in writing. And in fact it is necessary that Cixous ask for the neutrality of writing so that recognition can take place in the form of a feminine way of writing, "It is impossible to define a feminine practice of writing, and this is an impossibility that will remain, for this practice can never be theorized..."

 

and in your little pink bubbles you say things that I already know.

There is defo nothing

inherent in writing

And certainly not male

Never never

If so than man is real and

not conventional

Which is pre post modern

to consider

And totally says Butler

was wrong

Not happening

 

As if male or human etc has substance and is not a construction. Writing is only male because of convention and power and that is all, nothing spiritual about conventions.

 

And yet I am still so tired of being told what is male and what is female, what is masculine and what is feminine and I wish for the neuter as if we could live outside of social constructs, yeah. right. 

 

The literal devil is crawling up my pant leg and healing my kidney infection.

 

We had a quick phone call as you readied yourself for work. You told me about your motorcycle, but mostly I did the story telling.

 

I love grey ice cream.

 

I complained on the phone that the kidneys are associated with trust and fear and you commented that "possibly the infection is from some nasty bacteria, maybe not your rampant bf". Thank god for practicalities.

 

I have your cologne on my football jersey. the #almostvintage one with a nike swish. My dress shirt. How much cologne can one doctor wear. But I love you because you care. You care about my kidneys and my bladder and my inflamed urethra that makes peeing quite excruciating. You know exactly how to make me better. You in your fashionable white jeans and white turtle neck. Your grey hair and pristine smell. You can decipher my bladder from my kidneys on an ultrasound. you know that I am not retaining water and that those little tiny specks are not supposed to be there. I trust you and therefore I love you. Plus you touched my belly with such gentle assurance.

 

Now at 'home', another makeshift, I reside here and pretend this life that is not in fact a pretend game. I even have a bike. I cook warm food and drink warm water with ginger and apple cider vinegar, doctors recipe. Today is complete. Not finished, like over, but rather full. today is everything it could possibly be. Mickey is heading back to NYC, Anne Imhof is most likely stuck in the post performance spiral of horror and self loathing. and I am content in being alone on the third floor. Tomorrow I will have a visitor. A very very extraordinary visitor.

 

It's funny cuz some things just gotta stay private.

 

But you ask me to send you the transcript and I do. I am barely balancing on that precipice. Caught between wanting desperately to share my everything with the entire world and feeling so goddamn insecure about it. In a way you are just the force that will push me over the edge - into the eternal tumble of no return. #hereiamlord take me as I come. C'est moi.

 

And I freak a little because I know that there is explicit stuff in this text that that is a direct interpretation of you and how I feel about you or more specifically about our ways of relating. Yet, it's a babies transcript and sometimes she wasted. CLARITY. Meaning, letting the love in and out is a process of tampering with deep rooted forms of rejection and denial that dictate my ability to let myself feel love and care and permission and all those feelings that come with the ease of two people that have worked through the many layered games of resistance. protective measure. I rejected you for a long time. Not only did I reject you, but I denied myself access to feelings of unscathed, unadulterated affection because of the fear of being let down, destroyed, lied to, manipulated etc. My harsh words and hard shell are my protection. I want to be softer and softer and more soft. like your skin. and warm. and cozy.

 

September 28, 2016 you arrive. 

 

You sent me a message in the midst of many messages two weeks ago. the message was about your ethics, this particularity on the subject of pregnancy. It was impersonal but as we are directly intimate with one another, it struck a cord in me and made my cells convulse. I will not dwell in detail because it feels incredibly unimportant at the moment, but I will say that I read the message to momi and told her how it made me feel. She laughed a little after listening intently over Skype and then provided me with an A+ deciphering. 

 

S: It sounds like he is using key words, those trigger words that catch ones attention. Its like an advertisement for a car, you know, one with a half naked woman flaunting her body to entice. Its an ad for a car, but all you read from it is SEX. It's totally superficial.

 

And I was stunned at how perfect and spot on her interpretation was. Smart fucking woman. 

 

I continued to share with her a bit more of the conversation.

 

S: Honestly, I don't understand half of what you guys are talking about. I mean I obviously don't know him, but when somebody is so sort of poetic with their way of speaking, my way of relating would be to ask if something isn't totally clear.

 

Literally 'what are you talking about?'

 

She went on to give an example of the first house visit that her and Robert made when they were in the market. 

 

S: He was so incredibly emotional when we arrived, it was so beautiful. I was certain that he was going to propose that night. I had an assumption that wasn't based on a literal interaction of words but rather my own interpretation of a very abstract thing. He of course didn't propose that night. and because of my presumption I was one step ahead of him in vulnerability and openness. 

 

It was hard work to convince him to marry me.

 

This advise sticks like rubber cement and I begin asking for clarity.

 

N: Um, what?

 

chuckle

 

It is incredible to feel logical clarity in the form of love and negotiation. 

 

Afternoon on the canal. still not sure of her name. I guess that a canal is feminine in German, but who knows. Maybe neuter. I eat a full meal. like a normal person. Digesting 7euros and I feel good about the purchase. The usual go to, a Mediterranean platter. The girl sits next to me with her boyfriend. We watch the water and the swans and she talks about being drunk at 9 am and being thoroughly disgusted by the couples on their fresh morning jogs. Its too bad the way people drop their trash into the water. Our open sewage system, how lovely. What a pleasant place to have lunch. But what is the point of living in a city when old age takes charge anyway? Or it is during these years of slow drawn out decay during which one needs the most amount of distraction. There is sadness in the fact that we cannot grow old together. 

 

M: I love you first.

N: Yes well I love you last.

 

I will witness you grow old and you will witness me grow up. We will share this and I feel really happy about that.

 

A phone call when I needed it most.

 

N: He just left, trying frantically not to fall apart. How do people do this falling in love thing?

 

R: Well they don't do it so well, thats why there are so many love songs.

 

True that.

 

Poor Bruno Mars, I would never catch a grenade for you either. But the hurt is not in an asymmetry the way it is for poor Bruno, and seemingly every other musician. The little sadnesses come when I eat dinner alone or shower alone or think about being in the studio all day without you coming to pick me up in the end. Yes, these are glorious moments with you. But somehow I realize that being physically alone, manifesting a very autonomous life, has not in fact been a defense mechanism but is very clearly my truth. It is nice to know that I am not merely convincing myself that being alone is what I love because I am incapable of opening up to people or living with somebody else's oddities. I do not spend my life alone because I can't make time for other people. It is my time. my form of time that I dictate. 

 

Time. 

 

and now a little cold as the sun hides behind the houses. I move locations.

 

Back home.

 

In high school we were taught not to use I statements. Maybe because in elementary school this is all we are taught. I can't remember. Imagine what would come out of a woman who learned void of hierarchy. 

 

I tend to separate studio and writing, but today there is writing in the studio with Crystal Myth - something to synth your teeth into. IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII miss you

and I don't care about your rules and regulations. well maybe a little. 

 

To negotiate multiple rhythms. it can be breathtaking.

There was one incident during which my pride almost took hold and the immaturity was released. I held my tongue and later you apologized for not seeing the luxury in every moment. I giggled at my good fortune. I don't need to argue with you. You think enough to see clarity. Me too. 

 

I am not spiritual. Post Durkheim, I am not spiritual and yet every goddamn thing I partake in, interact with, converse with, relate to, every goddamn thing that I am you are we are WHATEVER it is, it is all sacred. what? It is the most profane mundane generic overdone nondescript pathetic excessive replicant and it is fucking sacred because I say so. 

 

I spend my life alone because I am not alone.

I love grey ice cream.

 

Driven by a sense of longing, the way that you are fueled by revenge, always an unattainable feat. Longing to be fulfilled and forever falling short. Constantly reminded that fulfillment is fleeting and this repetitive realization always returns me headlong into that which i know least but fall headlong into without hesitation. Not true, tons of hesitation. I need to sleep now and decipher tomorrow. Everything is a blurr and you have vanished into thin air. A ghost, strung out on your own hobbies. There is no happy medium with that one. or this one.. maybe.. just maybe I can find a happy medium. Someday. on the 12th of never.

 

I need to read a good book. A novel. something fictional that gives me fantastical ideas to suck up. I need to get out of me for a while and decipher something all together different. I want to try Eros the bittersweet but I want a hard copy. with pages that smell. 

 

But for now, another cup of hot water and PHRASE WORK. 

 

I had a savory waffle and was desperate for affection. 

 

Soon to send. how to end.

 

it never stops.

 

what if i could publish a book and forever alter it until i was literally incapable of lifting a finger or opening my mouth. lying weak on my death bed. in the middle of a garden, an overgrown garden with a very compact eco system. moist and festering. What is it like to get old? sounds absolutely exquisite. To think someday I will hit my prime. lol

 

ok you get on a plane now so i send you what i have.

 

I want to be a receptacle for your projections. not a mirror but transparent. You might be slightly uncomfortable and the environment doesn't totally allow you to be alone with your projections, but I want you to be subtly aware of your perversities. I will allow it.

 

I deciphered something all together different tonight. Opening night to a small festival at Sophiensaele. I deciphered it and then it became excruciatingly horrid and I sat with elbows on knees and head in hands trying desperately to stay calm and respectful. Unnoticeable in my seat. I die for dance.  and im dying now as my brain shrivels from lack of moisture. Have I forgotten how to eat? Goodnight. and thank god for a little joy today. Stackin $$ everywhere she goes. yup. its time.

 

Robert Smith is my perversity. 

 

And you finally found the courage to let it all go. 

 

Slip away quietly

 

open my eyes. but i never say anything.    

 

If only I thought of the right words.

 

Its bliss when I make it so. Go through the actions. Get my ass out. meet with people and sit in the cafe. And then to sit and write at home becomes utter glory. Not to long for anybody or any situation but to be here and feel the satisfaction of living that way that I know best. You said something very wonderful about that process of redirecting missing to longing to generative engagement.

 

This also horrible - it's a

big thing to redirect

desire from missing to

longing and make holding

back become generative

 

to let love be there without holding on for dear life.

 

Dear life,

 

When I was a kid I used to lie in bed for days after a particularly fun event. Completely and utterly destroyed as the termination of elated joy sunk in. pure emotional misery followed by bleak despair.

Growing up in Portland was pretty damn cool. I was truly #blessed. To think that even the public school system provided opportunities such as outdoor school - a week long in the forest - or simple day trips to the pumpkin patch or to check out the old growth and nurse logs. These field trips brought me life and cured my headaches. I was not deprived of fun childhood experiences, but I remember fighting stubbornly for one particular endeavor. Horse camp. One week on the Oregon coast, caring for and riding horses. Magic. It was through an organization called Camp Westwind and it cost $$$. Hence the stubborn fighting. Eventually I was granted my wish. A bit late perhaps - looking back at photos, I was approximately a head taller then the others.

 

I somehow thought it was possible between me and the camp councilor Hobbs. But I'm fairly certain that I would have felt this way no matter my age. It was a passionate love affair with an inaccessible camp councilor and I was not devastated that nothing ever happened between us - well nothing physical at least, I was in my awkward early teen years - I was however, deeply devastated when the week was up and the glory of being in love with the entirety of a situation came to an abrupt halt. #bye #forever

 

I do not need to suck your blood because I will live forever anyway.

 

I tell it to my unicorn friend.

 

It's the weekend and all of a sudden it feels like it. I forgot the feeling for a while.

 

Too bad its FRIDAY

 

Is it just me or is this town full of little kids. doing all the things that I want to do. Maybe being with an old person is depriving me of my young years. This brings tears again. this desolate love. I had my young years. too many of them. Or maybe I make a life now so that I can be young when I am old. momi followed something of this Benjamin Button trajectory, now in her early fifties finally things are light. Or perhaps lighter then they ever were. It would be so nice to go through it together. wet. watery eyes. Just slugs trying not to dry out. I am a fool. Rejecting and again rejecting and denial. and how the fuck do you know. Confessions of a defective indigo product. I know nothing about auras but all y'all are sucking me dry. I blame you for my distant youth. and yet I am overjoyed when another grey hair shows her face. Will i have a head of silver or a head of gold. I never was a show pony. Nor am I a drama queen, but I embrace it all, old and young. the dichotomies and all that sparkling garbage in between. So many things that I plan to do. I like to waste a little too. let it happen. 

 

She just likes you too much. Spaz attack. dry lips and almost cold feet. What if I were self riotous and insincere?

 

One week of elated joy meant one week of mourning. These days its usually a bit less, and that is why I am confused. In a constant state of not quite right. All of the selves. simultaneously. I have a crush on you and love affair with you. I flirt with you and dream about agony. 

 

HAHA

 

That last part was nothing but a biscuit. Soon I will be healthy and I will bake pies.

 

I always fall in love with the bois at the cafe. the androgynous ones with the baby faces and cute smiles. 

 

And then again you disappear. We decide on chicken for dinner from the buffet and we sit away from the others in the sunflower seeds. But you send me, just a meter away, to another table. You sit there and look at me while I eat long grain white rice and that finely chopped tomato/cucumber salad that the Israelis have claimed as there own. You sit and look at me from over there and then you get up, removing the tablecloth from another table you bring it to mine. The table cloth is white linen and you disappear into the bathroom to shave. I eat by myself until boredom kicks in and then riffle through a box of old selfies and a slowly deteriorating chocolate cake. You don't come back and the disappearing cake becomes my anxiety.

 

Like that one about the woman who makes two pots of soup for her guests but she excessively tastes each one until nothing is left for her friends.

 

I felt sick and anxious.

 

But all a bit subdued.

 

I won't wait around for you and I won't eat chocolate cake alone. She's devoured by strangers.

 

And now a little reading on Sunyata and materialist feminism.

Attack of the killer normies. And to quote one of my all time faves, embryonic stem cell research, Enor, Snore monster. "Hell is empty and all the devils are here."

 

SMALLWORLD

 

The one that becomes big when you set your face up close. Every grain of sand is a rock. And I'm passionate about it. Do you think that he suffers from a feeling of inferiority? Do you ever worry that you are not good enough? I wonder why you don't let me in when you are hurting the most. But today on FB chat you mentioned that my excitement is contagion. Causing a little ball of something to well up in your chest. So wonderful really. Brilliant is how it's called.

 

Those big blue eyes. The ones that don't look but see everything. And your little...

 

I am beginning to understand something. Or speculate.. What a waste of time to focus on the mundane writings of another, and yet, the minor distraction brings a sense of fresh. Yes, there are things that make sense in their complete disassociation to known ways of being. heyhey, unknown to me and the greater Western world at least. This is not an open relationship. this is not a relationship at all. You are a fairy god mother. I don't know the exact definition of such, but it sounds correct. I am one of many. ONE OF MANY. is there inherent misogyny in recognizing your lover as the fairy god mother of many young woman and a few young men? sure queer but they are all cis gendered.

 

There is nothing special about me. one of many extraordinary people. and just because we have magical sex does not mean that I am any more important then the rest.

 

You will not follow the rules and you will deny all confines that attempt to box you up. yes, I understand. You do this for whatever hurt and pain that you have gone through, this is NOT for me to decipher. I do not care. I care for you but I do not care about your pain and suffering. This is your struggle and you refuse to share. so be it. OK. so then what is next. What you do share, your affection is in the love. Fairy god mother you share your love. You choose those that you wish to dote upon and it is your choice. Not a back and forth, not a give and take, you convinced me that we are in love. Do you remember? The decision is made and then you follow through until your victims of love are swimming in the milky waters of undecipherable affection. Your terms your conditions. The love is ab fab unabashedly unbelievably wow. But it is stretched thin and not directed inside. ever. or very rarely. So here I swim. It took a few years but I am in the pool. And I begin to understand the non index. and yet. 

 

there is always an and yet.

 

the non perfect human is present in this one also, no matter the strength or desire to live above the world of imperfections and disease. You have also been infested and there is a part of you that longs for singularity. Shared and devoted and discrete love between me and you. or you and another. This is exactly where it becomes messybaby. For this desire is like duh to you, but you foresee the ability to be singular with many. However, in order for a shared devotion one must dive into the complications and hardships of the other (I really have such an issue with 'the other' but I work with what I got). Somehow this is alluded to but not made available. There are writings and mentions of suffering. your sufferings are a lack of self care, my sufferings are a lack of your care, pathologies that plague our unsettled beings, but we do not dive in. Always swimming in shallow waters, you don't want me deep because going deep means not only dealing with you pain but also dealing with me pain. And well, you don't want to waste the time. I have always thought about it slightly different. Also driven by capitalism and work and a sense of production I find it impossible to twiddle my thumbs. Yet to find inner peace and deep healthy intimacies is part of my work. This is NOT a waste of time. not in the least bit. but I jump ship only because to digress is such a cliche, what I mean to say is, this has all together become much more complicated then we are capable of handling, so we withdraw a little and swim eternally in the shallow end. I wonder about the intimacies, the algae, that grows in the shallow end. and yet you claim that there is a soul. But are souls meant to be shared? or kept locked up, caged inside never to see the sun?

 

You claim that you don't want to go deep but you ask me to send it all. Maybe you wanna go deep inside of me, but don't want me anywhere near your insides. Jeezus.

 

Too bad - you have done your research, but the system runs deep, deeper then you will EVER excavate. once again, Welcome to the Surface. WELCOME TO THE CIRCUS.

 

But the thoughts continue as the contingency grows. Do you believe in love after love after love after love... and then kima's cooking show #best 

 

trying desperately to cook but can't stop masturbating.. oops.

 

liberation. too bad they are all just figments. fake fake fake fake fake fake kafka. 

 

I really don't think your strong enough. What am I supposed to do, sit around and wait for you... maybe I'm to good for. But I think you fear this deep down. what a desolate unfortunate resignation to live with such an epidemic.

 

Sure I am ready to try it, but the challenges are another stipulation. If it were easy then I would be all over it and turns out I want a bit more inequalities first. Gotta love patriarchal pathologies. I don't blame me or you. but it is completely our fault. Oh the fault game. Its always my fault, who cares really, just move on and share the joy. I don't have personal hardships anymore. only the one in relation to you, yes yes yes of course they are personal, but triggered my the romantic intimacies.

 

Today blue skies and swimming in doors.

 

this is how we break up. I will never break up with Cher. More warm water and mom across the quart yard.

 

Takes time to believe it - when all is said and done, you are going to be the lonely one. You are the lonely one, no denying it. So I keep it easy. I am a million miles away and stretching myself thin. a web. and just like you fairy god mother, I am the maternity of many, you included and extra fun. There are plenty of kinds of love that we can explore.

 

Sure. like the one that I share with my father ---- never rely on him, never expect anything. enjoy the moments that we share. Difference is, he doesn't talk to me about his depressions. I've had time to think it through. haven't come to any conclusions. But I know that I'll get through this. Life that is. And I ain't nevernever gonna resign.

 

And then I tell you that I listen to your words, the ones that make not so profound but quite concrete logic, and you tell me to contest you. Yeah let's see. I don't know if I am up for a fight. 

 

"and the personal against some kind of idealized written subject"

 

do you have a definition? Or perhaps this is the definition and the definition is definitionless.  

 

Strange little girl. 

 

Yesterday in the studio we talked about the piece that we are configuring together. I began to explain to you what I wanted in relation to forms of engagement etc. and you asked me to stop describing it in the sense of what I don't want but rather to pinpoint what I do want. It happens however, that what I do want is completely nonconforming and abstract. I want to explore our love together. full stop. What I don't want on the other hand is much more concrete and clear.

 

"The great part is that it can not be understood as a book - nor fiction or auto-fiction - not a document and neither something else".

 

It is defined by what it can not be and undefined by what it cannot not be. As I say, this is exactly the fear and the unavoidable truth.

 

I am so post audience. -- and the boring parts are when dance shows up. obvi. Look out, you might miss the boring parts when they don't come around any longer. I wonder when you talk about that which you describe as me attempting to write literature. hilarious thought actually. and yet it is nothing more or less then one million attempts. tacky chatty. personal and not. voila. Imagine if it were all symmetrical. fall apart. over and over and over again.

 

and now to choose a few pages. on post audience.

 

And then I remember TMS from last night and Marilyn Mansinthe -- a special kind of absinthe.

And again. to center. maybe not the center, but the pinhole in the hurricane. Bone broth turns into peanut sauce, butter is out, I had an addiction, but craving to heal from the inside out. bone penetrating bone. get in there and seep into the depths of activity. To remember again that which feels like the ground. Not the ground as in underneath my feet. Not the ground as in that which supports me. Not the ground as in everything is fascined because gravity is real. no. something more like home. something more like centrical force or an orbiting solar system. Not in the sense that I am the sun and y'all orbit me. but rather just another planet but also maybe not a planet at all as I am irrelevant to humanity. Almost like a detachment. but not at all a resignation. Just a moment in a non linear stretch of instantaneous time. A moment of not connecting because there is nothing to connect to. a moment of tranquility. not in the sense of bliss but more like that which arrives after a long day of cleaning the house, doing the laundry, watering the plants, going grocery shopping and cooking for the family. Nothing special on the stove just a polenta casserole, steamed kale, and a salad. This kind of warn out but happy. done. accomplished. simple. No monetary reward. No recognition for your hard work. but a sense of peace and gentle buzzing quite. Alone in the madness - in the most gentle way. At ease without temptation. without anxiety or flutters of unrest. disconnected from all others, almost as if all other humans were nothing more, or less, then rocks lining the garden or sawdust on the playground floor or fallen leaves or on and on the options are endless and unimportant. Not a single thread to pull me off balance. In fact balance isn't even a word worth knowing as there is no possibility of being off balance. The surface area is endless and I am its width, height and length. I take up no space.  There is a vibrancy in this sense of being but it lacks imposition. Nothing is necessary and everything is happening. I doesn't exist as you doesn't exist. I am here but here is nowhere. Neither subject nor object, I am unseen as there are no eyes to see with. Alone, in the most gentle sense of the word, and only in so much that I am nowhere and will be here until I decide to connect. to send my feelers dancing. to disturb the tranquility.

 

The feeling is strong - the one that makes me cherish womanhood. In a very fundamental way. not as an attack or as a defense but as a unified autonomy. I wonder if there are men in the western world that cultivate this sense of personal warmth and gentle indifference to existence. Something like the purity of relaxation. Luca, you and I, we are a good team. You left two needles in my left ear. They pierce but stay nestled inside the cartilage.transistor radio. discrete silver antenna. You taught me about Japanese acupuncture. needles in my meridians to free up clogged chi flow. Sitting in warm sensation. still. relaxed. you call yourself a therapist. If this is the effect of therapy, I may have changed my mind. Or maybe I am just I love with you.

 

My Auntie will grow old alone. 

 

I will grow old with everybody.

 

you are we are i am what I needed. need. 

 

Over Skype with momi. There is a difference between being needy and not having your needs met.

emancipation station. And its funny to me that you are so unaware. But I will write about you later. because now I am peaceful. Hypnotized into pure body sensorial.. the opposite of stimulation. the opposite of electricity. its not a buzzing and its not a purr. a very simple being.

 

I am not sorry that I describe everything by what it is not. I love it.

 

Not forceful. contradictions of complimentary. You said this to me today. And I will begin another written project. but it will involve more numbers. a full stop chart. When was my last period?

 

Oh funny. Charlie just had a birthday.

 

The real question is, who in their right mind buys a bag of chicken necks at the Turkish Market for one euro and makes a pot of peanut sauce with seven or so chicken necks? and for that matter, eats three chicken necks for dinner on a bed of Hirse with a side of steamed broccoli marinated in olive oil and lemon juice? Yes. the best meal I've cooked for my self since you left the flat. content. at last. I will bake pie when I arrive in Portland.

 

 

NjgjkmjhjukhbgdplokDukakis - the little ones at work again. Du kaki du kaki und du kaki.

 

Its a rather extreme realization this one of personal development when the sun switches places with the moon and the horizons meet. tonight we talked about the crisis and let me free you from the grasp, the strong hold. You are a man diving into the yin swimming in the DEPTHS of femininity. YOU CAN DOOOO IT. I believe in you and I will listen to your process caring for your sensitivity and allowing it to be withou dominating you with my aggression and demands for your masculine power. I will not demand that you know how to cope with the feminine expansions. And then we we we -- we are onto something anew. Hilary Clinton you are the icon for all woman who have conquered their masculinity. great job. but there is another way these days, a fluidity. barf. a spicy womanhood. an aggressive femininity. it is neither or both, an intertwining or a disregard. This conversation has only just begun and it is over. For we must work together and yet once again woman are ahead of the game. Does it make sense?

 

Its aggressive.

  

 

 

 

A complete lifestyle switch has taken over. I work late. get up late. sleep less then 8 hours. eat two meals a day. and desire constant stimulation. and my true love lol emailed me that I may be 100% bananas. #welcometohell 

 

I like it here. and yesterday I accidentally ate magic mushrooms out of the refrigerator of a fairly famous choreographer. Sure, power intrigues me but the integrity of my truth runs deep and swift. Let me know if you wanna go white water rafting. on a pirate ship.

 

The disgust. And the conversation is boundaries. Or a complete lack. Not complete but driven by curiosity. Nobody should ever fall in love with me and yet if somebody actually falls in love with me and cares for me like for real non strategic and not out of desperation or personal need, like really really in love with me, well maybe I won't have to constantly test my boundaries with other people. The fact of the matter is, I rely on others to make boundaries for me. And yet last night. We layer on the couch while the boys slept in the other room and we held each other a little. It was you trying to engage me w your Tantra. I let it happen, not because I trust you or myself for that matter but because it felt good. And I desire to test my limits. Push myself beyond my comfort zone. The environment was tricky. Brought up a story. Replayed again and again.

 

The one about the woman that shared a party trick. I am double jointed in my shoulders and she showed me this one evening at the house on SE 17th. I had never seen this woman before and I have no memory of what she looked like. But she showed me how to bring my arms from behind my back, over my head without unclasping my hands. And then she disappeared upstairs with the one we called daddy.

 

This morning I dreamt of my brother. Playing together in the ocean. There were many rocks pummeling towards us. He showed me how to swat them aside. Fearlessly. We were playing. And this afternoon is self loathing and disdain. It's not about being healthy, it's about testing the limits. And finding piece of mind from within the chaos. I'm a mutherfucking monster.

 

But rather then a personal judgement, because who literally cares, let's talk about boundaries.

 

maybe dream of u. 

 

this is just a phase.

 

uuu r all one.

 

the only one.

 

MYSTERY//

 

two bob cats on the rocky mountains. a bit of sun and lots of green. hazy. 

 

A certain kind of yearning. when my hip bones and the internal lining of my vagina reach for you. Not just the skin that desires, but the pleasure itself as the universe touches me. caresses the creases on either side of my pussy between my legs. I forget about you when I cross my legs, seal myself off, ziplock my pussy to avoid even air penetration. spread a bit and the sensations return. touch me all over and caress me like the sorcer stone or a 42 caliber shot gun.  Not nearly up to you and yet I am all yours. Take me as I come, take me as you will. feed your eyes and mouth and you know I wouldn't have it any other way. A sinister kid is a kid who runs to meet his maker. A drop dead sprint from the day he's born, straight into his makers arm.

 

the boy with the broken halo

the devil won't let me be

 

In the dark she let's go. of the games. in the light she plays them diligently. It is always light and particularly artificial. but the train ride is a time for guilty pleasures. Always an album or two from the depths of nostalgia. pretty girls. You might not notice me. but as soon as you do, ah, your in for the long haul. no turning around. no avoidance. the bluest of blues. indigo indeterminacy. mashed potatoes in cellophane. 

 

PALM TREES and spring breakers.

 

I said jump. and mama you did. 

 

Indeterminate and never ending. yup she goes on. ]up - everyones one. don't ever move on. A lifestyle without ease. without the comfortability of settling. and yet she's there. tempting me To play out the game as if there is an ending. a culmination. an ability to wwin. power. She drips at my doorstep. drools in my bathroom and and oozes from the pantry. Something nasty in the woodshed. Cursed to stay erect. like a constant orgasm without ejaculating. appalling even to me to script such imagery.

 

Not gonna hide behind creativity. I never was so creative. quite practical and pragmatic. these are my thoughts, clear cut and stone cold. they are vast and they tell a story without narrative. creativity triggers my barf reflex. 

 

Discrete domination. the devil, she's listening.  so obscene. Its a lovely thing to be the devil and not have to worry about the security of my soul - I handed myself over as soon as I was conceived and you are afraid that I am lost or that you can purify my soul, or save me from the destiny of evil. But in face I dont need saving and I am destiny and my soul is tainted and touched and painted and molded and viscous and distant and something that it has never been and always will be and commodity and sin and it is this soul that gives me the ability to keep living trecking loving playing laughing and accepting that purity is confining. It is Trump with his nubby fingers constantly touching me with the hope of consuming my precious body.  misogyniesprojection of purity is a way of consuming and controlling.

 

All of a sudden, back int he States and I want to look hot. Like a a mid life crisis I am inspired once again to wear makeup and tight clothes. It's funny to think, age 26 and I'm still finding myself. lol. It's days like today that make me want to disappear completely, it's a good song Thom Yorke, even the man that thinks you are pretentious says so. The day is one of not mattering. To disappear and assume that nobody will miss me. 

 

Oh it's not the truth, just a feeling. But I am weak and thats about it. Mom is home and that means, 100% cannot concentrate. 

 

major doubts. 

double major insecurity.

There is a transformation happening. Pathologies that manifest themselves in the way that I cherish men. It disgusts me to say so but in the house it was always the father figure or bro that demanded the extra attention and recognition. In fact I was only worthy when I followed suit. As Juniper put it, he wasn't raising people, he was raising little dominions of himself. We were awarded for being just like him and ridiculed for being our own little mini selves. He was the prototype and she was always questioned, dismissed, ridiculed, made to feel inadequate by all of us. I was also inadequate. But young girl sex appeal gave me the upper hand in comparison to my mother. Who has in fact always been incredibly beautiful, but I have a memory of her being washed out, something the cat dragged in, and not because she was ever anything like a dead bird but because he was always sneaky with his infiltrations. His flesh disgusts me and yet I feel sad stating such a gruesome truth.

 

We argued over the philosophy of truth. mom and I in the house just the two of us. She recommended I title the book Tangents, as it is infinitely tangential, but I told her my reasoning for Hard Lemonade and she got on board. She was adamant about truth dictating our relations, fighting for the necessity of science and basing conversations on facts etc. I tried to explain that there is something beautiful about the potential of communicating illusions and fantasy without a need to know whether or not a story is true. There is possibility of withdrawing from outright political conversation in the form of fantasy. There is a possibility of engaging in conversation that does not immediately perpetuate capitalist ideology in which case two people or more might partake in a conversation about fairies or the aliens that live out back or what it feels like to fly or whatever whatever, I'm not the most creative, and the content of the discussion is not in fact the important part of the conversation. Important, whatever, it's not the word that I would like to use, but for now we stick with the dry, less embellished terminology. Often we talk about things that we want to buy or people we want to have sex with. Or maybe we gossip about another couple or talk about our past and the emotions attached to such. Occasionally we talk about other ways of engaging, something like a transformation of reactivity but even so it is often discussion of how something from the past has effected the present and will continue to effect our present if we don't go through some kind of recalibration and potentially coming to a truth. And if we happen to not feel so sentimental that day, the conversation might revolve around inventions, the possibility of creation. But what about that other thing. That conversation that sits in its own brine without any intention of fulfilling anything. A conversation that has no meaning devoid of the relation. 

 

A conversation that is unimportant in its content and yet extremely important in its context.

 

 

We sat there in the kitchen, post cramps. It had been an excruciatingly painful day, the kind that dissolves into a lingering fear of birthing a child. But slept had overcome the writhing and I woke up with smiles, two skype calls and a nasty body oder. One was in fact a FB chat, to be precise.

 

The pain had subsided and you came home as I made a rather eclectic bone marrow soup. You fried up some brocoli rab in garlic and olive oil and asked me about stuff. I told you about boundaries and the wonders of practicing such.

 

And then a story that I have relayed twice in detail. Suddenly I am hungry again.

 

It's a proper moment to remember when you begin to actively practice setting boundaries with your parents.

 

K: What kind of boundaries?

 

Well its quite simple actually, 

 

But I never made it there and instead I have to cry a little because the rehearsal space is empty but full of pathetic feelings of oh so sorry. fleeting fears of confrontation that keep me from engaging. Can I do it? with anyone other then you? Sensitive and sentimental and I they all say that I am fucking aggressive and harsh and mean and manipulative and playing the worst game of them all. Why stand behind me - because Im a god damn woman, well that doesn't make me a good person. nope. I have all those qualities that maybe you are supposed to have. I talk you into a corner and over power and Im nasty and conniving and oh isnt it so so fun to feel sorry for yourself? like just let those tears drip drip drip like my pussy this morning and last night. Im better off without any of it and yet force is a good way to destroy you no? I could let that vibration penetrate and god damn I wish that I was a dj. maybe I can learn a little about mixing. I mean imagine this. the room slowly fill and its a sort of ambient sound with beat The Girls ++ are up top with their hair - Guns flowing ez through their system. its big, their hair, over flowing but the movement is contained and there is no expression. it is happening and they let it. The bar tender, he's cute and looks good pouring shots in dixie cups. or those red ones, you know the ones for beer pong. Anyway he pours the shots and talks like extra flirtatious with the alchies. the alchemists. we rely on you fully. Then there are 5 of us at home base. hanging out. 4 plus Alma. yup Alma. shes pretty and grooves like better then anyone. ok Alma and then ++ me and Jordan and the other Jordan ok fine 6 of us all together. but im sort of in and out checking up. making sure it all runs smoothly. He thinks that there should be a video.. yes maybe. maybe not. we will see. but I do have to pull it apart, under all circumstances, decipher its parts.

 

its too bad that he will skype until he has to leave. Although this way we can wallow in sadness and disconnect for a little longer. 

 

Alright then. The Girls ++ #bloodymarry's

 

I wish I could go with you. the ambient meandering track

 

Is this a love story without any characters? Of course the stories are my own and the ideas are codified. Waking with a sadness and a sort of unease. You often say things alluding toward the necessity for me engage with other lovers as I am young and have it all ahead of me. You make yourself unimportant and yet the hero as your character becomes the Martyr. I leave it at that. Sure of our eventual detachments.  Knowing that it will have to be done by me and I will make that decision not out of a lack of love and affection but rather a need to free my struggle. lol, sounds dramatic. There is a dynamic laden in the long distance. It is a dynamic of trust and swallowing. A lot that will never be discussed. A lot that will fall into the realm of faith. A lot that will never be formulated together and worked through understood and transformed. A lot of needs that will never be expressed. Maybe a lack of expression. I feel so small in your eyes. Nah, these are my eyes and my size is nothing more then my own depiction. I used to say that never would I ever be in a long distance relationship. I can't understand when that moment became another. but there is more that needs to be discussed in these moments. It seems as though the options are limited, the horizon becoming clearer and it is desolate in the form of love. I suppose you would call it utopia, but I have hopes beyond your dreams -- protective measure that provide you with the explanation needed to play your game with rationality. 

 

I mention other girls and you tell me not to because it makes you lose faith. I ask you why and you kiss me. I submit, swallow, distance myself and kiss. Someday it is not going to work out. I am not a spiritual person. I don't have faith. I don't reject you for it but to be met somewhere with my needs for evidence or at least description is not so much to ask. Sure I believe in immanence. Is it a strong statement to claim that I am not spiritual? I believe in fairies and I believe in wishes, I believe in intension and superstition. I believe in karma and luck. I believe in this wholeheartedly and with passion. Without a doubt, but spirituality is a foreign language. meaningless and ungraspable. Rather, it is just the way that it is. When I wish it is for a probability. As though I can read myself from the position of a third party, what was the wish, ok what does this mean, this and that, these are the desires. Follow this particular track. make it happen, wishes are minor and frequent motivational speeches to myself that bring me closer to my long and short term goals. wishes are the corner stones of my life trajectory. lol. 

 

"High school is like the training wheels on the bicycle of life".

Its another day in the cycle, trying to work to formulate my thoughts to speak literally and logically to say it the way we have been taught with clarity and conviction. But I want non of it. I want to float in the unknown to wither at every breath I want you to know the way that I feel without me having to say a word. I want you to kiss me where it hurts so that I can fell the blister hot against your lips I want your tongue to to cool me off and whisper breath in my neck. Its nothing specific and not so demanding I just need without knowing what. But even such a request is stronger then I feel like powder. Hanging in the air. Stuck in slow motion but so diluted nobody knows if I am even blinking. There is nothing charged and everything heavy but not really there. I sleep my days and dream of dried grass in a black and white film. Its probably silent or maybe the sounds just isn’t working but nobody seems to care, I don’t either but I sorta wish that I did. Its these moments when I could fully dissolve in tears of long distance. It is this whimsical longing that would feel like the end of the world if I felt anything at all. It is these moments when I could dive into my insecurities and try to decipher the sadness but I want only to take the easy way, sit here in nothing and feel a gentle dull. I want to be ok and go thru the actions and let the joy come when it does. The next step is to do it with another, I am alone now so I have decided not to go there. I don’t ask if I make you feel anything with my words but honestly I think I want the world. 

 

Day one of therapy. First ever session. I'm numb now. I suppose this is the word that I have been searching for all day. but when I am numb I don't try hard to force the words. It's too harsh, violent and disrespecting of the needs of me. There is something about you that is so forceful. you so deeply want to be gentle and embody that mentality but it shows even in the way that you stretch. Pressing your legs apart to open up your hips. What about relaxing into the expansion. I sound new agey, barf. I almost did that today. It was a long walk thru the looking glass, descending the stairs into Freud's dungeon. Its true, the way the stairs seemed to get smaller, more narrow towards the bottom. and were extraordinarily steep. I swear. It started with a gentle nervousness that turned into straight nausea, sweaty palms, dizzy, pre vom symptoms. I had come completely unprepared. Not true, I had been preparing for such a moment for my whole life, or so it seemed. But it was the most unexpected visceral reaction. Gina is nice. She has been doing this thing that is a combination of psychoanalysis and relational therapy (not sure what the so much entails) for seven years. And she is not super young. The woman that does the intake appointments recognized the need for somebody fairly experiences on the matters at hand. How many times have I been told that I am thoughtful, analytical, observant. I can be your relationship advisor if you are willing to connect with your feelings. I've done it for many and no no no stopping now. 

I was curious when the writing flourishes would return, it has been a little while. I suppose the format was in construction and now as an online platform, I never have to worry about saving lol. Nobody is going to read this anyway, but it is funny when you tell me that you feel as tho we can really talk, bounce ideas off of one another and understand the trajectory that takes form as we go.

A: I think we get each other, we could work quite well dramaturgically together.

N: Mmhm

A: That is quite rare you know?

Yes I know, but do you know how many people have told me that. Anyway, I have said to a few also, no lie.

The therapy left me cathartic. floating cells void of conviction.

It was a lot of talking. At one point I mentioned that I am actually very emotional and from this point on the tears didn't stop. In and out of sadness but it was a wet mess all the way through. Gina also teared up. When I left I turned around and said in a fairly desperate tone.

N: Here is where I say bye?

She smiled and nodded. We shook hands quickly and I booked it to the bathroom. Thank god just one at a time. I locked myself in and found that I was shaking like a skinny racing dog in winter. I felt opened up, floored and a little bit out in the open. I sat down on the floor cried heavy metal for a bit. Then straightened up and let the sadness settle in me without pushing it away. You are always pushing it away, covering it up other matters. This is my work. and I a blob. I will do it again in two weeks and it will be work. I never knew what it meant to have just come from therapy. I never knew. now I have a small idea. 

It is sad this way that I feel. I mean just calm down for christ sake, its just food. I had an anxiety attack over dinner and it was your bday dinner. Jeezus, what is my problem. And yet somehow I think that you are a lier and a cheat only because somehow in the depths I apparently don't think that I deserve anything better. Wow I truly believe that I am a manipulative, self centered who knows. its all a bunch of indulgent crap anyway, but I continue on somehow because I know nothing else. yes really it is my only consolation after a nervous breakdown caused by the wrong food. How desperately pathetic can one get. But as I lie next to you in bed and you watch old videos of you and Linnea singing about getting eaten out by destiny on your 49th bday, well all I can think is shit, I don't really want to be with you. But why the hell not. If you want to reminisce a little so be it, we all do, and we love to share our past with the ones we love, it is sad desperation for recognition. And yet I wonder, how is it that you would rather hang out with your computer then with me. Or is it actually that you are hanging out with me but I don't have anything to say to you and if I did then I would say it and you would listen but I am so caught up in my own head and self pity that I can't even express what I need from you so instead I retreat. Is this the curse of the obsessive writer? Maybe if I were capable of talking it out then I wouldn't write at all. But I feel distant and I feel that it is 100% me that is causing that distance between us. Even on our computers we occupy opposite sides of the bed that is wider than it is long. How is it that my work brings me tears. I suppose of the author cries as she writes her book then well... the reader can just laugh. And yet my mom once said something along the lines of, "your work can take you towards the things that you want". Which I suppose means I should suck it up and stop wallowing in my pathetic self pity. Shut up thoroughly.

And the jack hammer gnashes her teeth against the pavement just outside the with of the hotel. It is 1am and there is no way I am going to sleep. No possible way with the amount of anxiety that I currently have in my body it hurts. Like really it is painful. Grow up get a life suck it up.

maybe it is just a hard day lol.

It is quite peaceful otherwise, when the melodic murder takes a moment to breath. i am ready to breath into sleep. I don't need you or to be close to you. I don't know what the hell I want from you, but its not what I want and that I know. Although our bodies are wonderful together. like extraordinary together. Today I had an orgasm. like just barely but massive. truly. I got deep quite and real. uttered "holy fuck" and then you came. and I had an orgasm in some manner that has never been before. How does it happen? Good night. I want to die again. but shit am I melodramatic.

It has something to do with feeling trapped. When I feel confined I need to find my line of escape. What is it that makes me feel confined. What am I confined to. Lets talk about it. We talk about authority. I talk about authority. But maybe its not at all authority but rather letting the writing happen and the understanding comes from the cognition. Maybe it is actually that I have no idea. The writing. The words the combination of them become the authority and I learn from them. Could it be? I had an anxiety attack. Really intense.

It's a bit of a jungle. Everything is a bit of a jungle these days with Geoffrey Farmer's Plant Procession @ Material and Asad Raza or is it Lava Lava at the Whitney Biennial. Cute. But Hans Ulrich calls me an algorithmic choreographer lol, I suppose one could claim it as such. Everything is a companion. You get it. and there is nothing groundbreaking to say, you know its a day for applications and precise thought processes. Wow lucky me, the Secrets come easy. And he smiles - like really looks into your face and opens up. Yeah his eyes get big and lovely and here I am. Hi hi, you're cute. When Tino says it is urgent, that means it is urgent. Oh the simple sense of unsettled satisfaction. Like flying, being nowhere for many hours.

And then I went on a date with somebody that I used to really like and I didn't do it right. I was tactless and hurtful towards the one that I really love. He was affected and then withdrew and now we both suffer. But I will not fall into the disappearing act because I want him and only him. Unsteady and instead I wrote an email.

 

well. sleeping is fairly impossible without u. my heart beats about double time and I try so hard to caress my thoughts, let them ease into idk. Im tingling all the way to my fingertips and minor cold sweats. On the verge of numb but in fact my blood is pumping like crazy. in a constant state of nausea but i want to poop more then vomit. I do not want to let go of you and I will do my best to avoid power games. I am open and in love with you because I know that this is where I want to be. I am sure of it and the knotting heart comes only from a minor but absolutely colossal fear that you will decide to be without me. and then I suppose I cry and cry and cry because this is the way to let out the hurt and bathe in catharsis. I of course have no control over your decision. it is your choice. but I think about kids sometimes, like if I were to have a kid.. and how weirdly important it is that when we, her and I, me and my kid, have detrimental outbreaks, hissing at each other for whatever reason, when we have these moments of fury or hurt I will not withdraw my love. I will meet it and be there. I will try my best to give space for her needs, to let her lock herself in her room for a few days, to let her partake in her self destructive habits of hardening her shell because I know that we all do it and need to. But I will be there when she opens that door and I will hope that she feels safe enough to then tell me what it is that hurt because I want to learn about you and the pain that I inflict so that we can overcome. so that i can overcome and be more in tune with your needs because I am with you, dedicated to you because i am and because i am i want to do it better and better, learn you and be capable of the care that you need. Its fucking incredible what we have. its out of this world blows my mind keeps me constantly dancing. I mean it when i say i cant live without you and of course i can but no fucking way, the sacrifices don't feel like sacrifices, they make sense and i mean it, in a constant state of realizing our love.

 

an interesting conversation might be boundaries, its been on my mind for a hell of a long time and maybe i will bring it up with my shrink on monday but idk, maybe sometime you could tell me your take on such a concept. 

 

when u close off it hurts me. maybe your need to tell me that we need to take distance is a form of holding onto power, I could also withdraw and play into such games but i want our love to happen and if I withdrew it would be a fat fucking lie because this is the last thing that I want between us. so i try to stay calm, idle in a world of not knowing and I am here with every intention of loving you for decades. its not easy to be here, but it is fucking worth it. for the possibility of uniting again.

 

I love you

And now back to work editing a book on post-dance.

but bring up power games was not the way to go. For I was just as much the instigator of such games. And definitely not purposefully.

I sit here on the train with watery eyes, hiding gently behind exhausted lids. I feel weak after a day and two nights of hyper-nervous fireworks erupting at a constant pace inside of my body. Im beginning to relax and the feeling sad is settling again into my bones. It’s a giving in and giving up; submitting to the sensorial realm. We talk about affect and somehow I am beginning to understand more then ever before. I feel sorry for myself when I think about the perpetual dynamic. But it is my personal bias that begins the timeline already after it started. History has no beginning, but mine does in these moments of self sorrow. I sit here on the train and let the damp warmth overcome me. And now somebody is siting next to me and I feel self conscious but the document is at 86% so nobody can see it anyway. Except those with cat-eye vision. So here we are and I recall the habitual this and that. You withdraw and I desperately beg for forgiveness, your return becomes dire—the only thing of importance and such a word does not even begin to describe the feelings. I cannot be without you and when you withdraw it takes the world ask for you back.

 

I forget all of my convictions, I care not about anything; not about fighting for my beliefs nor believing in anything. When you disappear, there is the fear of no return. Where do you go, I have not idea and there is a massive possibility thatyou will never return. It is the end of the world and more.

 

And there is more to that. Really really, about my historical bias. But now it is post ballet class, going in reverse and fuck that last step—the big jump combo across the floor at the end, the one that uses it all fully, the entirty of body body body—that one made it all dissipate and I could laugh and feel light again. To walk into the sun and again I am one with the scum of the earth and this recognition, the full submission gives me the most elated light laughter, joy in not denying it or trying to be otherwise. What a class. What a sun, what a fucking reality. And on the walk to the train with gait in my step a rich old white man bumped his tunes from the depths of his black Mercedes; im in love with the shape of you. What a joke but I will be sure to play on my loud speakers while fixing my lunch. And maybe ill play Glamorous afterwards and then maybe I will send them both to you with a shortened version of my epiphinal developments. How glorious it is to be able to over come the pain or submit to the tragedy during the course of one Ballet class. Janet Panetta, you have masterful pedegocial skills. You cure me of my horror. Ok I wont put all the preasure on you, common I know its just as much me and just as much dance and just as much structure and all of it together, but hey, you play a big freakin role and that is incredible.

 

You look down of this idea of being thankful, grateful, whatever else has dogmatic religious connotations. You think such affect is petty and associative. I would disagree. And maybe the wording is incorrect and of course I am not a devout, but I relate to such sensations. I often succumb to something outside of me, or maybe I just succumb to me and that is not different then what is outside. I often succumb. And this makes it all ok. Ce’st moi. Me. This and that and the other and all of it. Its me.

 

But I did want to mention one thing earlier. About my bias. I start the timeline at your withdrawal, but one could just as easily start that timeline at my exploration of “other” options. I am often the instigator of separation. The one that feels somehow trapped and needs to strip the bonds or sense of attachment. Ok I have a fear of attachment. Is it the fear that it will never work out? That you will retreat? And yet the patterns show that it Is not in fact you that retreats, or it is but only I have pushed it to the fucking limits. What am I pushing and what are the limits?

They are your limits and I am testing your love? Or my freedom? What does this even mean though really.

 

let me just tell you, this bitch has been through it and she is TRYING HER FUCKING HARDEST

 

that's about it for now. I sure as fuck no how to be alone and make it happen. I consider it my game. a game of not quite two but more then one. a game of 0s and 1s. a game of the courts. all hail bow down and destroy. the Series of game changers are upon us and its only just the beginning. So you need your distance. So you can't handle the fact that you are not always able to abide by our essentialist constitution. I don't blame you. you blame you and that sucks for all of us. Just get the literal fuck over it. im tired of all of this preciousness. so you cant handle me dating other people! now i KNOW and i didn't before. What is the big deal. like really. I won't do it again unless I want out. that is TOTALLY FUCKING FINE with me. you are worth every cent. I was testing the limits. I need to try it out, but I am fucking happy to not. Ok it is dinner time. I'm not hungry but FRIENDS, for once, await.

And then all of a sudden I begin to think about subscribing to the dancer, subscribing to me or subscribing to the dance which could result in sharing the dance or the dancer, and remixing the dancer or the dancer…hmmm

 

In small font I have a few hours to digress into me. A digression from what? Yeah right, as if there were in inside and out. Screw the differentiation, the surface of the tea is pristine and unwavering, the depths are all the same. I almost bought a hot chocolate, but I will eat later instead. Funny the logic of either or. And today it was again with the shrink, but after an emotional session with the boyfriend that is not a boyfriend. The boyfriend that refuses to be in a relationship. I can relate –this has in fact been me forever. And when it is otherwise possession comes into play. You want me to do all that I want to do. And when I do you do not want to have a negative reaction. So you think that avoiding the confines of a relationship will rid you of your emotional attachment. But I do get it. In fact it is this that I want also, to do what I want with you as extra, my little whipped cream. Baby frosting. An extra double bonus not quite on the side but definitely also everywhere and the middle. I love you and maybe it is contingent, but not contingent on the things that you say to me or the things that you do. Although I say this not as an avoidance of responsibility but rather to bring up a little conversation we had at one point in which we discussed that big shot artist and his choices of who to stand behind, encourage and perpetuate. He has maybe chosen me then, and according to your cynicism, not because he sees anything worthy or necessary in my art but because he likes me and wants to fuck with me, which of course means fuck me. This is devastating, truly as I have tried for my entirety to be something more then my ass, my face, and my manipulations. And yet, it is all part of it no? I mean my work is an integration of manipulation and erotic, enticing forms of the sexualized young girl as commodity. I do wonder where this will go and I will continue to manipulate such needs. So here I am, trying to persuade the misogyny that I am more then my parts.

 

The masochist says, “beat me, beat me” and the cynic says, “no”.

 

My shrink, and this is said with affection says that Oedipally, the father figure is always unattainable, or unconquerable, and yet I get my infinite moments of victory and glory when I break that man. Over and over again. You tell me that you saw something in me that day with La Substance and the paint. You had a premonition or an unquestionable knowing in my cleverness, in my extraordinary me-ness. I can’t remember how you put it, I dissolve when you give me compliments. But you knew what others had not yet recognized, something a little extra that required your unconditional devotion. I thought it was a fun game because you were the most notorious with young woman and this aught to be a fun game for me. Of course it grew into more. But is it me that you are devoted to? Or is it my work?

Situated within your undying cynicism is the knowledge that He, the other one, is nothing more then a business man. That he is supporting me because he gains something in return: youth, and contemporary understanding of current trends, etc. As if you are so beyond such. My cynicism in men doesn’t trust you, and yet when you tell me that your intentions were void of manipulation and exchange, I fall for it and fall into you and your matching sweater. It makes me explode with furry because I know that this is also a side of you. I know it because you know it so well and maybe he has become the epitome of your furry. He supports me because I am not a threat, and yet Gallerie is completely off his radar because Gallerie is a threat to his status as top dog in immaterial art. Ok, this is beginning to make some sense to me, little old me. And maybe trying to convince the old men that I am more then the fantasies and illusions of their beady little eyes is masochistic and a waste of time. But I refuse to give up, because giving up on that feat would mean giving up on you. And there happens to be more to you then your sexual fantasies and power cravings.

 

Those big shots, they all have motives and to be a little ignorant is the only way I am capable of playing along. Yes of course recognizing the motivations, my sexuality and my enticing nature, my ease and my ability to make you feel good. But I refuse to equate it all to this, and yet, why are these attributes lesser in my psyche then all that external stuff like actual PRODUCTS. Maybe more then anything, again again I take responsibility, it is up to me to find value and worth in these attributes.

 

I do wonder what it was that I intended to write about. Well. It doesn’t so much matter and yet it was my shrink, I say it with love, that today told me that my empathetic nature is a strength, and I continued that with, a strength as opposed to horribly fucking crippling as I find myself in tears, balling my eyes out more then not. And how is it that you put up with it?

 

N: do I cry too much?

M: I don’t know how you have the energy for it, but of course not its you.

 

I also don’t know where that energy comes from, but I have WAY TOO MUCH and I always have.

 

He walked into Stumptown and grabbed a juice from the cooler. I was watching him and was curious about his choice, it looked like water mixed with graphite. He then proceeded to the to the line as if about the pay for his graphite water, but instead it disappeared into his bag. He took a fake call on his phone, picked it up with a “hello” and then backed up slightly out of the line with another slightly more pronounced “hello” as if the reception was a bit dodgy. After a few beady scans of the room with the phone to his ear, he turned and left. I do relate to kleptos, I might suffer from minor kleptomania, but to watch somebody else tactics is pretty funny indeed.

We find ourselves horribly aggressive with one another. Actually, I find you horribly aggressive and, well, I try to stand up for myself and I am not going to submit to your beliefs unless I agree with them. I will not pretend. It's just not how I roll. A soon as I begin to adhere to your impositions for the sake of keeping the peace is exactly when I have decided to give up and leave. Although now is a time when I could and will take a little space. As Melanie said, "maybe it doesn't need to be expressed, just as long as you know." I will take a little space with myself and know that you are so preoccupied with your own suffering. You will never hear me the way that I need to be heard. Yes you hear a lot, but not enough. I wonder allowed if it is me that you actually hate when you tumble through hateful rants about particular kinds or types of people. I doubt my own goodwill, but I doubt yours also, swimming with such hatred for the world because it has not nourished you in the way that you want to deserve. Standing with defiance you do not budge. Even if things are no longer aligned and you feel a agitation in your constitution, you will not adjust because you must be in control, you must know your convictions, and ain't nothin gonna change em. You do you, but know that your overworked, under-slept aggressive demeanor will slowly or not so, push me away. During our fb convo I say it must have to do with our inability to be physical. you say that such a comment is too sociological for you. I say, "but isn't it so?"

I stand behind such an astute observation lol. but it is much more. it is much more and right now I must say, I think it is you. not me. And maybe I need to give you a little bit of extra space so that you realize that you have the space. I wonder how much space I have to give you in order for you to realize that you have more space then usual. This morning you spent a little extra time in bed and with me you came. You said it hasn't happened like this in forever and I was giddy with the thought of you touching yourself and thinking about me. But it is sleep that you need. not sex. and I wonder when you will realize this. And if you don't, well I suppose I will have to drift away. And if it makes you feel sorry for yourself and more bitter then I will know that I did the right thing. It feels like a drifting and yet it hasn't always been like this. or has it maybe. No the fight before only ever had to do with a lack of conversation. Now we fight. Our conversations are fights. We are not satisfied. We are not content. And your snake tongue is leaving little mini lashes on my skin and little mini scars on my heart. Little itty bitty scars, almost imperceptible as I heal quickly, but they are there and you can feel the minor change in texture if you take a moment to run your lips across my organs.

We had Skype sex and it was the first time ever ever with image. The first time for both of us. Yup. and then I wrote this to you as you slept, but the words were powerful and you woke up immediately. These words are the truth. The best that I can do.

Gulp for air

and all the little communications

back and forth, no more

then sounds, I am in tune

to you in crazy ways it’s

fucking beautiful. Tonight

was outside of me - u + -

or like infinitely getting

rid of pixilation, I

experience it clear and

again clearer and again.

It was like wow two

young hearts falling in

love I saw it as if from

unknown eyes. It's new w

u truly and utterly my

eyes r forever open to u

and I am falling in not to

mention watching u cum

is a fantasy beyond fuck

fuck fuck I see it us ours

so clear and so new. Raw

uncut and true like that is

your body and it is

flawless and every inch

makes me tingle and that

is me overcome and rosie

w health my dark hair as

dark as ever my skin

glowing white teeth and

quivering lips from so

much joy. I'm falling into

u and it's timeless punk

fuck it's incredible to

laugh w u to cum w u to

stare at u and fall in

without holding back and

for every part of it to feel

real because why the

fuck would it be

otherwise. I don't need to

fake a thing. . .

And then there where a few little, or rather huge, things that I need to remember. The first one is the you were the one that almost made out w the lead singer of mgmt, not me. As much as I have claimed such, I recognize the truth. Especially in the age of fuck you president, one must make an extra effort to remember the truth and express it when others are effected. Last night was another one of those sex dreams waohhhhh they hit me so hard the most explicit of them all and extremely nice. I slept thru the night all the way until the morning and woke up to the radio speaking about malaria no no no lime disease, a side effect of global warming etc. it's Monday afternoon and I just ate a chicken leg like the ravenous obscene girl that I am. I needed a little grounding post shrink session, also bleeding thru synthetic fibers. I pretty much only wear white these days. 

 

Mom, you used to withdraw. You used to disappear. Mom, from my perception you loved me sometimes and not other times. Maybe your withdrawal was a way to deal with your own pain without roping us kids into your depression. But you left me cold. When I looked out the little window in the door and found you smoking your rare cigarette on the porch in your worn out dark grey coat I used to look with fear, small and helpless. I wondered where you had gone and if you would ever come back. I wondered when I could have your affection again, I wondered when you would love me again.

Withdraw to protect me from your own horror, but to withdraw is the most devastating horror of them all because I suffer in the perpetual thought that the love has gone daddy gone and who's to say if it will ever return. And then GG brought something up that had to do with not feeling safe, or like my emotions were not safe because other people with their own pain are unable to handle mine so they freak out in their own ways instead of holding my pain safe and secure. 

 

GG: I'm just thinking about... You have these emotions and you want to express them to your love but you don't know how they will react

And then I just get scared.

but that feels like ages ago lol.

In the pantry. Something nasty in the woodshed. I find myself holding on for dear life, barely afloat. You say delete our sex vids and don't contact you unless it's administrative. It's a blow to hear such words. But then again, I hear them only as the voices in my own brain. In practicality you are nothing more then the words in a pink bubble. I thought we had a ways to go, a while to find ourselves in yes together but your contradictions make it really hard. Maybe I need to be a little more manipulative or just give you a dose of your own medicine. You know it's like a bit ridiculous to be told one thing and then just like that when I play within the non rules you tell me that it is my way of pushing you away. So here we go, I tell you one thing for sure. That is one thing that I am certain about. I do not want monogamy with you. It is not that I do not love you, it is however that I do not want to feel bad about going to bed with somebody else and if it is what you want then I want it for you also. It is this and the truth. I am capable of loving you and sometimes going to bed with other people. This is the way that it is just as much because of the stipulations that you have set upon our relation that is very alimentary not a relationship. Yup. It would be one thing if you expressed to me a need for devotion. Your inability to do so keeps me in a state of fluidity, only because freedom is my least favorite word, but you know what I mean.    So here you are thinking that my intimate engagements with other boys is a way of inadvertently pushing you away, I will retort with a very strong conviction. This is rather me playing within the stipulations that were set and to the situation at hand. I will not have kids with you for very particular reasons that I think you are aware of, there is no way that we will ever give up our careers for one another, as you have so many times reiterated. And to be expected of monogamy, either such or nothing, does not work for me unless this is something that you want and you express to me in a way that actually fucks with your stronghold on


It's something like not meant to be. That time has come to say ok. We are no longer healthy together, we went through something extraordinary. We love each other like crazy and that is a fact. No lies no no no. But your pain causes contradictions that I don't have the strength for and I want the ability to disappear sometimes, to sleep over at his house to go unnoticed without feeling bad, no not bad but horrid, for it. We explored this together and we worked through many of our traumas and our hurt together. We worked on it for a long time. And it was and still is inside of me and incredible. But we reached a wall. For so many reasons neither can or is willing to open up further then we are or have. And if your pain is too consuming or threatening to your sense of self when I cuddle w other boys after you have reiterated over and over that you do not want to be in a relationship, no expectation, no responsibility, in other words keeping a certain distance, well then I do not feel like my needs, a need for consistency and growth and openness are being met. And so we talk about my neeeeeds yes, lemme see what it is that I need.

another depressive day of pure loathing. Not even the sorry sob of self hatred, but just a disgust. Like all that inhabits this earth, all that I love and hold dear to by heart lay rotting by the fence in the backyard. you disgust me and therefor I cannot speak to you. I must avoid you at all cost and channel the destructive death drive into something else. Yesterday at the museum a group of teenagers told me that I should publish my diary. Fuck I should probably just submit. Who cares anyway, we all let the world dictate our lives after all. I can't fake it. im fake.  But what is the horror or were does it come from, or perhaps this is unnecessary and in fact I just need to let it feel.

With you its been a lot. twice in one day, complex not complicated. sure sure whatever that means. I might as well slit a gap from the center of my chest down the length of each arm until i reach the tip of my middle finger and the skin falls away leaving bubbles of fatty flesh steaming inside out. Im wearing a necklace today that my father gave me and some sort of satin, traditional Japanese mock t-shirt. I feel like the waiter in Rush Hour who wears the pendent of the kidnapped girls. although she was waitress for sure. a poisonous one. Such hatred, pure unadulterated loathing. But it is my problem not yours. you are an angel that gives me presents even when I don't respond to your text message. but if i put it that way.. well I suppose it has been in reverse order so many times. I wonder how much those people hated me. Ok ok what is it then that I am getting at, I mean common its just a little disgust. It is something like... too much attention. A feeling of responsibility. now I have t, no no, now I AM questioning my needs. my motives. my desires. what if was all about what I wanted. I told you last night about boundaries. I put up this particular boundary, telling you that I am a person, a particular critter that needs to disappear sometimes and have to responsibility to ANYONE. I don't have kids yet because this is something that I need. If there were kids involved I would not think this way, I suppose I should practice. And yet you said something nice once. Something about the biological impulse to be there for your child. I am not a narcasist and I am not a dependent. I am a lot of both and so many others. yeah it feels good to write, the heavy handed hatred dissolves a. little and my eyelids are at last about open. I would like to be fucked silly. fucked till all I feel is physical pain and pleasure. Is it a regression? hard to say or just a simple need to say it tough. hard. I miss my brother and who he might be. I feel guilty for not calling him but I don't know how. I need to be alone. very very alone. so that I can be together with you. Woman sleep more because they are fighting patriarchy every goddamn day. I read that somewhere and I really liked it.

RR: Stop being such a feminist.

N: I can't help it.

maybe you're not a feminist, but we don't have sex. and somehow I find you so hot. Shit iv'e got work to do. fuck i want to cry it all away. damn I need to take it all so slow. and now the two of you are living in separate houses for a while. 3.5 months before the wedding lol. and I try to tell myself that a relationship doesn't have to be hard. 

but now it is me. me me me refusing the relationship. me me me putting up the boundaries and figuring out the right way to do it. It's good. it is actually really good. It is my turn. I could say goodbye. let it dissipate slowly and forever sorta. But there is something to asking for what I want. and as you do, pushing the standard, the norm, things will begin to get easier because it is my make up, my chemistry that I must configure my surrounding world to. it is me. it is me. And it is you that I would like to for the the first time ever, allow a friendship to grow. You feel ready for girlfriend. I am ready to say no. and so it goes.

If it weren't for the future, today I would die. To live for no purpose except to trust what comes. yeah, its time for me and nobody, me and everybody. we don't talk anymore, it was a compromise. you said it was my choice and I said no, it is a compromise. and Crap we told eo that we love eo. That love is in there and deep and I ritualized my reading of Less, letting the tears fall and my voice choked. strained as I attempted to be your opera. I know we will never give up on one another and yet you one time mentioned that eternity is a farce. its just now. and again. and that is all. but either way if things dissipate then it does for both and time and distance supports us in our disconnect. you mentioned once that if a conquering is what i strive for then there will be plenty of letting go along the way. Unfortunately I am very very good at letting go. in many itterations, there is the letting go of the past. not to give up on what "youve always wanted" as I never want to defy Cat Power, but to let go in order to dream for more and better. or who cares if it is better but rather something different that is not in the realm of my imagination whilst stuck dreaming, fantasizing about the other thing. yeah whatever, there is this kind of letting go. yes and there is another that we talked at length about. its a balance lol. there is an ambition. sure one must have drive. I know what I want, but in a fairly vague manor or maybe it's totally concrete. well boiled down to a pulp it is what it is and yes it is with clarity. but then there is something else. there is the part of knowing that is not knowing. I know that part of my knowing is not know because this is what keeps me going and without creativity this is what allows things to change and transform and become other then before. So there ya go, it's this and that. She travels far with a destination. a destination sure, what it looks like is only discovered along the way.

I wonder if I could tell a story.

Yes. It began in an auditorium. I am not creative but I already know this story. It was the auditorium of an elementary school. During the day the auditorium doubled as a cafeteria. they ate lunch there.  This particular night tho, it was an auditorium and they were putting on a little play for their parents. Their parents sitting in plastic chairs on the shiny hospital pink floor. 

 

I didn't make it very far after all.

Its not others. It is after all me. I hate him for one very particular reason and that is something like my ability to doubt myself. Or no, its not even a doubt but rather a complete one eighty. A reversal. A denial. Ok something like this. IIIIIII feel passion. Passion for u and your beautiful mind your way of looking at the world the contradictions inconsistencies. The unknowns and the little I know what. The little things that catch your attention, the way you respond to that which is around. Verbally, sensorially. I am taken by your receptivity. quick and on point but slightly off from what I expect. This is beauty. Although not without its paradox. Here we go. The complication with clarity. Yes. I find it very important to understand that beauty is always w sadness. It is always flawed. For a sense of receptivity is an acute awareness. And an acute awareness of this world results in elated joy and simultaneously, or at least later tonight, a horror and loathing. The smarts are in the equilibrium. The contentment. The ability to find such, in the mess of high and low up and down in and out there is grey. Or perhaps it is brown, a less desolate color a color in particular, all of them combined. Different shades of brown. How lovely, it has begun to rain. Spring break 2017. Sis went to Radiohead two nights ago and I have Jimmy Whoo on repeat. I will have to use this song for something other then sadness. Or perhaps it is BEAUTIFUL. I’m not yelling I swear, just crying a little on the inside for the tender heart that has been torn apart as I find beauty(sadness) within you and then boom, just like that, no more. I feel nothing for you. I am the one that withdraws love depending on my mood. I am the judgmental one, not the victim. Or perhaps it is slightly different. Like hmm you know, to see the beauty without the sadness. To see the joy without the pain. Or perhaps to hope with all of my heart for it, and to always be let down. The spring rain has let up and Passion is still on the radio. I will listen a few more times with grey out the window and think about various shades of brown. Such thoughts give me strength and keep me from disappearing. Someday.

 

With my shrink I talk a lot about my current affairs. Tho these days I feel like I should effort fully bring up the past. There is anger there and I don’t know how to talk about it.

 

Imagine if they took responsibility. Aha yes, this is my life and I am a part of this world so lets fucking do it together and with strength, care and sensibility. Let’s try our hardest.

 

Something that came to mind as I considered things that we talked about and also didn’t. Its that kind of stuff that I want to say was verbalized because it was so fundamentally understood by me. But then again I suppose it is hard to say if u also picked up on the not verbalized confrontations. Ok ok maybe not confrontations at all as there was no aggression whatsoever, more of.. idk.. hard to say.. what was it that was communicated? We talked about a feeling. And I suppose u would correct my use of language and instead refer to it as a sensation or an affect. Yeah something like that, but regardless, u agreed with me.

 

R: Yes, I think I feel the same thing as you.  The only difference is that I am in a really weird place.

 

Funny cuz that is nothing more then a sense of denial and well, you are not the only one denying the feeling. Hey hey is it possible to describe the feeling that I do not allow and have never felt the allowance of by others.

 

 

Underneath life. Rephrase. Who cares and deeply I do. I do. Please. Don’t. ever. Stop. Start it over. Hi hi. Missed u and tonight Im lingering. It was a show only on Friday and Mondays got me like… these words find their own substance as show blows steam from the eardrums that tingled on my tongue this morning with the first lights you know the kind that when you open your eyes after squeezing them shut so rigorously its like you’re still tripping on the ceiling and the lines of the paint squiggle even tho its only white above your gasping. Wet. Man with the cigarette. We make a mess and it’s so gentle. Spinning threads? Yeah somehow but also blown away because those were micromovements that you and I had have shared cherish without being precious. It wasn’t a dream. I was tripping on the ceiling when I opened my eyes. Fuck its like the best kind of hung over. Calm and longing for the touch that is still there. Light and gathering flickers. Its you and it’s a cliché, a wheat field blowing gently in the wind. Im here for you and also withholding and you share more gently then I ever expected. I could cry from the fragility of such a kind of love. Yes its that and I wont deny it. It’s the precarity of it that is so beautiful. Yes the sadness is of course there because my ability to let go into you is contingent on your ability to care for yourself. No its never full circle. Its expanding non linear and never ending. But it is now and that is a time w you and a couple others and it’s the first time, I love in multiplicities and I feel good about it. Sharing different parts of myself and sneaking peaks into you and you and you. I am sexual with all of you and im not grossed out. Pretty bad ass to be open to the possibility of so many, to the attention and the affection, to the self indulgent love of being important to you and the only one in your bed or chatting on the phone. I don’t feel jealousy. Not one single little iota of jealousy. This may be a first. NOT ONE SINGLE IOTA OF JEALOUSY exists in my heart at this moment, for I know. And im not gonna compromise. To have nothing at all is to have it all.

 

IF YOU DON’T GIVE IT I DON’T WANT IT. But I aint yelling, cuz im calm and im by myself because I want to be. Lets see if you can measure up. Common folks, Ive been thru too much hell to get up here, and I sure as hell aint goin back down there.

 

Yeah its about time. To fly away and stay firmly rooted with every glide. Every little micro movement, we pick up on it. Yeah, we pick up on it and react. And remember when I was angry? Yeah, im sure its in there still some of it somewhere but the fact of truth is this and that, it is precarious and I feel so much catharsis when I listen to this music and write with the sensations.

 

Don’t forget your electric blue bracelet. Yes. No. no, I would never. Knock on wood. 6 hours into the flight and im dancing w the stars lol. Can’t sleep, got a good hour or so in. every once in a while it’s a rancid air that lingers, thanks to me and others, but the meal tasted good. Turkish Airlines is far superior to all others. No question and the one next to me is passed out silly. It would be fun if it were you but no way could I deal w the alcoholism on the reggie. Nah Im in it alone but somehow when I fall asleep next to you, even when u pass out silly before me I find calm and sleepy in those arms. Its totally out of this world how the laws of nature and nurture, DNA and habitual tendencies, comfort zones and body knowledge align themselves with a what the literal fuck and play out as if it were all already spoken for in the stars. Mapped out and etched in, destiny prevails. Or so she likes us to think. Or give in without a thought of our own, but just as much, I am sure of it, she wants contention; to be tested challenged and teased. Yeah I know it, I know she likes to be teased. And last night you threatened to kill me w two knives and a cleaver. One right in the chest plate, another to slit my throat and the cleaver to the scull. You sat on top of me and held all three in their respective order. My arms against the bed, spread out like wings, you know like a V w the elbows. It’s a kind of perpetual desire, such a play of proscription. Always clothed we find each other thru longing and ride it till we have to wrench ourselves apart. One or the other. This time at the Gala you swept me off of the alter and into your arms – as embarrassing as that sounds, you literally swept me up and my legs wrapped aroundyou. It was graceful, more so then I would imagine and then you pushed me against a wall, me into the wall and u into me. And w that baby hesitation there was a kiss and it wasn’t just one. It was a kiss and then a little head turn and such an elusive kiss in quantity and tempo but everlasting with the sense of drawing in in in. our eyes do fall into each other. Yes and for ages. And when I was on top of you after my shower, baby socks matching undies and a bra, it was u underneath between my legs pinned to the bed w the micro thrust upward and against me. And me responsive but even more so it showed in my face and my eyes shut tight and the little sounds. If you make that sound one more time I will kill you. Who was it that said that there are good people and bad people on this earth and what on earth is more romantic then words that imply my being as death worthy. The literal end all be all, the pinnacle of the unknown the precipice of desire. You said it but you said something more,

 

RR: be here, like a regular person, don’t get lost in your intensity, its just you and me, look at me,

 

I guess its sorta impossible with us huh?

 

Its those unexpected questions that I melt for, but to have that permission to be with you, whether indented premeditated or not, that invitation to be with you, to look at you to not get lost but to feel it with you. This is groundbreaking. This is huge. Dire. Urgent. And not at all urgent, but such a wonder of possibility. And I can, I can be with those eyes because they don’t leave me.

 

To masturbate on the plane is the best ever ever

 

But how important it is to remember the truth. The truth about your habit and the horror that I could and will cause me if I desire the things from you that are not available. Your availability, your dedication to me as opposed to your drugs. Your health and your presence. Nope its not there. Not fully and therefore I will not trust you, let go, let in and fantasize romanticize the possibility of future. But to practice sexuality, well fuck, what a glorious endeavor. As they say. A piece of chocolate and another bottle of water. Im in and my own. In and on my way.

 

Short drive home put your hand on my thigh. I guess im in it alone.

 

 

I suppose there are things that need to be considered. No it is not pressing urgent or dramatic and yet it is a must. I need a kind of clarity. I have feelings for u that grow and weave threads of attachment as we talk and u share a kind of availability w me and u tell me that u do not think that things will develop w her but i don’t even know what they would develop to as in fact I don’t know what they are now. Your current affairs, u express a certain kind of dread and yet u tell me that u don’t want to hurt her. But if I were her I would already be hurt and maybe now I am again caring about somebody else, like what about me then, u say that u don’t want to hurt me but have u already hurt me? I don’t know if I am hurt but I do cry when I let u in to my sensations. Just a little cry, not sure what it is about but it is the entrance of u and all that is attached that triggers this. Well anyway, idk what is correct but maybe I should bring it up in a chat because of course I can just let it go and not but I feel like maybe that’s repressing something and don’t we want to be open w one another?

 

Wow. And I search your name and Kunsten Festival because I want to make sure that today is closing night, I know it but I want to make sure. And I get to the website and I see the link to the pdf and I find the version in English. I read only a couple of sentences and a familiar lingering unsettlement stirs inside. Its not all dancers over 40. Very weird.

 

It takes a moment for me to recognize that little clench. And its not only that of missing. I read the name there at the top, so much a name and so much attached and the fear grips. I am afraid of you. I am truly afraid of you. And somehow I conquered this fear by sharing a love. But its too nice. I not only shared love w you. I won your love. I am afraid of you but I conquered my fear because I dominated. Is this true? I suppose it’s something to consider.

 

So maybe that means let it be. Let it be. Let it be. Let it be.

 

Are you anywhere? Im alone now and again it is the severing of many heart strings. Yes. I suppose it is easier not to care for anyone. Unfortunately, it is not a reality and in fact nothing is possible. All that I try so freakin hard to accomplish it is all in peril trite expectations of non happenings. I will forever try and never to accomplish. U ask me what is literally the point but it is the everyday that is the point and yet if the everyday is exciting then why try for the less so but the truth is that as we get older, well we cant handle the ups and downs quite as well so really its just about providing a balance, enjoying the young whilst preparing for the old, and then there is everything in between and maybe u r right that it is good not to think too much but shit she got herself out of soooo much and fuck I wanna be in and out all at the same time. Maybe its without strife. The practice is the everyday and I have no idea wut cums of any of it. But I will dedicate to dance and I will love u all forever and I will try my best to love me most.  I hate u all but really its just me. And that is all.

 

And even when I know that I will never ever ever ever receive the satisfaction that I need from another human I. still. Try. Desperately. To fulfill my needs with another soul. And then I invited her over for din and I felt much better after a cry. And maybe im not alone w the desperation of a straight girl’s general terror. lol “straight”.

 

And its funny to me in a sort of a cynical way that I am so in love w u and the way that I find satisfaction in your love causes deathly thoughts of pure loathing. But its also a lie because what it really is is a massive, extreme, unwarranted need for your body. The care that u show me needs repercussions or I mean something like let me fucking feel you. Like for real. I don’t want a long distance love. I want one close by, one that I can handle in actuality and reality and this and that and physically close all the time and that intensity that is yours is only ok at such a distance but I want it and I want it desperately so I keep coming back and this makes me aaaaawwwww so angry at me for being, what is it, weak? Maybe something of the sort. Something like common why do I keep fucking up but its not u and its not u and u provide me w that little bit that I want. Need desire. Cherish. But if I keep getting it from u well then why the ef would I need it elsewhere, or maybe its not about finding somebody new but rather the new is always around and it is instead about growing together. Now its just a whole lot of nonsense. But I am the girl that you would die for. Im gonna pop your bubblegum hard. You bubblegum bitch.

 

“Planning in art cannot protect us from the contingency of processing experience, which undermines existing representational concepts. And that is exactly where I see the need to cultivate other, all other types and ways of cognition.”

 

Has it really been so many years? And how hard was it actually. I remember this time –the current— as present and for real. Sometimes memories feel distant and detached and a little too dark like lingering in a constant state of longing yearning hoping passively for something to be different. There may have been disruptions and massive earthquakes but the feeling of the memory of the now is one of strength and capability. It came from a place of transformation as opposed to passivity or like no other choice. And with you, well it is also good memory, a little exasperated and annoyed and I think I’m tired of the.. you know that feeling.. like vacancy. Living outside of yourself. Going thru the actions of everyday but not really living it. You know like putting up with life because it doesn’t feel like there is another possibility. Like a fairly hot day, washed out, driving an old hooptie thru the empty streets out to 82nd to meet up w that guy because that’s what you do every day that you have off work. And maybe you think that it is fun but only because it is totally different from what you spend every other second of your life doing which is taking orders and smearing cream cheese on bagels and its not even that different because you are so removed from all of it that every action has a similar sense of who cares but at least he inflicts a little drama and that stirs it all up a little in a way that you are incapable of doing yourself because you have withdrawn from the world to such a degree that you don’t even know how to find fluctuation that isn’t induced by a drug or by the addict. And you don’t even realize it or somehow subconsciously its obvious that the drug only perpetuates the same dull and a dull that beats slow and everyday, but there is no consistency to this half time, it is not sustainable for the come down is like a come up in that the heart beat gains momentum and the blood flow is sporadic, muscles begin to seize and beads of sweat are met with cold flashes. The body becomes restless and destabilized. Cognition becomes frantic and unable and things happen beyond anyone’s control. Coughing attacks that last for freakishly long minutes. Leg pains that make you twitch frantically while lying in bed. And a deathly fear, a fear that overcomes, that is induced by all, by the spaghetti and meat sauce that momi made for dinner, and absolutely no possible way to calm down. Beyond one’s nature, a cannibalistic rage. And a drive beyond reason to score. To get well.

 

I used to have a voice that would yell at me. I haven’t had that voice in a while. Its been fairly quiet inside and it feels fairly calm. Like my frame is big enough for all that is inside. That scull and the rib cage and whatever it is that holds the legs together – its all quiet in there and spacious. Maybe I can make space for joy. Not only for u but for me and us.

 

Its fantastic with you. Ez at last and there is care between us. You are growing and I am witnessing it. I am growing and you accept it. You wear cute shorts that match your sunburn and I am overwhelmed by the whimsical reality. It is a fantasy that is your reality. A life style that gives me calm quiet serenity. And so so far from boredom. It is a life that stimulates me just enough to feel every sensation with ease and simplicity. With joy and excitement.

 

I like when the little granules of sand get stuck in my hair. On my scalp. I feel like a 100% monkey picking the little insects from my fur. I avoid putting them in my mouth. It was an expedition yesterday. A family at the coast. Something like placing one foot in front of the next with little more then a direction, and a direction that is vaguely in coordination with the distant mountains and the direction of the wind. Oh and the long ascension and descention of the sun and of course that time in between when one doesn’t know whether that ball of heat is ascending or descending. But you walk and even though nothing is happening, you know that you are changing. It is as though that which is around you becomes an extension of the inside, you can watch the transformation happen around you and it is synced with that that happens within. And it feels like a lifetime even if the excursion is little more then 9 hours. Or it could be two weeks. But a lot happens in a short time even though nothing really happens and it is very long. Isn’t it a lifetime anyway.

 

A flight from Portland to Minneapolis is a little different because there is no movement. I mean there is plenty of movement across the sky but I am not flying. But to be flown. The movement that happens is not synced with the movement, or lack of movement, that is actually happening. In other words, I am not moving. Traversing time and space sure, but without activity. I am passive, letting the movement happen to me, I am a bystander, I am not aligned. And yet it is something else. To be moving without activity gives me time. It gives me time for things like words and sentences and thoughts to form.

 

But that’s about it for now because there is something I wanted to say to you... I want to apologize to you, or maybe it is less of an apology but rather, I want to bring it up, share it with you and collaborate or maybe elaborate on it. My fear or my need to protect myself from you comes out of my own darkness. A deep instinctual need to protect myself from falling off of a cliff into the abyss. An abyss that I have wondered around for too long. Always an eye on the stars, but shit, sometimes they were more then light years away. Isnt that what they call it.

 

Im bored of myself and the people around me are dropping like flies or fully invested in their stories. My bladder is dull and aching with occasional explosions of agony. Help. But in general it has been a pleasure. And I will call you when I hit the ground. Running. For all intents and purposes. What does it mean anyway.

 

A book about home. Or perhaps the book is home. Lol

 

I wrote something about you and sis being similar, and then I suffered from the agony of compartmentalizing and classifying two relationships that are infinitely multifaceted. But you are smart enough to know that, aren’t you? Or did it hurt a little after all?

 

I think we land now. Or shortly I will find myself moving again. To resume an expedition with no end in sight and a beginning that began before time. Romantic af.

 

Well there she goes. Into the abyss and I was pretty sure that the diary was gone for good, but here she goes again. That circular vibration of the index on the f key, yeah its similar to your tongue on my clit this morning and you know, all those other times that came without returning the favor. Its brilliant really, and very new. To be treated like a queen, like for realz. Hey hey, its you and me. And somehow I conquered, you crumbled, your subjectivity has disintegrated and you are devoted to me. Isn’t it crazy? Or just fantastic. Suddenly to be in love with, or like sure the love, but to continue to desire somebody that does not dominate me. That does not have power over me. Suddenly I am the one with a sexual domination, or is it perhaps how GG said that I am sexually destructive, but not of myself – rather it is you that will fall apart in my wake. And yet I want to cherish you. I want to desire you sexually still now, even though I don’t have to fight for it, for what? Your attention. Its all mine. All on me and suddenly it is, you are, available and I want to continue to desire you. Now that is fucking beautiful. And you know what, at least for now, it is a choice. I choose to stick with it. Because you have not crumbled into oblivion, you have allowed yourself to dissolve into oblivion without fighting. At last you have allowed me to overcome. We have overcome. You cherish me and want to continue to fucking want you. Want you. Yes I want you. Not desperately, and it will take time to learn how to be the one with such power, but she is here and she is ready and she is not running away. Because this happens to be the most real, the most crystal clear. And now my little Scandy cooks dinner while I write and Im in a long purple dress that came in a package from momi just today.

 

Soon. Very soon in many moons, I also will relinquish my control. And then we will both hold power but only as we collectively forever withdraw from greed. Lol. She’s optimistic, this bitch, and after all can’t help it.

 

Sure its symbolic and too much so. But it takes me somewhere that is dark and childhood and that purple, the kind of washed out one. That makes me quiver as it is both warm and cold. That color, the dark lavender, like lavender in the dark. Yeah that one, it makes me sad. Like instantaneously there is that sadness that just comes and it is this and that is that. Whatever, u say that it is too symbolic, representational of childhood or dreamland, but anyway those places are too hard for me. Yeah they take me there and then they trigger. Is it just me? Or is it universal. Does it effect you? At all?

 

Anyway I feel sad and I am better off alone otherwise I will take it out on you. An open book as you so acutely stated. Hey maybe I have some things to say too, like yeah the focus is on the tree not the human. What’s up w hierarchy huh?

 

But things have changed as they always do and it was maybe the lack of downtime before, or perhaps the upscale wedding. Idk. There is something so inherent in your class status that even in a fairly discrete and tasteful wedding I feel a sense of not belonging. Like shit its not a not belonging with my friends, I mean common, they are my truth, but somehow it also is and to experience such a traditional perpetuation of gender roles and and to see all those affluent white girls in their delicate white flowered dresses and Ebony, yeah she was in purple, and to see them there trying to hold in the tears and keep themselves composed because they are the object of all gaze and jeezus I just want it to stop and for them to feel beautiful in a context that is not predetermined for them to attempt desperately to wriggle into and yet they fit in so goddamn well and that makes it even more painful as I experience the symbiosis. Or is it a desire to be one of them with a knowledge that it aint never gonna happen? Some of us will never be one of them. And its not an active denial but rather an impossibility from the start and somehow it hurts because I was your respect and I want you to notice me and I want your love and affection, but instead, well instead im just a bottle of ibuprofen and somebody to avoid on the dance floor, and everywhere else for that matter.

 

C: See you in a month.

 

You said last time.

 

Yeah sure. Not really. I am not of your status and you will never understand this. Therefore, you can never respect me or love me or cherish me the way that I deserve. Sure. Status as in the environment that I grew up in, the insular, twisted, frugal, embarrassing, strict, creative, bipolar house that was my home. And maybe yours was the same, but I am the child of two immigrants with a step father spawned from trash and I know a lower class, with less words, less attention, less positive reinforcement. Yes, I promise you, less positive reinforcement and so I seek it out quietly but with vigor from the world, from the ones that I don’t even love, because somehow I cant take it from the ones that really really mean something to me.

 

And yet, there is maybe hope. Hope in the letting go of wanting to be apart of that upper class and instead reconfiguring another world, one with less $$$ and less expectation. One with love and affection, with stability and consistency, with care and attention. My days are at last calm, but my nights are fraught with anxieties.

 

I will make a new environment, and all are welcome. But nobody is expected to stick around. Its up to you, is it worth it? Make your own decision.

 

Its funny and rather sweet how it takes not so long after all to settle and overcome and let go of the craziness. To arrive, with sweet contempt and actually be here. Like really, to be here with ease and let the rest go. Its an expansiveness. Hmm yes, this is interesting. Like here I am there I am in my home, my apt and I free to expand into my space, to let my guard down and borders dissolve because I believe in the protection of my surroundings. This is what it means to have a home, to be able to let yourself expand into the material, the objects, the architecture, the cushions and the blankets, the plants, the reflective glass and the porcelain lol. Anyway, when I feel safe, I dissolve in and out, permeable and abstract. Sometimes, usually, when I feel good, that feeling is accessible even in the midst of a city like New York, as long as I know it, or can relate to some kind of knowing. And people. Friends. Homies. Extended fam keep me going. And then I travel. To leave. To travel outside of that permeable space, outside of myself, outside of home. To be in the airplane surrounded by so many boundaries. So many people reestablishing borders as they leave the comfort of their own home, conforming to a place that has both the all of the rules and non of expectations.  Or maybe all of the expectations and non of the rules. Or maybe something like. The airport and airplanes are where you share the most intimate with the ones you know least. Where in the world are you from? Shall we take a six-hour nap together? And maybe talk about private stuff?

 

When I arrive in a new place with new people, isn’t it impossible not to have the guards up? And then what is home? Fully only that that is inside the skin as you stay attached, longing for the comforts of my flat back in NYC. But maybe, maybe this is what they talk about when they mention that stuff like finding home abroad, or “a home away from home.” You’re welcome. Maybe its about feeling safe and letting ones guard down, allowing yourself to dissolve in the context of the unknown. Trusting that which has not proven itself to you. Not needing to protect yourself from that which could and most probably will disturb you and your configured sanctity or equilibrium. But hey, is it possible for the world to be my living room? The world is your living room. Or your ash tray. Or your salty vaginal aphrodisiac. Whatever. Its obvi not the case, but somehow a coping mechanism, and on the bright side, sure, I killed all but one of the mosquitos in my room. Not bad. Lingering. Ill make a playlist soon.

 

And yet, home is also the opposite.

 

Its about not longing. For something, somebody, somewhere, else.

 

I lie in bed again without sleep. Again with an inability to be fully here. There. Wherever that absence was instead my mind on last fall and the pain that being alone and without you was. Im positive it is different now, just as it wasn’t detrimental then either. But this time I know who you are and that the future is ours but not only. There will be others too, and different ways not asking or longing for you when you don’t respond to my needs. Isn’t it clear? Is it a language that you still don’t understand? Or do you choose not to listen? Are you in fact all of a sudden dull or is it just not you to respond to my needs. And so funny no? the way you demand my attention. Well anyway, its an age old story and you are ages older then me. A man and 50 almost.

 

I guess what I am getting at is that the lack of home comes from a longing for you or even a denial but active obsessive denial of another time. Something that withdraws you from the present place and abandons you somewhere from before. Doesn’t it sort of go without saying? Home is where the heart is lol. Or the brain or whatever organ is a thinking one.

The Kidneys

A burden is something that I have brought up before and it is something that I fear I am quite regularly. I seclude myself in my miseries or hide my less shiny self as GG puts it over the dodgy internet skype call from NYC to Switzerland. She’s helpful. Or we are a helpful couple, even when I feel like a complete wet rag complaining about nothing and idiotic whining she keeps a lightness and I a dedication to getting through it. I don’t go to therapy to disappear, close off and retreat. Ill work through the blah, or try my best and if I don’t ill try not to hammer myself into oblivion. Which is indeed way cooler then what I would actually do which would be something more like hiding in a little hole with only the glossy almond eyes looking out reaching hoping searching for someone to understand and save me from my pathetic agony.

 

I wont go there. Instead I will be a little pathetic with you and hang up the phone with a little meat to chew on.

 

I want to love you and yet I am afraid. A fear of being left. Pushed away. A fear of needing too much of asking too much of letting my less shiny sides appear. I was treated as a burden. Thank you mom for recognizing how you were not always available for me or accepting me for who I am or capable of being with me as I implemented myself into the world. I am discrete because of you and I want to thank you for that but also there is something more. Like this fear that if I really let myself love you, if you really give me the permission to love you well then, even I don’t know what will arise, like what if I demand something what if I really fucking need something and it doesn’t fit with your agenda. What if it feels dire and you can’t fulfil it or just make an exception even though it is not exactly scheduled in to your itinerary. What if you are not available and I need you to be? What if I am not available and you need me to be. But GG brought up a very important something that resulted in a little thinking as I squatted between cars in the grey after rain by the gates of the Beyeler Foundation trying desperately to pick up internet.

 

GG: it’s the sharing of the less shiny parts of oneself that actually allows the bond to grow stronger.

 

And I thought about you last night complaining that I hadn’t liked your Instagram posts in months and how silly such a comment is but it had obviously been bugging you and its true that sometimes I don’t like you Insta posts and I don’t always no why and somehow I know that I am making a statement by not but the statement is nothing more then I don’t want to be taken for granted. I don’t want to be expected to like your post. If I don’t feel it then I don’t want to fake it. Feel what? That thoroughly depends. I may be massively in love with you, gushing my heart out fourth chakra pouring green waterfalls but an Insta like seems trite and incorrect for the amount that I feel. Or perhaps im a little annoyed that you didn’t like my last post. Or perhaps I don’t really like your photo or for whatever reason I don’t want to appear on your feed. But it’s the simplest whatever and I don’t think hard about it and I forget a split second later. Don’t ever read into my Insta activity. Please. And if you do, im sorry but you better get over it quick. And yet I am here for you and will entertain your need for a little confirmation that I was not in fact avoiding the pda. I don’t care about that. And an Insta like doesn’t say shit to anyone other then you and me. Because I get excited when you like me and you get excited when I like you and fuck I just ran outside without any shoes on to watch the spectacular fire work display to celebrate National Swiss Day and now my swallowing is again slightly more labored and my toothache is back in full attack. Just heal already. Common. Well anyway, that was epic and maybe tomorrow morning we can talk on the phone a little and you can tell me how my life in New York is destructive. Such a claim does not go unnoticed.

 

I think that you like me because

 

Or perhaps I think that you love me because

 

And partially because I am easy going, because I do not demand things. And I called and you didn’t pick up or call me back or acknowledge at all and then the next day when u feel like it you will reach out and I will respond because I want to. Kind of depressing no?

 

K: im gonna miss you, like really miss you, and I don’t even know why. You're so.. different.

 

I love you girl. And so many compliments this week its been incredible. Almost frightening.

 

That would be an interesting one but I can’t imagine that I have the energy to recap. Like this it was this simple conversation that began talking about an interview that was with Isabel Lewis in which she was asked how she got to where she is today as an artist and how wonderful it would have been if she sort of began to list off the various powerful straight white men that have supported her and provided her with opportunities. Or to avoid any kinda shade, I wanna say that if I were ever asked that question, I would hope to say something like, “well, I can list the ways on one hand, Marten Spangberg, Tino Sehgal, Hans Ulrich Obrist, Asad Raza.. and that would be the honest truth. It is of course tongue and cheek and I know there is more to it, but the point being to sort of disassemble the stigmatism surrounding the purity of ones art and that whether or not you can manipulate the big shot into thinking you are worth it actually gets you quite far in such a world.

 

Sure, Im not talking about fucking your way to the top, im talking about all the elements that go into yours/my work, and manipulation and presentation is part of it. Not to say that this is different from “you” or your “true” self but also to say that this and you and your amalgamation is all apart of your or my work. Its undeniable. And you cant tell me that those that flourish haven’t worked it. Shut up with this, “my art speaks for itself”bs. Its you, your art and all of it is your work. My work. Whatever it’s a bit of a rant.

 

 

Anyway today we spoke about racism, white supremacy and other

 

 

Now I have forgotten. Its like it was all there and then all of a sudden you gave me the attention and then it was gone. All the feelings of sadness and desolate disappeared. And it was as if your attention made it all better. So why is it that I so desperately needed to get up in the fist five minutes of the flight, disturb your reading, drw attention to myself and desperately struggle with with the overheard luggage just to have my writing materials. Why is it? And yet. I know I had/have something to say to put down here in relation to the feelings or I suppose the sensations but damn how is it that I feel so satisfied when you look. At me. Ok common, it starts with claustrophobia. Yeah, maybe that wasn’t after all the beginning. Perhaps it began with you disconnecting from “this” experience. You know the one of us being on a flight together, like you and me and how can that be different them doing it another way, like alone and why do we have to be so stuck in the ways that we do everything all the time, calculated intimacies.

 

M: you’re the weirdest person in the world.

 

Well that somehow makes me feel content, but why not ask me what I am feeling after all? Like rather then me having to express myself. Lol. Im not the most generous after all. It makes me crazy uncomfortable in my own skin. But somehow the autonomous tactics also work with you. Ok so don’t ask and I will write to my diary instead. Here she goes again finding out the dissonance.

 

It is in fact weird to partake in such private endevours whilst sitting directly nxt to you. Funny. I thought I would sleep on you or somehow feel cozy in our closeness but I become protective. I am desperately protective of my work and you take up so much space. I remember when you said that it is perhaps a relief and something to strive for to find an attraction in those boys that don’t demand it. That don’t take up space. That have a discrete mentality. Fuck I want that too. Like quiet but integrity like a god damn mountain goat. Oh wait.

 

What are we going to do with all the emotions?

 

I forgot. That one is a question. So here she goes, there she goes. And maybe in the residency I can begin to articulate. Seems about time. Next summer lol. Long Island and a beach side cabin of 10. Fuck I cant let myself get too carried away and maybe that is anyway already what is happening. So there we go, I keep writing and I cant tell if you are looking over my shoulder or not. I don’t trust a dime and yet I want to very badly because I would like to flourish in love also. I am optimistic. Haha. No but really.

 

The weekend was full of crying and its hard to way why or for what reason. Something related to the Three of Pentacles. I know its embarrassing but its true. And fuck I forgot the fortunes on the coffee table by the window on Neustiftgasse. Damn. One promised me my work and the other my romance. In my heart. At least. What was it that we talked about as potentially very important. A place to express our inner feelings and sensations. I may be young, but I have feelings too will be the title for next year. And it will be sort of like fried chicken. Yes we must discuss this one more.

 

I guess I have to respect your privacy.

 

Well I am extremely tired and somehow delirious or just like, I can’t open my eyes all the way after 4 hours in the dark and two and a half staring at your moving image on the screen. Its like beyond inspiring to talk to you, when we are both invested. How is it that I got so lucky to have a mom that gives me blatant artistic inspiration? Its fucking good the stuff that we come up with together in these moments of mutual interest and engagement. I propose and you propose and its usually a little off but then we keep a back and forth and it makes complete sense, that stuff that we arrive at. This time it was about the script. My sequences are of a precise scripted manor. Yes indeed. They are clean and to the point. What point? Not so sure, but imagine, like a mantra, but not at all, a script of words that is of such precision that is that which is my philosophy, and imagine if it could be constructed in such a way that allows for the consciousness to clear, the thought process to be open and inviting and one of sustainability. Or something. I suppose it is important to think about what it is that I want to procure whilst assembling such a text. A text that can be spoken that is without expression, but allows for the expression to happen and dis-happen as the words are sequenced here and there and in and out with various access points. And is it perhaps a discussion that could arise from such a way, or perhaps or course it is a discussion in the same way that you and she began to dance the sequence, and then just dance the interpretation of the sequence and then just dance your own version and go swimming.

 

Its fantastic to sit and let it flow

 

And then you mentioned this little tidbit about putting them in time out as they arrive with their window shopping consumerist mentality. Yes its something like this with such a skill of becoming aware, allowing for an awareness – to become self conscious or in a way, the environement or the collective mentalities becoming aware of themselves. So here we are in such a context, I as teacher could bring the awareness to the state of being that is one of hyper consumer judgemental capitalist. And hey hey, if this is what you want then so be it, but perhaps one could think about something slightly more sustainable that does not result in a lingering hangover but could perhaps be something a little different. You know like a gentle space, or care and intimacy and perhaps I can ask you, is it this that you want? Or that other thing? And I have a feeling that plenty of you would agree, or at least an interest may be sparked and from there, well from there we let the dancing etc do its job. And isn’t it true that these choreographed sequences actually do do their job and quite well as we get lost but also not at all. Rather something like we are so fully aware of where we are we can forget and let the fantastic take over a little. Or the sensations or the affect or whatever it might be.

 

Its anyway inspiration and that is all. Plain and simple, time to get to work.

 

I just wanted to say that there is something important here about the. How do I do this. Again. I just wanted to say that the environment is not one of a single grandiose consequential instantaneous recognizable epiphany. No, there is something here that relates more to a meadow. Lying on ones back in such a place, a general meadow—could potentially be anywhere—procures a gentle but slightly heightened sense of awareness. A warm breeze. Sensations of all kinds and emotions of any kind. A palpable buzzing, an expansive, here I am. Here is something that can last. Sustainable perhaps, and mundane or not, it turns out that I am tired of the mentality of preciousness, a kind of forever hope that what I do is sacred and monumentally life changing, that the experience of an art object is one of great consequence that produces an ethereal and immediate transcendental experience. One that is mind blowing and omnipresent. No, I’m not interested in touching God. Gross. I would rather experience many moments with you and each other that last and can continue. Like come on. What is it like everyday, maybe the potential can always be around. And here, in this space, exists a bit of discomfort no? a bit of friction in the openendedness. In the uncertainty. Like oh yes I don’t after all have somebody dictating my every move. In fact, what exists here are many gentle propositions and it is up to me, to you, to us to find out. Or find in. I prefer to avoid community but it is a togetherness. or perhaps to just be and trust that everything will find its way without so much force. Im serious about breathing through it, and perhaps the extended moments of slight discomfort are part of it and this is maybe something to be with also. Or perhaps these words are not so much about producing more clutter, but rather clearing the clutter by making sense of things. And simultaneously proposing more questions. But it is something like a traversing of fantasy in which there is an allowance for the clarity, like the sunlight peering through the fog and redirecting our desires. I hope for redirection but through gentle expansion and constant little mini events. Maybe its ambitious and yet extremely simple as such hopes are granted everyday. And yet not granted as if by a higher power but rather attained as if just by us and all that is us, which is anyway everything and nothing. Or maybe now it’s a bit too poetic, but does it not sound nice and therefore why not redirect. I am curious about the precarity of an environment that is one of potential and indeterminacy rather then dictating a knowledge that already exists. It is only different because it is you and me. To accept such an unknown is only and always its own form of formless knowledge anyway and shit I could go on. But what do you think?

 

And then its like fuck I just want to kill. Do you ever get that urge? Just to kill. Like the power of destruction and like yes for real I will destroy and its like fuck I don’t want to take it out any or all of you because there is no way that you can deal or handle. The furry rages but to rage is such a horror word im just so full of horror or furry and its in there swirling around without an outlet and I want so badly to share it with you but fuck WHERE ARE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!

 

I just need to have sex. That’s all.

 

M: What’s so upsetting

N: The paradox

M: What paradox

 

That I can be so in love with you and so dissatisfied. That what I desperately want is to share with you the deepest parts of me but I cannot because when the horror emerges you are not around. And furthermore the horror is perpetuated by the dissatisfaction of not being able to have contact with you. And like really physical contact. Like full on bodies flesh smashing together even if the external is light and gentle and slow and precise, the affect is colossal and breath taking and life changing and drastic. And I want that with you but I cannot and so the fury grows and the dissatisfaction becomes a monster and I need to find an outlet a release and there are others around that I share a sexual desire with and why not act on it and satisfy yes this but then again a paradox and forever because then it somehow interrupts what I feel like we are developing together and dilutes it somehow makes it less pressing and dire but anyway it can’t be too pressing and dire because I ask too much and you give too little and then I compensate by exploring with another but then you ask too much and I give too little and then there is nothing left except to run around pathetically in the dark with confusion and too much lust and no calculation or idk maybe too much but like what is it then and how the hell do we do it? Like yesterday I really wanted to talk to you about this stuff, from a very rational place because it was somehow non threatening yesterday, just a speculation that I needed to discuss with you. But apparently I didn’t express this well enough and you didn’t reach out and then it festered and grew and ate away at my soft tissue and borrowed into my pores and now im crawling with gnats and I just want to kill. Like a zombie, just destroy everything. Our love included. But its not actually what I want because what I really want is your attention and its so sad that I can’t have it the way that I want and therefore it’s a desolate fantasy that will slowly fade. I feel like I tried so hard. And yet, the rational inside would say something along the lines of it being a dissatisfaction with myself. That the horror erupts in personal moments of an inability for whatever reasons the stars do not align and in these moments I lose track of my Buddhist ways lol. I forget or more like I don’t want to practice my healing practices, I don’t want to breath thru my habitual “self protective” tendencies - my many ways of distancing myself and closing off my heart. I don’t want to fight anymore to be light and open, I just want to be alone and stop trying. And what is the god damn point to practice open ended love when I cant have you all the time?

 

It’s all a tageda. And then I realize instead of instigating these fights that cause us both to retreat, I would like to recognize this habit and learn how to recognize the distance that we have when we are apart without demanding attention and ultimately a collective detachment. It is rather a personal engagement of realizing that we are physically far apart and therefore we will engage w one another in a different way, as one does over distance. And this means, not everything needs to be shared with one another. I realize this now. Im sorry I had to fuck it up a little first. But I am learning.

 

And you know what. I am not abusive and you can trust me.

 

And if you don’t trust me, well that is something that you have to work thru, because I am loyal and honest w you. I respect you it turns out. But not when you say stuff like that. I am not abusive and yet it hurts because I love you and want to have the permission to. But I push you away by sending you the words that are not meant for you and you push me away as a response. Quite pathetic we are. Or sensitive you would say. This too of course. Anyway, I love you and it makes me very happy that I do. It’s enough to know that I am capable and my need to express something to you is also ok, im sorry I did it the wrong way. A bit thoughtless and very selfish.

I did not have bad intentions. I shared this with you because I wanted to get closer, not because I wanted to push you away, and yet perhaps at a certain point I subconsciously knew that it would push you away even though ultimately I want to be closer. In a way it was a test to see how strong we are with one another and perhaps it was also a way to be clear that ok, if you cannot be there for me in the way that I want then you cannot be there for me at all. At least when we are apart. And when we are physically close, this is when we can explore the unknown territories of our relation ship. But whilst apart we are support. And things don’t get deeper, they just are. Maybe we are so good at it, the two of us, that we have to be apart so as not to cause the whole world to implode. Like maybe we would get to the bottom of it and find the answer to love and this can’t happen so we keep ourselves apart and take little spurts here and there.

 

I walk along the path but only insofar as I find myself between two meadows and well immersed.

 

With a sharp left, I leave the path and walk straight into the grass.

 

Tall grass, wild flowers of varying mini colors and buzzing –such a range of pitch.

 

I watch where my feet land as one falls in front of the next.

 

It is all the same and ever so slightly different.

 

Looking behind me when I stop, I can barely tell, if at all, where my weight has directly traversed.

 

There are recognizable flying critters, but most of the sounds are unidentifiable.

 

Not pretty, but regular and sweet

 

The sounds of heat also, and with heat comes sweat, and with sweat, horseflies – those little buggers that like to nibble without realizing or caring that their nibbles are slightly more aggressive then that of a guppy, or whatever those fish are called that feed on dead skin.

 

 It’s a high pitched buzz, but regular and sweet and the sun is high and the clouds move slowly, billowing and wispy across the sky.

 

The sun is strong, and as billowy as they are, the clouds never manage to blot her out.

 

I lie down in a general location, in the middle, or as far away as possible from the edges.

 

Into the grass.

 

Somewhat hidden between the blades, the heat and the sweat is unbearable, collecting between skin and fabric, I remove the shirt and the skin breathes.

 

Between the blades, nobody notices me anyway.

 

The rest stay on the path and the bugs and the sun and the wild flowers of varying mini colors don’t care about me anymore then I care about them.

 

Which is both a lot and a little.

 

A little and sort of without noticing, except sometimes overcome w satisfaction and other times bored or with friction.

 

Never able to fully fall asleep as the heat is just slightly overwhelming and the horseflies are just slightly more common then one might wish for.

 

But I lie with heightened sensation, and I day dream and then I don’t.

 

I get bored and then I read.

 

I sit up in minor stress and then I lie back down and tan.

 

I stay for a while and then, probably around when my water bottle is empty, I leave and it’s a good day.

 

And not just then and there, but afterwards also.

 

 

This is exactly what I would like right now. Every single detail. Express my need and note down every reaction that I have to every need. – when the monster erupts.

 

Write down the judgments but always go back to the need. FIGURE IT OUT

 

Places that I might not be aware of. How can I not have those judgments and support those needs?

 

A need that has not been expressed or acknowledged for a long time. The more I can listen, the more I can clarify what that need is, in all of its assets.

 

 

It is an immediate kind of visceral quiver that travels thru the entirety of my body. Its fantastic. Really. Shivers as soon as I enter the space and dispersed. Among all the senses so as not feel like it solely comes from my eyeballs or my crotch. Whatever. I will edit the book and so will she, and it is an erotic memoir but but then again it comes back to the interest of mine that lies outside of the human in the sense of such.. I walk into that church and take in those incredible paintings on the wall.  And I am taken by the colors and the patterns and the perspectives and maybe the wings as they produce shadows and perspective and the light rays come in front of the baby angels and the center is always human centric with no exception. There he is or she is in the center of that circle of light, usually outward flowing from the circle. Centrifical. but it is not the center that attracts me, not at all. Yes this is clear. So lets play.

 

And TIno’s work is a depiction of god in art. The focal point, the holy, the pinnacle. In the late 19th century, post Nietzsche, things began to change in art. As opposed to Kant’s depiction of god existing in everything, Nietzsche allowed for god to not exist at all in art work. In Tino’s work there is still a sense of worship of the individual, of the classic omnipresent figure. I am particularly interested in moving away from such ideaologies and proposing instead a materiality that does not bother with the holy. Perhaps it could be considered as #postsacred or #postdivinity and not with an aggressive denial of the sacred or not with the intention of negating the possibility of experiencing the divine, but rather connecting to lifeways and materialities both living a non living and maybe instead allowing for a profane magic to develop. And perhaps what I mean here is being with life. Being with fantasies and sensations and materials and ideaologies and animals and the weather and each other and ourselves and being with the complexities of all that is. I don’t want to inflict anything or cause anything or demand anything specific. I would rather like to share complexities and create an environment that is one of potential. Somewhere where events, lots of little mini events can take place. Little baby transformations, one after the next.

 

So what I would like is to have the dancing happen as if like the breeze or the flies in a meadow. And I would like storytime to happen similarly. But perhaps not here. and then I would like the conversation to happen regularly starting with a question to engage the visitor. Something like, do you think it is necessary that god exists in art, or do you think that art is worthwhile if it does not or do you think art is still art if it is profane or something like is it necessary that art provoke an out of body experience? What is that out of body experience?  

 

Its not that deep anyway.

 

What is the proper question and where do I want it to lead whilst still giving possibility for impressions and perspectives?

 

Do think it is necessary that art conjures the divine? Do you think it is about seeing the holy within the work or having an experience with divinity itself? Talk about materiality and the gentle but slightly heightened palpability of everyday. Relating to the complexities of grounding oneself in the material realm and understanding oneself as phenomena or material that does not precede one’s interactions. But rather that objects emerge through intra-actions

 

Alone in bed. Its come to this. Full. And now empty as if im writing poetry. But it arrives through pure exhaustion.  As if I had any clue about purity. Ring. Whatever. Its an easful way to feel peaceful. Alone with myself and not reaching. Reaching for yesterday or reaching for Stockholm, or wherever it is that you boarded that plane to so early this morning before I rose and before breakfast and before constructing another happening and before dancing together and before eating dominos pizza and ice cream with 100 plus strangers in the Rockbund Art Museum in Shanghai and before falling into the sociality and letting go and before finishing and being done and being exhausted. Before taking care of others to the best of my abilities even within my own exhaustion, and before dinner. Before dessert. Before being told by Marie ( I trust you) multiple times that today was really good. Before all of it, you left, and after I got in bed. Alone with myself over there in the reflection of the shower nozzle and the blue pain of glass and the computer screen.

 

Hi I miss you and there is a bit of empty left over, or perhaps something different, more like missing. Like that pimple you keep popping and it doesn’t go away but every time you squeeze something new comes out and when one day its gone.. you sorta miss it after all. Maybe a pimple in an incospicuious spot because then you don’t really care if is around and somehow the pleasure outweighs the shame. Who’s to say really if I am relating you to a pimple, or perhaps the relationship that is ours or that we partake in and that does not exist without us, perhaps it is comparable to.. ok shut up. A pimple. What a pathetic topic or subject to use whilst professing a love.

 

I entered my hotel room after all finally let the crying happen. Just short, but shit it was beautiful the way you gave me permission to cry after day one. To be able to let go and give in to the unknown, to wollow in a certain universal sadness that is unexplainable and an epidemic. To be able to cry next to you for no decipherable reason, to really feel ok about it and that you are there with me without pressure. This will last. This will linger and nest in my warm pumping expressive little heart.

 

We talked for a full day straight. Well we woke at two, late late after Natten, but we were up until at least two (the following) and we didn’t once stop talking. And sex of course. Have I mentioned? Anyway, its just like a recap but holy shit.

 

Like there she was electricity and visuals like an electric light show against black, maybe the night sky, but the flows of light are fat and textured and its constant, emenating from the whole erogenous zone from the pumping the repetition the in and out the strokes the moving contact, from there outward or inward or really just everywhere against the skin and in the temples and the visions and the contracting expansions like I forget that my body is material. I forget that I have weight and that gravity is a thing. I forget that it takes muscular capacity to move. I forget that I am anything more then sensation and affect and I don’t need to remember because I am completely fulfilled and begging for more. Yeah, it happened like that and again and again this time and I wanted to suck on you and run my hands across and down and around and grasp your body and every part triggers tingles in every part of me. Such a deep affection. Like to look at you is to feel the agony of separation. To look at you is to feel that agony of having skin. To feel your warm and to smell you breath is to feel that agony of physical and all other kinds of boundaries. and yet it is this agony that is the desire. It is such agony that makes me want it. And its you because you go with me to the edges, to those places or spaces or dimensions that are nearest to overcoming. Nearest to the edge and farthest from the boundary. We do it together and its never ending. Or so it is now. And now. And now. And now.

 

Do u think im a phony superficial?

 

Nah

 

Im letting the love take me and im having it.

 

 

Olivia is particularly wonderful. Little witch. And has offered her spells. Yes I will and lets make it happen.

 

No more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more. It gets complicated after not so long. But the drug convo is one that I absolutely cannot deal with. Or perhaps it is such a hard no. and even so, even with the tears and the crying in your face and admitting my lack of strength surrounding such topics I barely said it was your fault. And mostly it was my own. I managed to pull myself away. And sure, you did too but you had a child that is traumatized or something by your lack of availability and your dedication to the substances. I find out now that you were heavy into meth post prison during the time that Gildevin was losing his mind, or acquiring many – however one might look at it. You were addicted heavy duty like runny into the grim reapers open arms and shit I was always in denial. I never wanted to ask. I never wanted to ask. But obviously such substances will deliver an instability in neurons and your ability to be with people and so forth, now papa wants to know what I want to eat. And I feel like I need to oblige because this is my habit and not his but now he is back in the bedroom and I guess I missed my chance. But its somehow not horribly desolate this time around. You wanted life to be over, how do you think that effects the people around you? Just curious. Anyway my belly is full of gas and there are cats rotting downstairs but shit we cry and lose it and find each other and all in all it happens beautifully.  But there was something that I wanted to express and that had something to do with love lol. Time for a beer. Remember when I blamed myself? Because the thing is that I can swallow. Ive had plenty of practice.

 

I have had plenty of practice swallowing.

 

And I sit in my own filth but im not even sure if you can smell it.

 

Such a safety in my words on paper. There will be scrap paper everywhere. And gel pens. And stories. Like speculative realisms. Sure why not play with the fairies.

 

It is during this time that I need to ask myself what do I need. She walked by with an absess on her neck. My body is in constant pain. The horror. But It was an openness that I was dying for. A desperate longing for physicality and vulnerability. My body still hurts but we stood there in the hall and first you held me my body responded with tears and body trauma with every new touch – im sorry it has to sound like this – and then the hat went, and then the umbrella, the whole time with our bellies together and then we moved to the couch, inhabiting the small amount of space that wasn’t already. We sat there with your hand on my belly and it was what I needed. More then anything. I could let go, let my guard down, relinquish my shields, express hurt through physicality. Through holding through breathing. And as we practiced full exhales I stuttered again and again and eventually it became easier. And the breath had space to travel down into the belly and tear apart the knotted organs. We did it without Novocain. I appreciate that but the pain lingers.

 

I think I have to go home to the hospital and sleep. Im falling over.

 

In delirious sweats I spent practically the entire night sucking on a cold tongue. Wet but perhaps not so much a suck. What could it have been more then tongue to tongue floppy like desperate for cool moisture. I was drenched from early to late. And the sweat still has not subsided. Pretty cool.

 

I wonder when it will happen where I no longer need to be convinced that I am in love with you.

 

A weird contradiction of feeling the fucking world for u, not wanting to admit it to myself, thinking that it needs to end, and wanting u to be just a little part of my whole life. Its very conflictual after all.

 

So much sadness.

 

In Iceland we have a saying: It’s not the drugs that make a drug addict, but the need to escape reality.

 

It is anger that I need to consider. Can I remember healthy fights? Fights that we worked through and didn’t leave either of us falling over or gasping for air?

 

P: Well my daughter, u have a big job!

 

N: ??

 

P: You have a child!

 

 

I’ve found the victim. Now I am cultivating the anger.

 

Yes it is time.

 

And here we go with a kind of alt universe – a world of empowerment as we together travel into the depths.

 

Stream of consciousness…

 

This is proposal for contamination where behavior and expectations are consistently disrupted. From time to time we recognize the unavoidable truth that our existence conforms to power structures. The only way to disrupt this is to create a space that constantly disrupts itself. There is choreography that proposes commodified sexuality and femininity as empowerment and choreography that allows us channel anger. Anger that can be used to fuck with space. Social configuration are spatial configurations. we cannot continue to blindly swim in the murky waters of white supremacy.

This is not about showing anger or reproducing fictions of anger. No this is about using the means of art to channel anger. To find each other in our strength. Our strength is in precarity, in not having to hold on to mirages of stability, our strength is in vulnerability, in our ability to exist powerfully in open-ended environments. Our strength is in connectivity, in intra-action, and our desire for entanglement.

This sociality is an entanglement of living and non-living, a nonhumancentric proposition that dispurses attention and suggests agency. Responsibility. As an ethics. This space grows out of disturbance ecologies, landscapes of ruin, and it is powerful in its acceptance and celebration of indeterminacy. It is nasty, it is messy, and it is open-ended. And yet, it is potentiality.

 

HUMAN DIGNITY

 

Is it a relief? That one idiom that I know annoyingly well, be careful what you wish for, perhaps but I think in the end its actually what I wanted. Now I don’t have to do the break up, and somehow I was prepared, or last week was all the pain and now here I am just feeling a bit anxious because when is he gonna call me to tell me that he can’t tell me what is going on but fate has decided that we cannot be together. I wait. I wait and I try to nap and my heart beats very very fast. It is possible that I could fall apart. Teetering on the edge, I wont listen to music incase the horror escapes me. There is a possibility of being overcome but somehow I think it was meant to be. Or perhaps the best possible option. Although he might be dying. But that’s not my responsibility and he won’t allow it to be. He won’t let me be responsible. He won’t tell me what is wrong. And already I imagine him as my ex. The one that I went through that and that with. The one that I learned fantastic things about love with. The one that provided me with a lot of feelings and a lot of content for these pages. The one that will go down in the books as another one. A very important and extraordinary one, but also number four. Or three and a half, hard to say if the second really counted. But alas, he was number four and fuck it was amazing.

 

M: Sometimes I think that perhaps only I can make you feel that way

 

Yes, as of now only you have ever made me feel that way. But I know there is more to come, I am sure of it. It was beyond my dreams of possibility and yet I know that I have not reached the pinnicle of possibility when it comes to love. Life. Lust. It was incredible with you and no I won’t ever deny that. I thought it was him that was sick, but if it is you and you remove yourself from my life so that I don’t become your caretaker, well then I suppose there is nobility beyond words.

 

I thought I was working through irrational abandonment issues but the funny thing is that you were, you have abandoned me. You have left, and I knew it was happening. I knew it and I processed it through massive mourning and frenzied panic. There was nothing that I could do about it, except take better care of myself. Now I am soft. Gentle with my body and gentle with my feelings. Now I am soft, listing only to the sweet voice, the caring one that makes me feel safe and not alone. Not insane and cared for. Yeah. I will give you the benefit of the doubt, but as Dragana said, hopefully you are not sick and rather just an asshole. Or should I say, shit I really hope you are not just an asshole. Because if so than I’ve really fucked up, and I was so sure that we had found something beautiful together. Yes with pains and struggles, but with growth and transformation.

 

Where do you go to my lovely, when you’re alone in your bed.

 

Picasso. The stuff that you share with me is astronomical. It takes me to far away places that I never could have imagined. Its beyond a discussion. I want to look inside your head yes I do. Porn seems so sad. So so sad. And I want to go to bed with you so badly. So badly. I want to go to bed with you and feel your cozy body against mine. Soft furry warm smooth. And then all of a sudden wet with sweat but I don’t even notice that we are both drenched until after when we coo into each others skin and breath in all the smells of one another and the stuff that we create together its like nothing else. Its really hard tonite. I long for you and think about all the things that we had together that we will no longer share. And I know that it is not a clean sever, our meeting awaits us 8am, in 9 hours from now and this morning it was the same and yesterday. But it is a new kind of love that doesn’t allow for the soft sharing of skin and sweat. Its nowhere and I wanted so bad to have another video recording. One that lasts for a long time with sounds and variation and I wanted to take it next time we meet because last time in China it was exceptional. Like really. Exceptional, like didn’t we, each of us, just completely fall into each other without reservation? Like didn’t we just fall and not look back? Yeah we even had an orgasm together and holy shit when your body is against me with weight and how does one even begin to explain the contact that happens in such moments in time that are like no other moments in time except perhaps when ones life is in danger, when the wheels of the car lose traction on black ice and you spin out and everything is out of control and yet the moments for you inside of that car tick slowly, sharing a speed with you that makes everything seem clear and in your hands and perhaps it’s the same with you and me together in bed but different because instead of clarity in those endless moments of bliss, I experience extravagance. A never ending light show in a blackness. It’s the feeling of warmth, of joy, of love if you don’t mind me saying. I have so much joy with you. We share so much joy. And that sharing is now entering history. It is a memory. That memory will not be added to. Ever. It has situated itself in the past and it is not the present nor the future. And yet I take it with me. It is that memory of how glorious it is with you that will live in me forever. Because of us I will not settle. Because of us I will not be with an alcoholic, I will not be with a smoker, I will not be with an abuser, I will not be with someone who does not cherish life, who does not celebrate the morning afternoon and evening. I will find you who lives the day fully and with care. I will have more experiences that give me more good memories because I am in fact addicted. You have got me hooked. Hooked on being cared for. Like forever and infinitely. Passionately me im yours and in love with you and we slowly carefully say bye to this and hello to another.

 

Off we go, together and apart. And work is anyway also a good way to find each other, even though it was after all the sex that was breath taking and life threatening.

 

I am different because of you. And I will never. Ever. Ever. Be the same. It’s love, im so totally sure of it.

 

And I am learning again how to be alone. Remember? And I actually like it. Yeah, there is a lot to do after all. This way there is more of a dispersal. More curiosity in what is happening in each moment without a temptation of what could be. You are no longer a could be, or perhaps still a little as the possibility of a video chat tomorrow morning still lingers. But fading. And there is a lingering sadness but it comes from a longing and that phrase, pull myself together, all of a sudden seems so sensical. Like in a very practical way, stop drifting far and wide. I am here, my mind is here, my body is here, my essence is here. It is very little with you over there. Very little and then eventually even less. Perhaps forever, but I can handle it without the daily longing. Without the feeling of displacement. And remember? Its the writing that brings me to the now. That sucks it all back into the materiality. An outlet for the drifting thoughts that go nowhere other then out of my head and into my screen.

 

A: where do you hold all your pain?

 

It was a massage in the dark and then a very good shift. And remember? We rolled on top of each other in a circle before any visitors arrived. It was a really beautiful day. And I think you are a little shy too and that is sweet. I like that. And the massage. I don’t forget the care. No way.

 

There is plenty to do. Plenty and so much of that dissolves into the safety and security of solitude. I am also meant for solitude. I remember and of course there is no replacement. Of course because I love it here too in this aloneness. Remember? Yeah, sure do.

 

But body contact will be lacking. Yes. I am afraid of no sex. And I am afraid of the stupid decisions I could potentially make out of desperation for intimate touch and affection. But I will hold it dear. What we had. And I will find the right ways of doing it.

 

But im only afraid of no sex with you because I know that I am safe with you and its lacking elsewhere, a knowledge of safety. Its lacking elsewhere. Did you know that?

 

I guess maybe its not that sad after all. I mean here we are. I am addicted to your verbal expression of love. Sure yes your body is cherished and I will miss it, but it’s the verbal praise (…) that supports my self esteem. I mean its brilliant. You tell me in flourishes that I am the woman of your dreams and that you love me endlessly and for eternity. And you believe it. I really think you really believe it. And without condescension, that is beautiful. Yet not enough. Because when it comes down to it, I am capable of a consistency. A growing together that comes from a deep physical loyalty to what is developed. I do not disappear or check out. I am capable to being there and consistently being available in the ways that we need to be for one another. You are not. Your words fulfill an emptiness, a lack of generous love but as much as you say those words, your actions also propose otherwise. That in fact you are not capable and whatever you believe love to be does not quite equate to my open-ended definition. Therefore, your love is fantastic and I have grown astronomically with your sharing and affection and I have somehow become addicted to your milk, but as I wean myself off, I also know that love can also be more consistent.

 

Well shit I wrote a whole goddamn book to you.

 

Hard Lemonade; my daddy years.

 

And then there is that moment, or the growing urge over the course of many moments when I begin to feel like a burden. Like omg why can’t you just call me like you said you would, make me feel like you want to tear away from your hefty work load and share a few stories with me. I want to send you a message. Reach out to remind you that it is getting late and I will sleep soon but instead the fear grows as the shame of burdening another grows forever stronger, a thicker cloud, fogging my mind and seeping into my clarity. As soon as I remember the good mama, the one who says, hey little Nikima, you are aloud to need that phone call, you are aloud to expect that meeting when you have both agreed on it. And even if he flakes, your needs are nothing to be ashamed of. Suddenly the fog dissipates and I can see my room again, the closet over there and the chartreuse puffy vest hanging next to the pink scrabble and eggs night gown. Both from china, I mean like really, I bought them in Shanghai. I suddenly feel ok about asking, or not. Like I get to choose if I want to stoop to such a level of reminding you for a third time about something that we agreed on when you know that I sleep much earlier then you.

 

I am so glad that this horror will soon be out of my life. I can’t wait for the day when I no longer feel pain when you don’t follow through with our plans. The pain that swells inside of me erupts in a frenzy of terror that cannot be soothed or seemingly so by anything other then you. Your attention. Your words of confirmation. Your proclamations of love that are what you believe in, but I know that your proclamations of love are not the love that I am capable of. With me there is consistency. There is loyalty in expression. There is empathy. There is a little bit of let me consider somebody else before myself for a moment because I love you and when you feel pain I feel pain maybe at the moment you also feel pain but why make me suffer in discontent in discontinuity in disregard. And yes perhaps it triggers burden traumas but perhaps it is also just disrespectful and makes me want to scream bloody murder and slit your throat because I want to care for you, love you, fight for you, support you, but why the fuck should I will I how can I when my reality is not considered. Ok so we have split up but you propose that you love me eternaly and that new forms of care and intimacy and safety can be between us. That we can be friends forever and how the hell do you expect that to be the case when simple care for a date of departure, a moment of considering how better to do the break up is snuffed and shoved under the carpet. Forgotten about and yet not because you see those messages that I send you begging for your understanding and yet you blatantly ignore me. Its not as if I need you to follow through with the date, I just need to you to tell me that its not going to happen. Or when it will or perhaps it still will?

 

You say that its different. But fuck you will always be you and you are also an asshole. Its difficult to say but it’s the fucking truth. And that is that. Or perhaps, like the others, you are a coward. But its inexcusable. In such a case cowardess equates to asshole. Its just who you are. Goodnight.

 

Someday I wont care about you so much a life will be easier.

 

How depressing

 

Im ready to be loved. Like really ready to be loved. And that is separate from you. Its my thing.

 

You know that this breakup is ultimately for the better. Do you know that? Do you know that this breakup is ultimately for the better? I would have had to do it sooner or later. Why? Because you can’t be there for me. You are incapable of consistency. Have I mentioned that before? Oh yeah. Someday not to far from now I will look into eyes that match. Eyes that can be babies eyes or eyes of wisdom, or perhaps the ability to be babies together comes from the wisdom of not holding on too tight. Someday those eyes wont have to convince me, I will just trust. And yes we will smile together.

 

No lock screen this time. The intervals are becoming shorter in this sleepless night in quiet Basel in November 2017

 

Don’t worry, soon you wont have to deal with my emotions anymore. –its all that self deprecating stuff that I can’t bring myself to say to you, but I say it too myself and it brings warm tears. A tragedy. That last for an instant and eternally in the midst of optimism.

 

Same as everything else in the world

 

Figure out what you want and decide how far you are willing to go to get it

 

What do you want

 

Everything

 

….

 

I have met strong woman before. But non of them were like you

 

You have a heart as soft as a baby bird

 

It was what made me like you the moment we meant

 

…

 

Make him pay

 

That part of me would enjoy your revenge

 

Whatever you do child, don’t let it be at the cost of your beautiful heart.

 

….

 

I wanna live my fantasy, not yours.

 

#metoo

 

Its funny or maybe not, but its an entry point in so we can continue… its funny how I lay awake at night, these days more then ever, with my eyes closed but rhythms and beats pumping through my body. In my head. Trying to focus on my third eye, to find relaxation, but I notice the other two dry and fluttering in their sockets. Im thinking about #metoo incidences and they just keep running through my brain, more keep coming up and its impossible to find peace.

 

There is both optimism and determination in the massive outcry, and yet it is one big ass trigger. Like watching Stranger Things just before bed. It lingers and haunts and its not frightening per say, but its disturbing. I don’t sleep. Instead I roll around and become too conscious of the pain in my right leg, starting up in the socket, and between my shoulder blades. I lye on my belly and do little chest lifts to engage my back muscles. I lye on my belly and place my fists underneath my shoulders so they don’t have such an intense downward curve. I lye on my belly and bend my right leg and stick my elbow into the thigh muscle, starting at the socket, I work my way toward the knee. I try to focus on my third eye to find relaxation in my body, instead I remember George Berges trying over and over to kiss me in the back office of his Soho gallery whilst promising me that if I play my cards right he could provide me with very many opportunities. I remember Zois expressing interest in my writing, buying me an ipad so that I can write my book and asking me repeatedly to go to bed with him and one time in his massive Soho flat to try on a pair of tight leather pants, that were obviously too small, just to see if they fit. I remember that guy that I can’t remember his name that raped me in his apt. going to bed with him I woke up with him on top of me, his dick in my ass, my hands pinned behind my back yelling stop stop stop and he says: once its in, there is no turning back. Then trying to fall asleep next to him with Beach House playing on repeat all night

 

And the next day

 

Let’s do it again sometime.

 

I remember the man that I met on the train when I first moved to New York, he could smell fresh meat and knew that I needed a job. He offered me a freelance modeling gig that paid $30 an hour. I went back to his place and he asked me to take my shirt off and try on a half cooked dress while touching me inappropriately. He never paid me. I remember in college, his name was James Beyer, thank god for facebook. He was charming and people liked him. He stayed over one night and I told him I didn’t want to have sex. I woke up with him inside of me. I flipped. Ran out of the room and slept on my friend’s couch devastated. My friend’s girlfriend at the time who was a good friend of his didn’t support me. I need to talk to him about that, he’s f to m. I remember my first boyfriend Carson Meyrick majorly. I was young and he forced sex on me constantly. He was four years older and abusive. He forced me to have sex in a porter potty at a music festival after smoking crack. I remember my step dad. And all the incidences growing up. I remember when I stopped speaking to him. I remember when he convinced me not to tell, he cried and said it would ruin his life (career. as a social worker). I remember when he sent me a facebook message last year on my birthday,

 

Happy birthday, I miss you

 

Or when he invited me over to his new home with his new wife after he was banned from our family. A txt message that said,

 

I have the house to myself for a few days if you want to come over

 

and my friend has proposed a bit of light. If you read this now and find there are still moments that i call you out in ways that make you uncomfortable, let's chat again because your efforts make a huge difference. to build a friendship in the midst of such hyena's is a sacred thing. 

 

And perhaps I could also remember you and how you convinced me to love you. And how in the beginning, I was attracted to you yes, but that piece actually made me feel a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps I will remember more as time goes on.

 

And I still can’t sleep.

 

Just sayin, its not easy for any of us. Those of us that are accused I can imagine are watching a personal crisis unfold, or perhaps you don’t give a shit. And those of us that have been the victims (or whatever) are also remembering some shit that had kindly been put away. My right leg still hurts and now I have to pee.

 

Im not angry. Im not even sure how to feel. But I most certainly cannot sleep.

 

You ask me why a dispersal of attention? Well because you know what? If people didn’t have such specific expectations they might just let it be, you know like Madonna says, and then if that happens, well then its just not a problem because we can be what we want to be. Yes I also understand, that sort of mentality doesn’t work so well for, say.. a pedophile, or perhaps it works quite well for pedophiles since they are accepted into their surroundings without much friction. But anyway im talking about a kind of freedom of expression. Its personal obvi, like if people stopped staring so much then I would feel more free to be me! Or like what does that mean academically? There are ways that I like to dance that has always made me feel scrutinized and ostracized. That’s less so now as I know a few more dance freaks.. but even amongst the ones that might consider themselves dance freaks there is a lack of real ones. Anyway, something has come over me, but it doesn’t so much matter because what is important is that in this created deviant reality im just distracting people so that I can RELEASE MY INHIBITIONS! Its just the truth that’s all.

 

Maybe I realized, I’m slowly dying of survival

 

Im so happy. Finding peace again. That determination and optimism that I had been distracted from for a minute or two. It’s my life remember? And here we go, another landscape of mist and swamps. Fantastic you are.

 

 

And I suddenly came across this one from the past and it feels like the future.

 

Post Sessions:::

 

A Teacher from Passion

 

 

 

Its another day in the cycle, trying to work to formulate my thoughts to speak literally and logically to say it the way we have been taught with clarity and conviction. But I want non of it. I want to float in the unknown to wither at every breath I want you to know the way that I feel without me having to say a word. I want you to kiss me where it hurts so that you can fell the blister hot against your lips I want your tongue to to cool me off and whisper breath into my neck. Its nothing specific and not so demanding I just need without knowing what. But even such a request is stronger then I feel like powder. Hanging in the air. Stuck in slow motion but so diluted nobody knows if I am even blinking. There is nothing charged and everything heavy but not really there. I sleep my days and dream of dried grass in a black and white film. Its probably silent or maybe the sound just isn’t working but nobody seems to care, I don’t either but I sorta wish that I did. Its these moments when I could fully dissolve in tears of long distance. It is this whimsical longing that would feel like the end of the world if I felt anything at all. It is these moments when I could dive into my insecurities and try to decipher the sadness but I want only to take the easy way, sit here in nothing and feel a gentle dull. I want to be ok and go thru the actions and let the joy come when it does. The next step is to do it with another, I am alone now so I have decided not to go there. I don’t ask if I make you feel anything with my words but honestly I think I want the world.

 

And again

 

In small font I have a few hours to digress into me. A digression from what? Yeah right, as if there were in inside and out. Screw the differentiation, the surface of the tea is pristine and unwavering, the depths are all the same. I almost bought a hot chocolate, but I will eat later instead. Funny the logic of either or. And today it was again with the shrink, but after an emotional session with the boyfriend that is not a boyfriend. The boyfriend that refuses to be in a relationship. I can relate –this has in fact been me forever. And when it is otherwise possession comes into play. You want me to do all that I want to do. And when I do you do not want to have a negative reaction. So you think that avoiding the confines of a relationship will rid you of your emotional attachment. But I do get it. In fact it is this that I want also, to do what I want with you as extra, my little whipped cream. Baby frosting. An extra double bonus not quite on the side but definitely also everywhere and the middle. I love you and maybe it is contingent, but not contingent on the things that you say to me or the things that you do. Although I say this not as an avoidance of responsibility but rather to bring up a little conversation we had at one point in which we discussed that big shot artist and his choices of who to stand behind, encourage and perpetuate. He has maybe chosen me then, and according to your cynicism, not because he sees anything worthy or necessary in my art but because he likes me and wants to fuck with me, which of course means fuck me. This is devastating, truly as I have tried for my entirety to be something more then my ass, my face, and my manipulations. And yet, it is all part of it no? I mean my work is an integration of manipulation and erotic, enticing forms of the sexualized young girl as commodity. I do wonder where this will go and I will continue to manipulate such needs. So here I am, trying to persuade the misogyny that I am more then my parts. A body that is more than the sum of its parts

 

The masochist says, “beat me, beat me” and the cynic says, “no”.

 

My shrink, and this is said with affection says that Oedipally, the father figure is always unattainable, or unconquerable, and yet I get my infinite moments of victory and glory when I break that man. Over and over again. You tell me that you saw something in me that day with La Substance and the paint. You had a premonition or an unquestionable knowing in my cleverness, in my extraordinary me-ness. I can’t remember how you put it, I dissolve when you give me compliments. But you knew what others had not yet recognized, something a little extra that required your unconditional devotion. I thought it was a fun game because you were the most notorious with young woman and this aught to be a fun game for me. Of course it grew into more. But is it me that you are devoted to? Or is it my work?

Situated within your undying cynicism is the knowledge that He, the other one, is nothing more then a business man. That he is supporting me because he gains something in return: youth, and contemporary understanding of current trends, etc. As if you are so beyond such. My cynicism in men doesn’t trust you, and yet when you tell me that your intentions were void of manipulation and exchange, I fall for it and fall into you and your matching sweater. It makes me explode with furry because I know that this is also a side of you. I know it because you know it so well and maybe he has become the epitome of your furry. He supports me because I am not a threat, and yet Gallerie is completely off his radar because Gallerie is a threat to his status as top dog in immaterial art. Ok, this is beginning to make some sense to me, little old me. And maybe trying to convince the old men that I am more then the fantasies and illusions of their beady little eyes is masochistic and a waste of time. But I refuse to give up, because giving up on that feat would mean giving up on you. And there happens to be more to you then your sexual fantasies and power cravings.

 

Those big shots, they all have motives and to be a little ignorant is the only way I am capable of playing along. Yes of course recognizing the motivations, my sexuality and my enticing nature, my ease and my ability to make you feel good. But I refuse to equate it all to this, and yet, why are these attributes lesser in my psyche then all that external stuff like actual PRODUCTS. Maybe more then anything, again again I take responsibility, it is up to me to find value and worth in these attributes.

 

I do wonder what it was that I intended to write about. Well. It doesn’t so much matter and yet it was my shrink, I say it with love, that today told me that my empathetic nature is a strength, and I continued that with, a strength as opposed to horribly fucking crippling as I find myself in tears, balling my eyes out more then not. And how is it that you put up with it?

 

N: do I cry too much?

M: I don’t know how you have the energy for it, but of course not its you.

 

I also don’t know where that energy comes from, but I have WAY TOO MUCH and I always have.

 

He walked into Stumptown and grabbed a juice from the cooler. I was watching him and was curious about his choice, it looked like water mixed with graphite. He then proceeded to the to the line as if about the pay for his graphite water, but instead it disappeared into his bag. He took a fake call on his phone, picked it up with a “hello” and then backed up slightly out of the line with another slightly more pronounced “hello” as if the reception was a bit dodgy. After a few beady scans of the room with the phone to his ear, he turned and left. I do relate to kleptos, I might suffer from minor kleptomania, but to watch somebody else tactics is pretty funny indeed.

 

And Now Again

 

These days and since forever I have thought a lot about space. But not space all by itself but along side a verb, like to take space or give space or even more, to make space. How can space be made? And what is space? And doesn’t it mean clearing out just as much as it refers to materiality? I think this is very important atm.

 

 

As we move along in this madness it is pertinent that we recognize and think hard about how we capitalize on #solidarity

 

Im so in love with you. But the thing is that it doesn’t hurt. Its overwhelming but its fucking brilliant. It feels incredible. Hi, I don’t need anything else. Just the whole goddamn world. And when you say, I love you so much its painful… I just don’t want that. I want it to be amazing and static, not like the meaning of that word but like the tingling fuzz that happens on the tv set after hours or before the poltergeist stops by for a visit. I want it to be charged and buzzing but why painful? I don’t agree. No, I don’t want it that way. Thanks anyway. But its interesting that you ask me not to judge you because well, it is not how I engage with you. Not at all, never have, and that is why I get along well with Aquarius types. You do you. Non of my business. My calculations or perhaps more, my inquisitions are a personal feat. I scrutinize your ways in relation to me, how they make me feel and how I can place myself in relation to them. Tactical methods that only allow me, swimming in my first house, to understand myself better (myself in my complexities). I understand myself more thoroughly in relation to you and your ways of doing things. I don’t consider your ways with the intention of thinking they are bad ways or that you are doing it wrong etc. but rather to find out how I want to or don’t want to do it. You don’t have to worry about me judging you. It would be a complete waste of time. The last thing on my list and if I do it is for perhaps a few minutes after a friend or so has done so with such conviction and then I need a minute or two to place myself in relation to them, see how they go about their considerations of you and others, understand how I want to do it differently and then bam im back to thinking that judging you is in fact a waste of time. Its just how it goes for me. Plain and simple. But perhaps judgment happens in a different way for me, a kind of immediate disregard…not however with people that I am close with. And often that that I disregard will give me a reason in the future to feel care and empathy. To varying degrees of course but its fairly difficult for me to fully disregard somebody that I spend time with. Yes I do have a higher tolerance than you. Much higher.

 

But before it leaves me it has to do with independent love and the strict structure of a relationship potentially providing a groundwork for the contingency of love to flourish. Yes, like choreography for dance etc. It was what came to mind today and I will sleep now but perhaps hash out a bit auf der morgan.

 

And then I began to think… are you afraid of me? With all of these allegations, perhaps your reason for avoiding me, for breaking it off in the first place is partially so that you can avoid having this conversation, admitting to me the actual concrete actions that you partook in. Funny that so much of the basis of our relation was a kind of vague abstraction. Who knows if I would have even demanded the TRUTH like a judge in the court room or perhaps like a person who cares about another person but needs to situate themselves based off of their own knowledge and integrity. Living in the dark has never been my idea of a good time. Eventually I would have asked, and would have felt uncomfortable with your abstracted responses that could perhaps be blamed on geographical distance… Eventually I would have recognized the constraints that kept my arms wrapped around myself like an eternal self protecting hug. Eventually I need to break free no matter how convoluted my better judgment is. I can’t live in knots, not once I regognize their stifling presence. Perhaps you are afraid of having to confide in me. Which is funny because in my easeful manner, I can’t even imagine myself telling you to fuck off, for what you have done for me does outweigh what you have done to me. And yet I know I have the ability to say fuck off completely. Would I have said that to you had you let it go on? Have you done something so fucked up that should make me want to or have no choice but to say fuck of completely? Its hard to say what will happen and no point in speculating anymore for what it is is what it is and we do not talk and this is for your protection from me perhaps as well as your inability to make room for another. And then I thank you for setting me free, but this sounds religious, like somehow you as this all knowing man have power over my destiny, you dictate my future. God? But it is my destiny and my destiny is mine and I am free of your problems because your problems are yours and not mine and this is because I am working towards overcoming what I was subjected to as a child, and honestly how much have you worked towards overcoming? And so it makes me think again of bell hooks and this book that I need to read immediately.

 

Did I mention that to you already? About making connections? You used to say to me, when we talked more frequently, that you are not an artist. Its funny because I think you, at your core, are much more of an artist than me. And then when I called to tell you that I imagined having a family in the future with you and you said no and I said why and you said because “I don’t make connections like you do”. And I said something like sure but why would you want to be with somebody that is the same as you and ultimately what I wanted to say is, “yes you do”. But who am I to say, your destiny is up to you after all.

 

Or that one very famous artist who thought I was a fairly nobody that he could just have sex with. I don’t even know if that is the truth, but that other really famous artist planted such ideas in my psyche. Men and their tragic internal dialogues.

 

The funny thing is that I knew it. And I deserve the consequences as I take responsibility. I heard far and wide the relayed stories of your abuse. I heard it and I needed to experience it for myself. A learning process perhaps, recognizing again the beauty that can exist in an abuser. I wrote a whole book about you I mean common, how deep does it run. But of course very deep because it all began with one particular abuser that raised me and introduced me and taught me the twisted entanglements of love and power and sex and abuse. I didn’t choose that one, but I did choose you. And I yet, I would also say that you chose me, in a way relinquishing a bit of my power to systems that serve power abuse. It was my choice, and yet it also wasn’t. You always did have to convince me. In the end I was just desperate for you to keep convincing me because it felt soooo good. Lol, drug addict. Me I mean. Duh. Now I fret because perhaps the allegations against you that are bringing your actions to the front line of scrutiny and sometimes dismissing you down the garbage shoot without a second glance, perhaps I will also pay, minorly of course, but it was an article that I wrote that Movement Research was going to publish, but through you I was being recognized and asked to write this thing and I worked my fucking ass off and made it really relevant to the times and I even felt proud, like people need to read this thing, but if you are being thrown outback with the ally cats than does my article go with you? Do I get clumped in as just another riding on the coattails of patriarchal white supremacy? Or can I be recognized as a voice worth hearing that was capitalizing on my own forms of power to be heard, sex appeal and manipulation…

 

And the difference between me and you is that my initial reaction is that I deserve the consequences that come my way for riding such coattails because even though I was taught from a very young age that this is how one  like me gets attention and gratification (it is not without a price of personal disgust and degredation) I am an adult now and I must take responsibility for my actions. But I am curious, is this my submissive position speaking? Should I be blaming? No, I have no desire to blame, but rather to let go, move through, learn, and try harder. I have no space in my heart for blame (in sense8 she says “hate”, but same thing).

 

 

I wrote to you about sex after speaking to momi about my rape experiences. And today bombarded with messages, like you know, not directed at me but unavoidable within the texts that I read, “its about power not sex!” I know. But I needed to talk about sex for a minute. Because for me it is also about sex because I cannot disentangle the two and sex is part of systems of power. Or however one might say that. Now though I think about the power for disappearing

 

You don’t force it on me, or perhaps you were also pushy, but what really makes me feel powerless is your bubyes. That aren’t even byes because I am never warned. Its just like, I show up when I want to and I evaporate when its necessary for me. How do I break through this torture !! I say to my shrink that I want to be with somebody who is capable of engaging in independent love. A relation of trust in which I don’t yearn for you when I don’t hear from you and visa versa. But we both know that if one reaches out to the other than that other will be there for the one. Is that too much to ask?

 

No.

 

It just requires somebody who has a certain stability. Who has enough self love to be able to be there for me.

 

bell hooks. All about love

 

“Giving generously in romantic relationships, and in all other bonds, means recognizing when the other person needs our attention. Attention is an important resource.”

 

“It still took years for me to let go of learned pattern's of behavior that negated my capacity to give and receive love. One pattern that made the practice of love especially difficult was my constantly choosing to be with men who were emotionally wounded, who were not that interested in loving, even though they desired to be loved. I wanted to know love but was afraid to be intimate. By choosing men who were not interested in being loving, I was able to practice giving love but always within an unfufilling context. Naturally, my need to receive love was not met. I got what I was accustomed to getting. Care and affection, usually mingled with a degree of unkindness, neglect, and on some occasions, out right cruelty.” 

 

And this is how I know I haven’t reached it. And how I know that I have to move on. And on. And on.

 

“A generous heart is always open, always ready to receive our going and coming. In the midst of such love we need never fear abandonment. This is the most precious gift true love offers - the experience of knowing we always belong.”

 

 

I needa stick with that one for a while. I really needa stick with the optimism that this is possible.

 

Its me and you and love. And someday we will find each other.

 

 

What are you crying about? Why are you crying? What is the pain and what are the tears that come? Are they desolate or a relief? What is the feeling, the emotion? Is there one or perhaps just catharsis. Perhaps it has nothing to do with him but rather he became the trigger and when he triggered you let it flow. And perhaps you were learning to let it flow without needing him as the trigger and that somehow felt good, felt emopowering to be able to feel the emotions, let the tears well up because of all the sadness that resides but without it being directional, without it being a product of his lack. His inability, his perpetual lack of courage. An inability to have a consistently open heart. Why would I anyway altogether ever want to rely on someone to is incapable of withstanding an open heart. I have a practice. I work towards building a heart that can stay open with arms outstretched. Simply with vulnerability. When I have access to my emotions I am practicing a skill, an ability that will give me strength when others come along. As my relation to my own emotions become stronger and more recognized, more a part of me, heard and cared for, then when they come up in relation to other people’s infiltration I can have a kind of understanding of what is being experienced. Which parts of this overwhelming sadness actually come from a healthy place, how much comes from unhealthy pathologies and triggers. I can imagine something else that is difficult to articulate as it is a murky entanglement itself. Perhaps its something like this. When I yearn, when I reach, when I extend myself blindly into your void it is because there is a lack, a concave, a darkness that disappears from your own ability to acknowledge. It is here that I grope around desperately trying to find something to grasp on to, something that I know, or am in the process of discovering within myself and why is it not there, also in you, or rather, I know its in there, I FUCKING KNOW ITS IN THERE and why can’t I find it? Because you haven’t found it, you haven’t allowed yourself to open up and look inside and see what is in there. You haven’t allowed yourself to open up, look inside, and see what is in there. And therefore it is dark to me. A black hole, an abyss that I scuttle around in desperately with outstretched arms. And its interesting because I know my tendencies to fall for these voids also comes from a skill. My own ability to be in the dark, to find things, like perhaps my own strength within the abyss. But is this really where I want to reside? Testing how much can be sucked from my soul before I disintegrate? It’s one thing to crawl into my own dark spaces, here at least there is a kind of agreement, I can do it slowly on my own terms and even though what I experience is contingent and indeterminate, I fairly much know at this point when turn around and step back into the sunshine, or bring her with me. A companion that often comes with me into your darkness as well, but occasionally, or perhaps more often then I would like to admit, gets lost. Snuffed out by the lack of it all. I feed off of effort. Off of courage. Or should I say, my sunshine feeds of of effort, off of courage. Only I can delve into my own darkness when I am not being sucked endlessly by yours.

 

And then I met another lover. We spent the day in the spa outside of brussels and we could be babies together. Kind when we are together. And so far apart too. It felt fantastic to be close. To feel baby bodies. Why r they all so vein? But I wont get into it now because I promised something else.

 

Yes, dramatic was the word that you asked me about. I think dramatic is interesting when it is removed from its context. To think about the action itself that is dramatic, like to spit. Repetitively into a bucket. Is it the action of spitting that is dramatic or is it the context? Or smashing a glass w a hammer. I want the hammer to be chrome. But without any reason, without any emotion without anger, just for the sake of doing a gesture that is perhaps in and of itself dramatic. Or?

The ex, you know the first one, the heroine addict, yeah we were at each others necks on a daily basis. The epitome of dramatic. I associate the behavior w white trash. When I am self degrading, in a kind of pragmatic way, as in, “no judgment, just the way that it was”, which is of course, or perhaps not of course, also layered with suppressed feelings… I consider myself as trash. The scum of the earth. But I like that feeling sorta, puts things into perspective and makes me feel like yeah, its all good, I do my best.

 

Lol they have a Christmas special menu on the plane. But not complimentary bevs. Lame.

 

Anyway, when I remember that I am scum, things don’t matter so much. A tactic of not feeling all the emotions. And yet I know that my strength comes from my ability to feel emotions, like really feel em and handle them. Not handle in the sense of man handle, I try not to control, but rather create a space, create space, me that is ready for them when they come up, erupt, spread their wings, take over and take flight. Tactics are good too. But here I am and I wanted to talk about dramatic.

 

One time a long time ago my sister told me a story w worry in her face and in her voice. It was about me and the ex, her and my step dad.

 

“I was walking home with daddy, passing Buckman Elementary School and we heard two people yelling at each other, like really going for it. It was a couple sitting on the steps of the school in fury. Daddy started to say how trashy the couple was, and then we realized that it was you and Carson.”

 

She looked expectant like she wanted me to deny it or somehow make it not so. I guess I was a role model even tho I never considered that until this very moment. I couldn’t deny it or make it go away, I felt naked and ashamed. Mad at my step dad for calling me trashy, certain that he did it on purpose. Twisted.

 

Dramatic is something that I avoid. At all costs, sometimes too diligently, oppressing my emotions or my harsh tongue because of a fear of falling into such nasty violence. I don’t trust myself w anger, w fury, because I can direct it so well. But as compensation I think I am very good at just swallowing my pain.  I know there is plenty more to it and it made my heart drop, shrivel a little, squeeze too tight when you said that you like flying only because it takes you far away. I know the mentality. But what about being close also?

 

Anyway, drama gives me cold soars, a vicious cycle, an inexpressible fury that manifests in hot boils on my lips. I don’t want drama, instead I want to breath and let tears run down my face, cooling my lips. I need to secrete when such pain and discomfort and indignation and anxiety about feeling stuck and out of control erupts. I need to let go as opposed to hold on tight and spiral into oblivion.

 

They have complimentary bevs after all. I got a sparkling water.

 

Dramatic for me is associated to trashy, to shame, to the low class Nikima that is also a part of me. Scum. But the process is not about denying or rejecting it. I know its me too, and I can love it also. I am equally as determined not to fall into basic patterns of holding the white bourgeois calm and collected sophisticated bs as the ultimatum. Sometimes I feel like a snob, and that too feels weird. But anyway it comes down to self love, not so much princessing, but rather a care, a practical kind of yes, its me, life is beautiful and I am endlessly trying. Working. Finding ease. And avoiding contexts that trigger dramatic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well I suppose now is the time, just like any other. When you see her tonight just look away. She was never yours for the having. Its like ever happened anyway. Look away. Only out of one ear but its anyway brilliant bloated emotions. Meow. Hihi, the all do it like that. And when we had sex he said something about it not being a service. Ive heard that one before too and I like it. Its not a service. No way. Im going to pick my baby up from the airport. Yeah, JFK. Babies coming to stay with me and really wants to, im sure of it. Lorde this stupid movie in my peripheral vision keeps catching my attention. How annoying. On the other side is the sunrise. Or maybe the sunset I don’t actually know. Since its noon where I am heading and after sunset where I left from. The couple next to me are having bananas and skyr for snack also. Who knows anyway what wants to come out. Its been a minute or two since the free flow was aloud to billow. I know its just a temporary view girl. Will we take our roadtrip to LA after all? I sure hope so but won’t be broke if it doesn’t happen. She’s pitching to Netflix and HBO this week lol. And nuts too! They even have a back of nuts, other than peanuts tho, im sure of it. Healthy people don’t eat peanuts. Hmm its not getting lighter out of that window.. or?

 

Yeah its pretty freakin cute with us. And in my skyhigh film Practical Magic she ended by advising to fall in love whenever you can. I guess its already happening again. Already? Its easeful so far. Its gentle and he is available. Gillian said, yeah shes just so sweet! Like really really sweet. I wondered what was so intriguing about that when she said it, and now I think yes, that is a quality that can catch me too. #metoo everytime its impossible not to and to think that you have run away with a girl younger than me to hide out in the middle of nowhere in Germany so as to avoid yourself and the potential strength that could come of this confrontation. Sad to know that you give up. Sad to know that you could not fulfill what you promised me. Very sad for you, for me, for humanity. But I will fly away slowly and already my wings are growing. Yes I am not proud of you. I am not proud of you. And when I let go of the proclamations of love and promise, safety, care, availability, vulnerability, when I let go of those and you find again a little self worth, well then we can perhaps find each other again. A friendship and a working relationship, which was anyway what we always had. We were always working together, we just loved sex together also.

 

Sex together?

Lesbian?

 

They always want me to take out the incoherent outliers. So perhaps I make a whole book of incoherence and then nobody can tell me what to do. Did you know that you are a huge influence on me Clarice Lispector? Did you know that? Well now you do.

 

I like your sensibilities. And I like that word a lot too. I have fruity chocolate hearts in my bag. In a beautiful red jewelry box. Four of them, one for my boyfriend, one for my girlfriend, one for me, and one for you. Why was it that I got so few Kuchi likes. But quality over quantity was satisfying. Yeah he’s famous, and he liked Kuchi. Lol. Makes me feel good after all. Will it happen to you too?

 

He’s in the middle seat and I wonder really why he doesn’t lean his head on her shoulder. She watches Wonder Woman and he stacks the pillows on the tray table, leaning over his misery. But that was placed there only out of poetics, in fact he had kind eyes, smiley and a quiet way of speaking. Remember when he called me smiley in high school? He was my gym teacher and I always felt a little fuzzy when he gave me that attention. I wasn’t one of the cool athletic girls but I always tried hard and had my own autonomy.

 

Soon I get to be with momi. And that will be so rewarding. I will take dance class, fix my shoulder and we will exchange massages. Or perhaps she will give me one without asking for one in return, she has been spoiling me these days. Its pretty fucked up that left shoulder. Ever since the sickly week of horror before the terminus on Halloween. Welcome to:::the Death Dentist.

 

Might as well kill me (oops I wrote kiss me) before I die. Wispy witchy

 

E: You are magic

N: You are

 

The best I can do is now and probably about five hours left in this chair. I wonder if I will sleep and can’t believe that I don’t have a book. I could have taken Mondialite after all, but I just couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Voices in my head. I’ll collect it from you shortly. Whatever happens, you are my baby. Sad like a little baby puppy. Ive said those exact words before, tried them on another. But it was the truth with you. The articulation and specificity of my life is important because it is only by articulating my surroundings that I find joy in the world. Its always about four hours into the flight that I become deathly negative towards all the horrible things that play before us on the many rows of screens. What misogyny lies in our cultural fabric, its depressing. And yet we just put up with it. But I have Higher in both ear buds now and I like the way the crickets sounds. I wanna play croquet again, yeah, I do. Lets be queens together. Lets be royal jokers together. Let’s live and ill send some emails. Im sure that it will be fucking fantastic from here on out. It was before too, but it was a struggle with you, avoiding you from day one. Leech prawn and oh I must watch that movie, the one by the same director as The Pianist. Perhaps I should watch that one too. Oh wow, its gonna be so cuddly with you in my NY apartment. Just you and me and the plants and we can go out and stay in the warmth of each other and go for walks and let the art flow and watch movies and I won’t even be employed but I still have money coming in from Shanghai and Basel and Movement Research for the article and more work too im sure. Maybe another show and luciana? I hope so. And grants yes, I need to apply for those. Whatever, now I ramble about boring as body starts to find sitting pains. But such a pleasure for me to construct the future, oh a guilty pleasure, the organizing of pleasure. Yes. Look away. She was never yours for the having. Its like nothing ever happened.

 

 

 

And there. I was there. You were somewhere else but it was like the city and the city, in one place with the same landscape, but in between each other like I remember a lot of greenery. Grass, and another plant that he kept telling me smelled like pee. He was your friend and we could access each other somehow, but I couldn’t get to you. I could only see you through the screen. The plant was with green leaves, thick like a succulent. With a straight stem and many of them, the leaves, congruently ejected from around the one stalk. It looked poky and I wasn’t wearing shoes. He kept telling me. Aggressively.

 

Smell it. It smells like pee.

 

Pick a stem and smell it. It smells like pee.

 

And all I thought was, only because you peed on it. There was another thing that happened around this time, it was a vid chat with you and on the screen your landscape looked fairly much the same but you had another friend next to you. Ralph or something, a reindeer. A big one that you loved and you put your arm around the neck of the reindeer like buddybuddy and Ralph sorta backed out, defended himself from your grasp with a little nudge of his antlers. His antlers big compared to your face, you fell to the ground, I watched. You were hurt and I saw the scrapes on your face but you picked yourself up and didn’t milk it. Yes that was it and then back to the friend, in the landscape together but then, I cant remember if I murdered him or perhaps probably yes, but he was dead. I killed him. And then I went into the building, a hospital of sorts and I saw her, a freaky one with a scary face had killed another guy that I wasnt sad about. But she was hanging his dead body in a locker and I didn’t love that. I questioned her as if she were a sort of idiot and she taunted me. Somehow, she began to follow me with threats. I began to walk faster, I began to run away. But never got any farther away, always just around and around and and between the hospital desks and along the carpeted floor and the whole time, literally for the entire dream I was pulling globs of mucus from my mouth. Spitting, these chunks would shoot from my mouth. Sometimes stuck, I would carve them out with my fingertips and wipe the traces on the carpet. To hide it I would sometimes run on all fours. It was satisfying and freaky.

 

Dear you. I have fallen in love with somebody else. But the memories of you linger and it sometimes hurts. I want to be ready. Strong enough to talk with you and laugh. I don’t know why it takes strength but its because for a long time it was associated with hardship also. There is fear attached that we will not be capable of laughing because I don’t trust you and the stability of your state of yes, nor do I trust myself and me. You know like the me that is. The me that wants to be capable to loving you as a friend with proper boundaries that don’t conflict with the feelings of elated joy and infinite cozy pleasure that I am developing with this other one. Babies. I want to keep it healthy, I don’t want anything to get in the way, I want to let go of the twisted needs that keeps up dependent on one another. Yes, I want to feel dependency with those that are available, that give it back. That take it with love and full open arms. I know you tried, and gave it too me as much as you were capable and yeah, it was a lot and beautiful and that is why the detachment is sad and with pain. But I have practice in letting go. I am skilled with self control. I can not call you. I can not respond if you contact me. You don’t but just in case. I will know when I am ready just as I knew you were disappearing. I am disconnecting now so that we can sew new webs later on. I long for you still in moments of nostalgia, in being reminded of beautiful memories. Yeah you were teaching me how to read music. On xmas last year. I remember with warmth. It’s a kind of remembering with ease. Letting it spread out, like an enlarged print of a small image, there is space between the pigment. There is space between the colors that make that memory rememberable. Like the demagorgan turning to infinite dust particles in slow motion. Forever expanding into space.

 

The other option is to hold on for dear life.

 

This is scary. Dangerous. Its not real. I want to live with precarity. Yeah it means something like accepting that a memory is not something that one can hold onto. Or sure, you can, but shit that stuff is only particles. So many freakin particles. That can perhaps give an illusion of yes a solid. SOLIDITY. But no, its just not, that would something of a lie to believe in the solidity of a memory. So I wanna do it differently, with ease. Let me be with the memory with ease. Its an expansion of space. Where the memory is both a space in and of itself as well as creating space. AND! There is space in between. Yeah, that is what I want. Can I write about space? Sure.

 

Lets try.

 

Ok something like

 

2018. it’s a year of love. In the bath I made that dicision. Open arms to love. Let her in, play. Live with the process of opening up to something that can actually. I could cry its so sweet. Simple to be alone with me can be simple to be alone with love. Our love. Simple love. Its not a struggle. Nope. There is no struggle. Effort yes, but effortless.

 

And me. I can be with me and its no lack of you.

 

Its open and im gonna make it work. Im gonna make it play. Shapeless space.

 

 

Oh little mermaid love. Something random like who knows what is to come. Im listening now to a sort of disco eee kinda punky emo synth situation that ive nvr heard before. I like it tho, a simple kind of feeling, ez going, a bit maybe melancholy also but not harsh, not intense just lingering. I think I have to counter a lot. Like a natural tendency to be extreme, like extreme emotions. Today I, well, I was walking with my mom to powells bookstore which is downtown and I have a lot of scaring memories that linger in that place that is downtown Portland and I feel I guess extra fragile but also just fragile in general when it comes to feeling peoples pain. Empathy as they say sure, but I get so overwhelmed w sadness its so intense like I start clenching my fists periodically repetitively and crying completely lost. It happened when I saw a woman fall in the middle of the street and try to stand back up and try to walk and fall again and then he was there and he tried to help her up but also there was aggression cuz when u r high on heroine its like conflict is the best fucking feeling and he kinda pushed her but then he saw that she really couldn’t stand on her own and so he wrapped his arms around her and she sorta fell into him but then pushed him away but had no control over her own body and I saw such fear, such horror, such pain in her face as she tried to configure her own body and couldn’t. my heart is open. It all enters and the exit is through tears. I think I just have to come to terms with it, I just need to cry more. Like even more then I do. Like at roundtable discussions when I feel passionate about things that need to be said. I just don’t sometimes because I know I am going to choke up. And at this meeting in Brussels somebody came up to me afterward and said that they were so taken by the way that I talked, like hanging on the edge of a cliff. My words, those ones about the cliff, but its how I remember it. And its how I feel and perhaps I should just jump the waterfall, it was always my chosen form of death. Chosen way to die. There is an amazing waterfall in Oregon called Multnomah falls. Its pretty. And high. And now I wanna take you somewhere, somewhere where you have never gone and I want it to be never ending like walking home at night. Do you think its possible? Or perhaps it doesn’t matter whether or not because I believe. I believe in it and these are my rambles of affection that bring me to places of uncertainty and less confusion. In the book I read today he, yes I know embarrassing, HE talked about solidarity. And that solidarity is not about commonalities but also not the postmodern understanding of solidarity as not needing similarities, but rather something else, like both or neither or in between. It was called humankind and he was talking about lifeforms of all kinds as a biosphere of connectivity. And imagination that I like, and not so clear, which I also kinda liked, but maybe too sporadic or all over the place or… I didn’t buy it and maybe just because he is a man. Or at least this was the deciding factor. These writings they just go on and on forever you know. Its kinda crazy how simple and zennnnnned it makes me feel to write unnecessary nonsense about nothing that is everything. But its you that I really like. And it fits me like that feeling of calm is also with you and that is everything that I need atm. Or perhaps whatever not all but only because its impossible. But no, I strive for chill. Like for real. Who knows. Who knows. The music became annoying all of a sudden. Like too much the same. Drony. But only because I got out of my rhythm and that is also important. You know what I mean? I think that u will help me to free my throat. Free my tears. Perhaps u already have. Perhaps its gently touching with you. Subtle like the universe. I changed the music. There are two layers, but im no longer inspired. Kinda like joy division.

 

Fairytales. Can she be real? Its hard to say in these moments of uncertainty. I wanna know more and more and never stop. I wanna keep going and find out as much as I can forever until I can’t any longer. I wanna experience the endless possibilities that can be accomplished by a combination of structure and letting go. Specificity and chaos. Living with the uncertainties and riding the waves bra. Ok its for you now. Its all for you. Every word. I kinda like this music after all. And shit what a life we have ahead of us. What a fucking life to become. To live. So grand. How Are We Gonna Do It!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Up to us, and don’t forget to let go. Nikima. But decisions yes and forever this and that and the other which is also yes the first two and the last three of four or perhaps something else but it just feels good and its only YES ONLY gonna maybe even get better. I mean it. I love you. Darling. Everyone is waiting. Lets go. On and on and on. Stage. Nah its just for shits and giggles, I can imagine boredom is also fun but you know what I mean now about writing until the words are no longer meaningful, but just kind extensive. On and on and on. Stage. Bring me home. Im going home and I wanna share cuz I love you, like a little critter that makes my heart sing. Like another weight like that cub in the nest no no the den no the CAVE yes, like coming across a cub in a cave and feeling like omg. Yes. I want to know everything, such a separate being and such a gentle connection. Unknown and endlessly yes more. More more more more make me stop already. Its you and its for you and its ez whatever all of it and barely any. Until forever. I will write for you.

 

Suddenly such sadness that makes me distant far away from affection because I have to find it again on my own. Into the sad realm. The lovely realm the far away tunnel of no not dispare because I am here and I am loved and with family, but how easy is it actually to be lost in the depths whilst with others. I don’t want to reside here. I want to be in the house. In the warmth. In the arms of the ones that love. I want to be active and present in such activities. I want to yes be here. There, then on the phone it was scary that you, when you became defensive. That was a little like wow aggression. I think you felt attacked perhaps? By my emotions.. by my tears.. by the passion that was a reaction to something you said or perhaps not as much as you thought. I think you lost touch a little bit. I think I lost touch a little bit and wasn’t able to express it right away. I was overcome with emotion because you said something beauriful. Something that I would not have considered. Or like perhaps I thought about it a little but never would have felt like I was allowed. You don’t want to bring it up to her and her birthday, well what about me on my birthday. What about me? But I never would have thought that. I would just consider no no its me that is strong. Me that can handle talking about all of it and I put up with it and engage with it because its no problem at all but I didn’t love it not completely and yet it was fine and then you realized, you had a moment of reflection and you stepped back and you considered that perhaps, yes, it is my birthday and its mine and maybe I, we don’t want to talk about it now. Maybe yes I want it to be an easy conversation that can go in and out simple and strong and so much excess love and affection. That is all that I want today and to talk about your relationship is perhaps not the way to go. But I don’t blame you for this because I had no idea either, until you mentioned it. Until you gave me another option. Until you said, its your birthday today.

 

And I felt overcome with emotion. Yes, overcome because I realized that I am allowed to not talk about this on my birthday if I don’t want to. That I could perhaps ask for that. I did not however express where this wave of emotion came from and well yes, then I think you felt somewhat overwhelmed yourself. Perhaps a bit attacked because you didn’t understand and instead of being quiet and listening and feeling and perhaps giving me a little time to find my words you blundered on. Or maybe this is a judgment that is not needed. But it was hard for me to hear you say I am sorry with such force and so much aggression. Like blind words. And I know that I could have been more communicative there, in those moments, but yeah, anyway, it was also hard for me. Hmm perhaps there is more but you know, its nikima season and got stuff to do. Life to live yeah I love you.

 

Remember once you said that you wanted to read a whole novel? Its happening. And you can read it. In fact I want you to. In fact I would like you to if you want to. Although perhaps I have nothing to say, or I did and then it left me because I thought about memories too much. I was psychotic too. Or perhaps its not the diagnosis that Freud would give me, but it’s the understanding that I have when I sit in your bedroom, see your old baby blanket and fall in to the past. So many years of sleeping with that baby blanket. So much desperation. So much wanting to be something else. To break free of the horror that kept me tied and unsettled and screaming to be let free and Gillian I didn’t know what you meant at first when you talked about such a transformation. I know now. Its fucking drastic. Closer than ever. Yes a transcendence of sorts. Im here, with me, and that is really good. I want to get you three books, that might actually be four or five. I want to get you three that is, two for sure though. That one Clarice Lispetor about the flowers and The City and the City. Those two and I think Bluets, and I even think the red one by Anne Carson the one about wings with the mountain on the cover. Oh yes, and bell hooks, Men, Masculinity, and Love. That one yes. Because I am curious, how you will relate to these. Curious about you.

 

I think we can rebuild slowly from a place of gentle. I think we can be careful with each other. I think we can make new memories. And let the old fade a little. I think I can remember having Indian food and Chinese food, and going to the Apple Store and maybe I can forget a little bit about the cardboard houses and having sex next to the Food Carts without a roof. And barfing. The vague memories of barfing. Everywhere. The memory that holds no feeling. The memory that is blank sensation. The memory that I do not feel. The memory that is numb. Those ones have got to expand into little particles with plenty of blank space in between. I can have new ones. I already have new ones and I am done with the desperation. Its not my proper affect. Thrasher baby doesn’t have any need for desperate measures. And to stick with them, and they have stuck with me through the thick of it. He’s seen me make it out on the other side. So has she and I cherish you for it. I cherish the deep breaths. The deep belly breaths that make it safe. You never ditched me. Almost, but no.

 

You did.

 

You had a baby with another woman in the midst of our greatest moves. Again I cant help it, responsibility comes to the forefront. As if. You never wanted to commit. You never ever ever wanted to commit. Or perhaps you dreamt of it and you did in moments, but never fully and there was always doubt. And you denied it consciously you said it was all me and that you wanted to go through with it, with me, and that you would give up your life to be with me and I said no and you said, I am in love with you and fully and have never felt this way about anyone ever before and you had sex with another woman because your heart you soul your deeper understanding knew that you could never reach it. That as much as you wished for your strength, you could never find that commitment, you could never actually be what you so badly claimed to want to be and now you are cynical again. Even about your baby. You are cynical about your baby when you say things like just have a baby and all your problems will be solved. Dissappear into an insular family dynamic and goodbye. This was not the life that you were meant to live. And I believe something that you do not. I am fearless. And not at all, also scared shitless. But I fly into it. I want to make it through. I want to understand that its not actually scary.

 

And you help me with that

 

All of my friends. The ones, you also were there for me often, but without consistency, I could not have that family with you. I didn’t want to. And you need to have your fantasy. I don’t want to, or perhaps mine is just different. It is grounded. It strives for calm. My legs shiver in the artificial air. They shiver because it doesn’t make sense. They shiver out of confusion. We made homemade Tamales and they put up with my huge hulk like moments of aggression. What about my aggression huh? What about it. Its been an hour perhaps and its habitual. I mean the writing on a plane. Almost ready for more Tamales, second dinner and then perhaps the herbal tea that Alaskan Airlines offers. Who cares really, its just when it gets so deep its also gotta go over there and swirl around a little in less. A little less.

 

I trust you when you say that you want to be home but you are stuck at her house. I trust you and I want you to feel safe. Yeah, please don’t worry. Your honesty teaches me new things. Your honesty lets it heal. Your honesty makes me forget about desperation. I am just a little alien critter and I shake a lot. For healing. Like the polar bears when they hurt. I need to update soon. Perhaps I will make a list. And soon my own bed again. Omg my bed. Now I anticipate a little wow.

 

I feel, ready to grow old. Looking into my yellow eyes. A reflection in the window. Sitting in the light, peering into the dark and there I am also. Ready to grow old. Halfway to old. And then halfway to dead.

 

I love you Clarice Lispector.

 

I love you 

We

Can

Do

It

Together

 

At last.

 

 

Its my choice. But now I don’t even want to write that because it feels ridiculious or something like what am I even doing at this computer screen late at night when there is such a beautiful soul human human mousy being next to me under the covers rolled up in a cocoon with batty between the arms. But it was just those arms, those two that hold batty. Yes and my own two brought before my chest your chest like the cross. The holy cross to protects. To fend off the evil spirit that seeps in between the ribcage and feeds on the.. I want to just lie back down and fall into sorrows that let me weep and feel like its all over and goodnight but here I am trying to support myself with terminology. Decipher the words that best suit the feeling that overcomes. Did you throw it away? Im cofused or just too many voices inside of my head

 

Haha yeah, you wish. Funny that you could believe that such things could ever be sustainable. For something so wonderful to last. Yeah right. And now you want to cry but there is not the love. Or perhaps just no nest. Nothing to cry to. No safety net. Or perhaps I cry endlessly when I am alone because being alone is something endless and with your its like protection. Like there is a soft silk keeping the warm air in. You tell me I don’t have to hide but how the hell can I not. Now that you sleep I let the salts stream a little and I know you would make fun of me and I let it drip anyway and hope that when I finally do lay my head that I will be able to fall asleep. You are gone. And I am here with these words and the fear of waking you up. Embarrassed by my self pity and yet  you tell me to go for it. Do not hide. Impossible. You would walk out that damn door if I let loose. Or perhaps, there is nothing there any longer after all. The tears have evaporated and it is just salt flats left over. Incrusted with divots of depression. Depressions. But I skate them and do trick and lame ones but I keep trying and someday I also know. I also know that it is my choice and I can be alone right now without worrying about you because you have fallen next to me asleep and I will anyway not see you until the morning. Lets see. Wasn’t it fantastic though. I didn’t let go of your body until we got to the theatre and even then it was difficult. Yes, you have connotations. You think of me in relation to others. Kinda rude honestly I had no idea and now all of a sudden but like are you for reals? You gotta figure that shit out if you wanna go through with this but also just like what the hell and I supposed to say about such things or perhaps its another reason why it will eventually terminate. Another as if I named the first three and yet it is always possible but perhaps with care and yes for now it is just about walking on the beach and that seems necessary like beyond. So yeah, either I cancel work and we make it work or we go on Friday and things are different. But we will see how it goes then and fuck jealousy wasnt it you that said that shit needs to go? Well bubye. Im cold. Gonna sleep and actively stay steady into my dreams. As much as possible. It is my choice. My choice. My choice. My choice. My choice. My choice. A hard one on repeat. Goodnight forever. I go die a little more.

And then all of a sudden I have a fractured wrist. Tied up in between two cardboards and a lot of tape. It’s a makeshift for the bourgeois trash that’s me yeah he told me so. I got drunk. Drank gin and soda and he put a little ginger in too and I have no idea if he also got drunk but you know then like well it became like super dissasosiative like byyyyee where did she go who knows behind the eyeliner sparkles choker skinny bitch emo veil that is a nice tall glass with ice and song that says it all. Sex that lasted for at least 30 minutes surely it is the duration of the late night mix that was after all the best version and now I got to pee but who knows anything about where anyone is ever you know like on the toilet and im sitting here in this sleeping bag with warm toes in the middle of the floor thinking about nothing more than how freaking difficult it is after all. Well I anyway knew and its worth it! Duh but like jeezus young. Stop it, why do I have to put up with this bullshit anyway. When was the last night I drowned my sorrows in the self expression of lack? Of one hundred percent withdrawal bye gonna turn into zombie land gone behind dead eyes goodbye. Sit around and wait for me? Sure whatever, cant lie I feel yes and wanna feel nothing but the action in the bedroom was after all a pleasure and the most beautiful boy from Brussels is in my kitchen naked playing piano on his chest and now upside down a penis dangling from the fur that keeps warm and who know what goes on and sure im a bit needy to but are you not and now crippled with a bunk wrist but he does but forth effort and I know it and it is fantastic and perhaps my wrist will just heal. You know because after all a broken wrist is far from what I would like to have right now and hes just a little body and a little too obsessed I understand and can help with the relaxation but it’s a body that loves that has a kind of care and that is fantastic in a way that takes me out. It does not involve me because I will never organize that body, will never fit her within something that is not her own and yet there is the slow fantastic ability to be some sort of witness that influences in the very essence of being and there he goes putting on his diaper. Black and blue double layered like my parents in 2013 perhaps or even earlier? Nah must have been the year of the trashbag dance remake at st. marks church an dnow it’s a backpack like takeoff take flight could it be superpowers or just extra average. A splinter in my wrist that gets angry every once in a while all the time and I wonder if we will take off or if perhaps it’s the end of the road.

 

Not the end.

 

On the phone with a momi, we talked about the warmth that I feel. The nourishment that I was left with, that is my home and the people that I share life with.

 

It would be so wonderful to feel safe with somebody that I love. So safe that I am able to share every side of myself with them.

 

Imagine feeling safe enough with somebody to be able to show everything to them. All of the mes. All of the mess. All of the Nikimas.

 

So many years of trying to find equilibrium. Holding on tight to a level mind. Going to bed with my sanity. Desperately being only calm. Soft. Gentle.

 

But I am also a bit of a rollercoaster, with a harsh tongue and fiery temper. I am quick to spark and what if I could not be ashamed of those parts. I would like to invite them back to the tea party, to express themselves, to let them be expressed, to let my intensities flourish, to be uncontained. And to be strong enough to handle me. To be in love with an extraordinary somebody that wants it all. To be strong enough together, to make space for my spicy, to make space for your sad.

ezy. Autocorrect wants a big e but I feel very confident in a small one. More discrete and just simply you. I suppose one can be very cynical about vday and make it out to be what it really is, a capitalist takeover consumer ridden materialistic construct of l o v e but I always wore pink anyway. Hard to say if it is the plastic side or the genuine side of me that wants that pink bow in my hair on such a day that one should wear nothing more than all black or perhaps some green. But I suppose it is exactly that, I always fall a little bit for the stereotype. My brother used to tell me that my life is was was is a Hollywood film. I liked that. Why not wear pink on vday when you know it’s the most horrid thing one can do? Why not wear an American flag swimsuit when what such a flag stands for is pretty much atrocious? Many many many reasons and I will wear that pink bow anyhow. And therefore I write you a vday love note because I’ve never wanted anything more then to have a valentine.

 

Be mine

 

Dissolving into the cushion. I do not trust you. Fuck. I cry for my inability to ask. I cry because I do not want to know because I am afraid of the truth of the matter. We decided that it was open yes, the bathroom is a hide out, a general place of incognito, in your underwear perhaps going to bed with another. Her home and you said the couch but I don’t believe you and that makes my cheeks warm and kidneys enflamed. Flames on your shoes but I want to let go, fall into trust with you, flying with a safety net. But its another body that you will be cozy with tonight. I ask. I ask so that I do not make up stories. I ask because I don’t want to cry if I don’t have to. Its all I need to know. First. One step at a time. This is not a pick your own adventure, but path will lead separate ways depending on the outcome. There is a straightforward answer here and at least I trust that you will not lie to me. I shake and I know its time for bed. An early night to overcome the late departures of the previous dark hours. My body and soul will be revived tomorrow and I can will want to be with all of the possibilities.

 

I need to write some stuff down.

 

A few things about affection. You say it is touch that you need. But perhaps could it be a need to be desired? A need to be adored? A need to have somebody want you in that moment in that place? What really is that lack that you experience with me? Because the truth is that even if we are next to each other we will not always want to touch each other. What then? What if it lasts for many days? What then? Will you get it somewhere else? Or perhaps, if touch is what you need, could you perhaps get it from somewhere else? Visit animals? Friends? Contact improv with Rosie in the studio. Sorry for that last one, but I mean it.

 

It comes down to this, regardless of the insecurities and the ways that we approach such behaviors, when you sleep next to another woman and touch her body and share intimacies in the dark under the blankets, I feel sad, I feel hurt and this is not something that I want to get over, no, this is my ability to love you.

 

And I wonder. Yes, I wonder what it is that you feel when you are with her. What do you think when you stroke her body, where am I? Really, where am I?

 

A whole new way to dream. The carton of rice milk provides me with opportunity.

 

Today I am not to be disturbed. What does it mean, in fact it is you that I would like to avoid and not because of any reason other than that you are the most distracting. Others come and go, you linger and alter my path directionally. I don’t want to be lopsided. It does not feel good, it does not feel safe. I can feel safe with you only when I can feel safe with myself, yes I believe that. Its not this, its not that I want to feel safe because of you. No, I have no interest in cause and effect. I want something that is more about them and all of it. About the many folds that make up our continuity.

 

This for now::: for remembrance

 

The Deleuzian fold is a way of understanding knowledge, instead of solving something, straightening something out or establishing truth, it is to recognize perspective which is always involved in the solving of something - and a perspective is always already a problem - so according to Leibnitz one can only fold and fold differently (varying perspectives) but one cannot really solve a problem. So instead of philosophy solving or consolidating truth, it rather can be thought of as production which is to further needs. This is not about producing stability (solved) but rather the producing of the need for more searching - not to establish truth but instead to search for it, knowing that it will never be found because we always operate in a context of space, time, relation etc. therefore it becomes about change rather than truth. And to take it a bit further to Merleau-Ponty who talks about folds in relation to Nature by considering an ontological leaf that folds in many places that produces a continuity or connectivity of being in which there are no substantial differences between physical Nature, life, and mind. He specifically talks about folded, reversible flesh. What is proposed is an ontology that defines BEING from within rather than from without, where Nature, life, Man, are understood as manifestations of diverse folds rather than essentially separate categories. In which Nature and all that is folded has an imminent vitality, it is dynamic and proposes the production of itself as opposed to externally created forms.

 

I don’t need truth I don’t need knowledge that proposes stability, I need to search for it and again and again. Delve into the dark crevices and caverns that are the many folds. Many fold. I find myself always searching but to also roll down a dune without direction without a need for knowing, without a predetermined pathway, without trying to peer with slitted eyes trying not cry from the sand stinging my slimy pupils. Its disturbing. And its disturbing to see my own disturbances. What do you mean by problems? Are perspectives already and always problems? What does it mean really?

 

It’s like, when I know that the love is there, when I really trust in it’s unconditionality, then I can work on myself wo fear. I can go into the deep places and if it doesn’t work out w such an individual well then so be it, I know at least that I have done work , that we have done work together and only the future holds that that is possible. It’s possible all of it and u deny my fantasies as do I but they are also what have pulled me out of hell and I will not I will never stop believing in the power of such magical non mystical compilation. I will refine my fantasies so that they can forever pull me toward the ease of being with all of it. The very last thing before I go. Consolation tears. I will find strength again and again and I have tolerance for me. You are harsh and had v little last night I felt it and wanted to be strong w your intolerance because u also propose something very beautiful about going into the pain w u and there is tolerance in that but my history is also my present and we let it dissipate, evaporate the pain together and there is something fantastic in tropical rain

 

You said to me, what if she is more fun, which she’s not, but what if? You wanna live like that? Always testing the waters? Always w one foot out the door, one finger testing the weather outside the window. Is that what you want? And me, if that is the case how do I care for me? How do I feel safe when I know forever don’t exist. Or do I request for something else? And how do I do that without controlling? I don’t like it, but I also like u to feel good and yet if your feeling good is at the expense of mine.. well then perhaps it involves a little bit more consideration on how I want to be with you, and that again becomes a calculation which is exactly what I try to be rid of in my process of opening up to love and it’s endless potential.

 

There is something that I need to consider now as dreamland swamps in metallic waves. I want to come. Just to think of the tips of your finger makes me fall apart, disintegrate into infinite particles. Sublimation.

 

S U B L I M A T I O N

 

Yeah

 

Ez

 

Pie

 

Honey boy

 

Perhaps

 

I feel it to

 

Do you feel me?

Consecutive work, we do sports together, forever sports with each other.

 

I love to work along side you

 

Fucking cool

 

And I want a minor acknowledgement to appear in favor of those that read my words and consider their meaning. Words can disappear in ambiguity or overstate in the abstracted methods. The other night, 3am you brought up my simple allegations against a man that is also a dear friend. I love that you did that. And to feel the impact of my words, to feel like my voice is also heard and that my expression is one that is considered. And to consider the power of my words and the meaning that resides and the interpretations of others. We can talk about it more, we can read about it more, the conversation and though process can grow and perception can transform. I write an ever morphing document because after we talk I feel both the same and differently.

 

Perhaps that is something scary

 

Like a zombie I walk from the bed to the kitchen. I had remembered a few things with my eyes closed. The new knife in the drawer. The collection of razorblades dulled from two many times. Stained brown as the uses become homogenized. Hidden for private usage, in its plastic wrap with a rubber band. I feel like I will faint. Pass out and consider what Sara Ahmed talks about the need to share that which is inherently lonely. I am alone in my pain and I write it in my diary. Now I let the world read it, when I was a kid the last man in the world that I would have wanted to share it with was my only reader. So many legs. Millipede. I didn’t even break the skin, but I left a dent, a negation that grew into protrusion. I would like to slice but always just press with a slow drag. Who the fuck. In delirium I walked from the bed to the kitchen. Like a zombie I write these words but my right arm aches, my ribs contracted, my back straight, my abs clenched, my breathing shallow, my throat itchy, and my heart beating one million miles. You don’t have time to smoke pot, I don’t have time for knives against my flesh.

 

Its better if we don’t talk today. I did something stupid.

 

Some tears are nice.

 

When the unknown of pain must become known. When an abstract inner emotional pain needs a comprehensible material grounding. When pain must make sense. When pain must speak to my common sense. When I need to make sense of my pain. When I need to conquer my pain, I slice my skin.

 

Maybe I don’t want you to give me advise after all. Maybe I would prefer you to tell me from your own experience mhm. A revelation.

It’s a complicated deciphering between what I want to say to you and what I actually feel in that literal moment .. but more on that later.

 

 

Its fucking cool. And now I wonder a bid. What is it that I am channeling inthese moments of rest. Moments of feeling with no placement. She says the spirits and I agree also because I have no desire to disagree. The sunsets and I have nothing to say. No concepts to hash no ideaologies to swim in no knowledge to share or to be forthcoming, what a thought. She decided not to vacuum so as no to ruin. I have nothing to say other than yes, you are right. She washes the floor instead and I like her also in the bathroom. The tub still full and one candle. My decay leftover in the pot of me. Once boiling now tepid. I called without asking for a name. I know its going to be fucking killer. I sure of it only in such a way that allows me not to rekindle the nervousness. Yes the cycles are intense these days.

 

GG: is it because your life is boring?

 

As if, can you imagine? No its because my life is far from it and I like it calm. But I find my strength. Also in not knowing. Now sitting, I wanted to avoid the computer screen but I gave in to the urge to write and with both hands. A few pages left in the hand held leather pcket of dreams but I wonder if perhaps it will stay that way for many ages to come. My smells are horror, but you invite me also to love my horrors. I am on the verge, on edge. Sweating and farting and secreting sickness phlegm and the lungs are heavy and with pain. Could it be a book of sensations? Im sorry about the smell too but I need to let go. I gave you the kitchen and made my way home. Already here but the one skyline with a blue and green steeple. My church. My moving image. My twinkling still life. I think it will keep happening and you are truly one of a kind. Truly one of a kind. I love you.

 

I thought of the inside out and the outside in. there with a roommate I start from the outside, learn to live together and become closer. I know how to care for my needs when you care for your needs. I know how to do it simultaneously and separately in a way that allows for me to consider you but not give up me. We mesh very well, also just that. But it was not always so light. And you sused to space out mrore and I used to control more. We have come to value each other in a different way. One that lets the light grow between us and around us and inside together.

 

With you its different also because we start connected. We dive into each other headlong without goggles or flippers and make out with the fish and tumble with the stingrays but we miss the sunshine also when the dark deep sea surrounds us. We miss the sunshine even when we are in shallow waters. I do at least. Every once in a while and sometimes now I wonder if I am writing to you. As I perhaps always did but now you are even slightly more specific and well perhaps I consider a little what you might read. What you might feel? No not so much, but perhaps little bit little bit. Its still dark in the house and you wash the floor like karate kid, with chopsticks and a bandana over your pretty eyes. Its not a judgment, just wanted an extra description. From the sea we make our ways out, little by little without giving up but rather giving in. Like

 

LETTING GO FOREVER

 

Its like I used to say to you and you could not hear, there is strength in letting go. Imagine what we could and will overcome. Imagine what bring vastness of recognizing my fluidity of space of begin one and separate, of being all and nothing, of being unimportant and otherwise super cool. What is that word, outlier? No, but something like it.. that I cannot remember and will ask Asad. The first to bring that word into my radar realm. Hihi. Its fucking fun. Im sure of it. That’s about all I am sure of and how do I then, from inside out, sit gently in my needs, have strength to balance in instability, to fall without hitting the ground. To feel light in discomfort. To feel without judgment. To feel. To be affected and to be affect, to not blame. To be with you and me and all that is in between and other.

 

Its come to such and now I sip whispers from a sieve whilst hovering amongst the bees. Its just that. Nothing was the first and last nickname I ever gave myself. Hop on. On board. Both feet in and both feet and out. The swamp up to my knees. Its forgotten glory and how to avoid the judgments. Or rather, how to consider them as just another.

 

Condescension. I feel it even though just barely and now I need not figure anything out. I need to just be me.

 

The blood again runs slow. The Nile. The color of Pomegranates. But my veins run blue and hasn’t it been since forever that I have had blue skin?