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Dopamine Junkie's Freak v. 3.0
maximizing more than the freak.
ruthlessly honest with myself.
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Tuesday, October 30, 2001
Thursday, October 25, 2001
I would like one day without a struggle.
One day without a battle of wills. One day my mother was here visiting with my 4 younger sisters. We asked her, Mama, what do you want to do? Whatever you guys want. We asked again, but Mama, let’s do something you want to do. And she really didn’t even know what she might want to do, after so many years of parcelling away her own desires, of bending, of wanting to please others. It echoes in me now. Someone asking me, What do you want to do? Whatever, I say. I don’t care. Whatever you want to do. It has happened to me too, then. I don’t care. Whatever you want to do. My life, my preferences, my very existence is only in response to what someone else’s wants. Or what someone else needs. What a pattern. What a legacy. It’s almost as though I cannot fight it, this need for self-denial. It makes me think – what would I do if I were on my own? What would I do if I had no one to please but myself? What would my life be like if I lived only according to my need? It was a grey Sunday in the City and I spent the entire day with Hugo. He got to my house around lunchtime, and so the inevitable City questions arose: “Where/what do you want to eat?” “What do you feel like doing today?” Left to myself, I would simply want to haunt a bookstore, read and write in a café. Watch a foreign film. Eat pizza. Draw. That’s all I ever really want to do. If left to my own self. But I feel the need to provide entertainment, something memorable, or creative or exciting. I try to populate the time I spend with friends with creative projects or some kind of stimulating endeavour. So it’s not just dinner and a movie and drinks and then go home. I put to him the questions above. He had no answer. So he asked. “Well, what do you want to do/eat today?” In my mother’s voice, I answer. I don’t care. Just whatever. Whatever you want. Trying to think of something creative we could do, I ask him if he wants to work on his law school application – he’s writing his personal statement. I helped him with his last one – he’d applied to law schools straight out of undegrad and was accepted to all of them, but declined them all because we decided to live together and work for a year instead. And that’s what I’m good for. Words. But he wanted to save that for later in the evening, and wanted to do something fun for during the day. So we finally have crepes in the Mission, and while eating I thought out loud – If you want we could go to my house later and take pictures of you. He gives me this look. Perhaps I projected too much onto/into it. But it was a look I recognized, a certain displeasure, a disinterest. A look that breaks me down. - Pictures of me, huh? He takes another bite, looks away. Who knows what he could have been thinking. But I have been struck by his look, his tone, his dissociated gaze. And my involuntary, ingrained, pavlovian reaction kicks in and my eyes well with tears. I am embarrassed, humiliated as I know that my upset is blatantly obvious to him and all those around me. He reaches across the table top for my hand but I yank it away. I excuse myself to the restroom, which is thankfully vacant. I turn on the faucet and watch the water run into the sink. My own tears fall uncontrollably, and my face in the mirror contorts grotesquely into some weird mask of pain. Oh the drama. I hate myself for it, but I can’t seem to get a handle on it. Even with my self-awareness. Even with the perspective of multiple religions, acute self analysis, and a Santa Cruz vibe. I’m a woman I guess. Not a man like I try to be when I need to control or repress my feelings. When I return to the table I do not look directly at him for several minutes. I see that he is trying not to look at me, as after his fashion. I try to break the silence with a bright false tone: - Ready to leave? - Sure, he says. We spend the next few hours in relative silence as we walk the shops on Valencia. I find solace in a cheap used copy of Jung’s dream symbolism. For once I would like to spend time with a man who doesn’t make me cry. For once I want something easy like Sunday morning. Oh my little outlet. The tears flow into words. So many things are wrong with me. I have so little. I feel tiny. I feel, as Bjork says, “my rescue squads is too exhausted.” I want to please others, to help, to give. That is the pleasure I was taught. And when someone’s pleasure is to watch me pleasure myself, I cringe in failure. I do not know how to please myself. I do not know how to ask for what I want. This is why I run away from my own pleasure, find some fetish or object or image to project it onto. So here, in secret whispers, I will say into this dark void, what I want. In Family: I want a supportive, dynamic father who cares for his daughters with love and respect. I want an empowered, happy mother who lives for her pleasure and happiness, and teaches her daughters to do the same. I want my sisters to have no obstacles to their future and the full support of myself and my parents. I want my entire family to communicate to one another with love and respect and kindness and consideration. In Friends: I want phone calls and emails and someone to throw me a party. I want people to ask for my time. I want to be remembered. I want to be asked if I need help. I want a day of quality time at the very least every fiscal quarter with my loved ones. I want to cry with them. I want to laugh with them. I want to sing for them and have them sing with me. I want us to dance together, I want us to all fully take responsibility for the limited amount of time we might have together on this planet and make it count, make time to spend. In Sex: I want to know how to experience pleasure sensations in connection to my own body. I want to be fearless and uninhibited. I want to be fantasy. I want to be real. I want to be cuddled and kissed and stroked until I sleep. And wake up the same way. I want a partner who never makes me feel bad or guilty that I don’t feel like it, or that I don’t feel good. In Work: I want to love what I do. I want to write for a living. I want to sing for a living. I want to paint and sculpt and build and throw fabulous dinner parties and design shoes and have my home be the refuge where I work and have people over. In Shoes: Beautiful t-straps with platform or skinny heels. Platform space boots in all colors Boots. Gorgeous leather boots. Delicate, comfortable and sturdy sandals. In Money: I want to not worry about money all the time. I want to not feel desperate about it all the time. I want to fix my credit, pay off my student loans and have enough to buy a Sorority house for my real sisters, and all my other beautiful women friends. I want to give money to my parents and my grandparents so they can buy a hot tub, an RV, and a vacation home in a beach town. I want to set up a fund for my friends and I for emergencies. In Love: I want Love to make me feel like I can do anything. I want Love to purify me. I want Love in its amorphous, shifting form, to envelope me with mighty pseudopods and engulf me in its red depth. I want Love that makes me so happy I become one of those people I hate who get married and make ‘such a lovely couple.’ I want Love that erases any conditioning or pre-programmed responses. I want Love that lasts. I want Love that communicates itself through a hand on my cheek. I want Love that melts me away, heals my wounds, gives me strength. I want Love that smooths me out. Wednesday, October 24, 2001
I have pages to post. I've been writing at home on a laptop
with no internet access however, and a floppy drive that doesn't work. Patience is a virtue. Monday, October 22, 2001
Choice Packet @ Viceland
Friday night I was pampered and spoiled as a City princess by the young blond with green eyes. A steaming hot tub at Eliza's and his skillful ministrations melted away the stress of the workweek and left me dizzy and lightheaded. There's just something about rising from a hot tub and watching the steam rise from naked glistening skin cool air tightening the nipple buds for a mouth warm skin pulling taut as it cools.... And he stroked me, took me, as the water sluiced at my hips and I held on to the edge of the tub reveling in sensation watching an ant crossing the ground before me It reminded me of the updated Lolita film with Jeremy Irons a scene which begins with the young Lolita chewing bubble gum and reading comics only minutes later is it revealed, with her gasp that she is reading the funnies while sitting astride him reverse cowgirl and he is rocking her slowly, sitting in a chair Recently I have been stricken again with the anhedonia Sex is pleasurable but I can't always cum not for the lack of effort and skill of my partner but because it's in my head, it's in my head! Something isn't connecting in my head. I realize now that this is because I have over objectified myself. Pleasure does not happen "to" me. Pleasure is something that I have to achieve through another door. I must connect the pleasure center in my mind, that dark chamber, to the sensations of my body. Often, I must do this through third-party fantasy . . . Meaning, I connect the sensation to the fantasy, and experience a voyeuristic, proxy-served orgasm. It's not me in the picture, it's not me in the fantasy, it's not me experiencing the pleasure directly. Because I can't. Even as I masturbate I find I am thinking of someone else. Projecting all the imagined feeling onto the pornographic images that flash in my mind, before my eyes, connecting those images to the sensation. Now that I figured out what's wrong, I need to figure out how to fix it. Friday, October 19, 2001
Bjork renders her audience speechless
with her innovation and talent. Her live show at the Paramount was amazing. From the rear balcony I could barely put my hands together to applaud because I had to keep my hands on the binoculars and my eyes on her every movement at all times. She is magnetic. She is unique. She is fierce and cute and melodic and I had never seen her live before. Her voice is an instrument. Her phrasing - breath between the notes was art to me. I'm gushing but how can I not? I saw my goddess muse. She delivered her message with utmost conviction and confidence. What did she do after the show? Did she eat something? I wonder what she ate. I need more and more Bjork all of the time. Recent Interview with Bjork Her set lists have been pretty much the same on this tour. And she's worn the same 2 dresses, both so wacky and overdone that they were grotesque in the most beautiful way. For like pics. For like setlists. the high points of the show for me when she finally spoke during her first encore and said "I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce the people who play music for me" and she rolled her r's in that icelandic way when she hit "emotionaaaal landsacaaapes....." during Joga. . . when she got all worked up at the end of Human Behavior and screamed into the mike, walked in a circle, screamed into the mike etc...4 times to end the song. Her lyrics peel me back layers and layers so many times I wanted to scream I love you Bjork but the words caught in my throat I was just in awe of her little self. Classical training doesn't teach you how to use her voice the way she does. No training could teach you that. The sound in the Paramount Theatre was amazing. The theatre itself was so beautiful, a restored jewel in the otherwise bleak downtown Oakland. Endless lines of alterna-chic fashionistas. I was in boring work clothes. But it mattered not. I was just an observer, and another faithful and fervent fanatic of the cult of Bjork. Thursday, October 18, 2001
I went to see Bjork last night at the Paramount Theatre in Oakland
and it was off the hook. off the chain. off the heezy for sheezy. I need a little time to gather my thoughts together about last night, but I will write about it. In the meantime, a tidbit of psychoanalysis from yesterday afternoon: I've been short-tempered and volatile lately. Blowing up in reactive rages. Feeling immediately contrite one minute afterwards. Having to apologize, humbly and fearfully. Something strange has come over me. @lunch with the Connoisseur today he gives me a little pop psychoanalysis "it all goes back to your father." of course this is something that we all know. I know. Dr. Drew knows. Anyone who listens to Lovelines knows. All the teens know. We weren't really free to have fun in my house. He hated it when we were too exuberant, too loud and boisterous as children tend to be. Because of his emotional and physical abuse, I learned how to avoid pain by retreating into my head. I was taught, by my mother's example, that pleasure was found in giving to others. The distortion of pleasure. The avoidance of pain. What I learned of pleasure was that it was forbidden. What I learned of pleasure was that Nurturing and Giving should be the pleasure. Taking care of people is the pleasure. And now I have locked myself away in my head. Because no one needs my care, not really. If anything, I have become dependent on others. Subsequently, I learn to make others happy before myself, because I am humbled and shamed by my own dependence. Recently I was asked to say what I do for fun. I couldn't answer. What I do for fun is spend time with other people and try to make them happy, I guess. Try to give whatever I have of myself, that anyone might want, to make someone else happy. Another one of the lessons I unwittingly learned from my mother. Our family never thought that self-actualization, personal happiness or pleasure was important. It's a Protestant household, lots of sacrifice and martyrdom and passive aggressive manifestations of repressed desires. Pleasure is something that happens to someone else. Which is why I can only achieve pleasure as a voyeur or as an object, but never the subject. When it comes around to what I want, I can only fantasize about it, I can only fetishize myself from an objective perspective. But with just me, when I'm alone I mean, I just feel like a small girl, not particularly exciting. My only real value is text-based. And maybe for a song. Been re-reading Hesse. I wanted only to try to live in accord with the promptings which came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult? - Hesse, Demian Joseph Campbell urges me to find the burning point, follow my bliss. This struggle for self-discovery, for self-actualization is a battle against the deeply ingrained programming of self-denial. But I wanna be the winner. Wednesday, October 17, 2001
Once these eyes burned so bright and black
so sick with fever and fervor sweating blood poisoned with ravenous and repressed desire Supernova styles When the gnawing inside became too much to bear I fed the starving young thing glutted, sated, eyes glazed over as after a vampire's feast The release of the chemical rush carried me away, uplifted me onto a wave and from its crest I waved Tossed back my hair and arched in pleasure This was a fire that consumed me I saw a Phoenix rising in the flames In the throes of desire I felt purified not vilified but Justified and Mollified in a certain way, clarified The flame has quieted now Having burnt away the flesh Now I am just bone and a silken cocoon Undergoing metamorphosis only the eyes and the brain remain and maybe the red mouth So I am shifting in form Shifting in desire Inexhaustible still but a different kind of fire Its not so much the anhedonia Perhaps it's a different thing this time Perhaps the juices are all in my head greasing the wheels to get me moving instead of slicking me down for only my pleasure Instead I am burning and restless Absorbing, Learning, Creation To devour whole worlds of philosophy again Monopolizing my concentration? and sensation? DJ is a woman trying to get by the corporate world has been banging me dry < don't be offended by the link over there if only you're inclined, and have a little to spare I need fuel for thinking, and for thinking, time I get a little blocked when i'm counting dimes I need a goal ahead and support from behind Not feeling hopeless greatly eases my mind. ***DJ's new project is a small and unsophisticated site for older writings, other thoughts, and stuuuf. It's not meant to be easy to navigate. It's only 3 pages deep so far.*** Monday, October 15, 2001
Last night, an apocalyptic dream vision.
The world is ending. Everything is in Red. I am teaching my sisters to fly. [ this is a recurrent theme in my dreams, teaching others to fly ] We are flying about, trying to save our family members. The people of the world are lined up in endless queues, all waiting to go somewhere like a jail or an internment camp. Evil forces [ I cannot remember their faces, but they are dark shapes ] are trying to catch me, but they cannot fly, not as quickly as we can. There is a bus full of people on it's way to somewhere, and everyone is somber, and the babies are crying. The sky is Red and I am flying through it. I pick up my mother who is standing in one of these interminable lines. At first I think she will be too heavy for me to carry and fly, but I manage to do it with ease. My sisters are flying around me, we are spinning and whirling in the air at increased speeds, and below us on the earth, the long lines of unhappy people. Time seems to be running out but I don't know what this means. There is something akin to a bowling alley, and people are launched down the lane into an abyss of dirty packing kernels. You must do this and then crawl out. It almost seems like I wouldn't fit but I got out somehow. My father tries and I scream, No! You won't make it out! But somehow he does. And then there is another cue, another sign, to keep moving before we are caught. I scoop up my mother and bring her to a high perch, my sisters too, they are safe. I see my father on the ground. I think I might pick him up, but I think he is too heavy. I think again that we might all try to carry him together, but he is too heavy. So I leave him behind. With the rest of the world, to be consumed in the wash of red, in the heat that burns the ground. Friday, October 12, 2001
Discover Hip Hop! [you must click]
Takashi Murakami Headphone Fetish Page Momus page The Idea Line displays a timeline of net artworks, arranged in a fan of luminous threads. Shoes in the Bay Area Only recently have I discovered that I have developed an ability to make a little space in my head where walls push out all the thoughts, where there are no windows or doors. Thoughts try to push their way in, but they just don't make it. I concentrate on nothing. I concentrate on that little space inside myself, where I can sit in a lotus position and breathe. Smile for no reason. Close my eyes. Feel nothing but existence. It's very restful, this place. I want to be able to get here wherever I am. Anima/Animus again Right. Well perhaps you've already heard/read me talking about this, about how it always seemed that I was more a boygirl than a girlgirl, how I felt that I maintained relationships with men because I was a little bit boy and my men friends were all a little bit gay. Turns out it was just me chasing my animus, and them chasing their anima, all along. Last weekend I had a girls weekend. Spent most of my time with my lady friends, and we went out dancing, and had a small sleepover at my house. It felt good to have the collaborative female energy around, it felt good to be around independent women. In a non-drama capacity. By this I mean, it wasn't a bunch of females talking about boys and commiserating, as we are so often wont to do. Instead we fully enjoyed each other's company, enjoyed each other. This past week I have spent more time with boys. It's gratifying to know that at 26, I have men friends who support and love me, just because. This weekend I just wanna rest. Next week's excitement includes the Bjork concert on Weds! And next weekend is gonna be chock full of activities. Lots of open studios and art showings and parties and stuff. Nothing intellectually profound to impart. Nothing especially wonderful or humanitarian to say. I'm in this little box in my mind, taking a rest from too much deep thinking. Besides, I don't think there's anyone left to read me. No stimulus is hard for me to want to keep writing. Monday, October 08, 2001
*Kundalini Flavored Soup*
with the broth of sentient meat I have taken a few yoga classes in my life, mostly centered on the exercise of the body rather than the full awakening of the chakras. Somehow I have awakened her, the coiled serpent, the Kundalini and she is rising through the Sushumna piercing through and activating each lotus center. She has lifted her head past the first lotus center, the Muladhara, and has thus awakened my spiritual consciousness. When this happened I think was some time in the past 3 years. But as I wandered through the sentience of the spirit world, the grid, I lost myself in the wandering, collecting flowers and pretty shiny things which only lured me back to the physical world and all its mundane trappings. What began in January of this year was the activation of the second lotus center, the Svadhishthana, and suddenly the world around me was suffused with that dark thick red glow of sex. There I rested, at the Kundalini's favorite resort, and there you first discovered me, in the scented air that tickled your inner ear, where I quietly undulated and whispered secret fantasies. Now with yawning stretch and prana fueled Om and amen, she ascends to the third chakra, in which I now dwell. "Its name, Manipura, means "the city of the shining jewel." It is a lotus of ten petals of the color of heavy-laden storm clouds; fire is its element; and the governing interest of anyone whose unfolding serpent power has become established on this plane is in consuming, conquering, turning all into his own substance, or forcing all to conform to his way of thought. His psychology, ruled by an insatiable will to power, is of an Adlerian type." - J. Campbell, Myths to Live By Yes, here I am, struggling against my own inferiority complex. Why would I feel inferior? Because I have nothing to give but my sentience. I have nothing to offer but all that is stored in this infintesimal self. If you believe in me, I am boundless. If you simply look upon the shell of a girl, I am nothing but black hair, smooth skin, dark eyes and a small red mouth. I melt into the masses of Asian women in this City. I am dwarfed by Amazonian women with their long legs and sharp features. I used to sing in front of a crowd of 2000+ people nightly. I used to be smarter. I used to be more responsible. I used to be young and promising. Now, if only in my own mind, my own thinking, I consume worlds of thought and writhe in the ecstasy of knowledge consumption. The inner call to my destiny has been muffled, stifled, obscured. By a filter of fear, self-loathing, classic Adlerian inferiority complex. But the messages that get through are routed secretly to an Inbox, where I have been reading the messages: - Destiny calls. Call us back. - Write it all out. Make it a novel. - Go back to grad school. The world will need more informed psychoanalysts. - Start a new religion. - Use your younger sisters to build your multi-media installations and musical empire. - Will you love yourself already? Once I had a vision of my artistic debut as a staged funeral. As a rite of passage, a sacrifice of my old self, a death of the ego, the emergence from a lifelong struggle against my imprinting. Children would dance around the coffin in a circle, "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!" It all seems a bit dated now. And done "to death." Don't worry if you're vision is new. Let others make that decision, they usually do. Just keep moving on. . . Anything you do, let it come from you. Then it will be new. - Sondheim, Move On, fr. Sunday in the Park with George. To break out I think I must needs perform this rite. With a trail of discarded shells to mark the metamorphosis. And for this I will need help. To enshroud and coccoon me. To create life-size chrysalises which I will discard. I believe if I perform this rite enough times, my wings will start to show. Friday, October 05, 2001
Crickets and Tumbleweed, please raise your hands.
Working on a new flavor of soup. Kundalina flavored. In the meantime, I wanted to post the first awakening of my selves. The day they first woke up. Mon, 23 Mar 1998 [Context: I don't remember much about this context except that it was before my annual Spring Break trip to New York. Ex-boy was sleeping in my bed in my on-campus college apt. where I was the R.A. I used to hate his peaceful sleep. Nothing could wake him. So I took one mushroom. And started writing emails. I found myself writing to myself! ] p.s. I left in all the typos. Subject: FINE i'M WRITING I am writing to you, myself, because I have no twin and no one in this universe has the capacity to comprehend me, nor the desire. ANd because it is you that drives me insane. It is you that runs the molecules in my brain iin circles, like a flea circus. It is you that is trembling on the brink of exhaustion, it is you that I must confront, it is you that pushes me relentlessly forward and I want to expel you, whoever you are, I do not know but define yourself or leave me in peace. It is you that holds and collects and who does not release the anger except through sadness it is you who is so selfish with your energies, you are my obstacle and I hate you for your cowardice, you are chickenshit. Our hands know it, our eyes know it, our feet who take us wherever we want to go, our mind who is constantly scheming for perfection and the most tolerable and comfortable and painless existence, for the easiest survival. Why do we run away from this life, this pain. Why can we only fight each other with tears and regret and self-loathing and sadness? Do you care that I hate you? That I have no respect for you? That you have redefined integrity and faith always to your own purposes? You are holding me back from what I want, you hide from me when I need you most, where are you where am I? You know I need you? Is it something that I have missed? When I look at you in the mirror we are fat and fine and content to be subjugated to elegant mediocrity. Oh elegant mediocrity elegant waste you are too banal for words. There is no one hear to listen to your excuses and lies, only me. IF God is there he must hear us and heal us, but I do not see Him reflected in us, but do we want that? Is it really our greatest aspiration and why? For an eternity that we cannot reach? Shall we reward ourselves for believing in that which we cannot touch or see, am I deluding myself in hoping still that I can be saved, I want to believe in anything that will liberate me from this mind. So is it purity that you seek? Do you wish to be free of me? But then how empty I would be without you my constant companion, my shadow, my doppelganger, we have been content to switch off ... Bi-polar. Disorder is what they would call us, yes? We are disorder. Disorder-ed. Disorder-ly. I crave a union with others like us but here is the fear that they will characterize of us, that we feel alone and disenfranchised. But I have you, don't I? Let us commune now, and speak quietly amongst ourselves..haha we redefine that phrase... We must be satisfied with outselves, yes all of us, we are the only ones, we will retreat and heal ourselves, no one else wants to or can try to fully comprehend us or our scars, no man will ever capture our heart or commune amongst us. Let us show ourselves to them and they will be afraid, they will not understand, they will label us and categorize us and be useless, always talking talking as if they could fathom or explain us, as if they could tell us what is a waste or not. To be individual amongst them, we must commune amongst ourselves and present a facade, a multi faceted facade that they will understand. Too too too hahahaha much let us spin our cocoon too too too much to wrap their brains around. We are grand within ourselves, and in this communion together, I embrace us, everything that is myself, we are ours. and "I" may call you mine. And perhaps because they cannot understand, they will dismiss us, but we will have left a bad taste in their mouths. Do not be afraid of me, of us, we are the strength together, we have fought together, we have survived together. And in our communion we will write all of our stories, of all our experiences and tramua, we will help each other to remember. Tha hands, the feet, the back, the neck, the heart, the arms, the nose, the eyes. We will help each other to remember our story and we will define ourselves through our re-search. Ourself. Myself. until we get to the conglomerate "ME". We willliberate ourselves from the need to be defined according to family, sex, race, social or sexual orientation. We will move forward in unity and harmony and grace and find peace at last. Peace with ourselves. And then perhaps we will be ready to share. But for now let us content ourselves with our company, our corporate store of grace and strength and knowledge. Let us commune and rebel and be glorious in our rebellion even as we are now communing to a glorious rebellion against that wonderful poison within us. There is no need to be more truthful or poetic or profound. We can laugh at all our other attempts, because they were fragmented, disjointed, feeble attempts at only one of us trying to touch a deeper well that only all of us unified can open, with Our key. There within lie all the treasures, all the stores of exquisite pain and joy and sorrow and laughter in which we can bathe and rejoice, and be renewed by our own strength. To dive within this well is keen, and painful, and sublime. I know your hurt, your weakness and your pain, your frustrations and sorrows, I can truly say they are mine and I share them. But I also am the only one who knows you have weapons to combat these, you we who have used them before, we are strong we are wise we are powerful in ourself.yes, say it now: Myself. We have no need for beauty except as our disguise. Let us now present a united facade of serenity even as we heal within. And how shall we heal? Let all parts tell their story, and their opinion. Let our mind travel to the hands to the ears to the feet and the voice even, and each will tell the story, we will inhabit them with our voice and each will have their turn to confess and tell Ourself how we can help to heal each part. We will restore ourself because no one else can, or their attempts will be superficial, righteous and false to us. Commune now, be at peace and transcend pain, for we will bear it together, transcend your present mediocrity, it will only frustrate you, we will show you the key to profundity, and we will arrive there together, not as One, but united in purpose, not forsaking any part. Eyes, now rest, heart, now rest, hands, ears, corporate body, spirit, now rest. All shall rest and we will awaken together refreshed, we will rejuvenate ourselves and begin the story-telling, and then the healing. Then the eyes will shut again, we will find ourself wherever we are, commune, and we we smile, cry, laugh, scream, rage, and Love with unhindered and pure passion, untainted by guilt or needs from others. We are all we need. We. Ourselves. OurSelf. Me. I. go now. rest. we need rest. then we'll handle the rest. Wednesday, October 03, 2001
"It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal."
- A.A. Milne on the upside i see a path defining itself before me whether I study in school or on my own if I could create my own study of comparative literature anais nin, hermann hesse, joseph campbell, jung, schopenhauer , foucault, fowles, d.h. lawrence haruki murakami, sinclair lewis, ayn rand, the gnostic gospels, eastern philosophies that would be nice and chunky soup yeah and the major would be called Hot and Chunky Soup And if the college of my choosing said to me: That sounds like a formidable program. Would you like to narrow it down, blah blah blah? it's just SOUP I'll say a hot and chunky soup! and they'll be all, miss, I'm sorry, we don't have a grad program for making soup and I'll pound my small fist on the desk and say, all I want to do is make soup! Why are you trying to stop me? Soup! Soup! Soup! Smart Soup! The Tastiest soup of all Times! The Soup of Truth! and then they'll call security and then they'll take me away to an asylum (green jello on thursdays and lots of arts and crafts) where I will read voraciously from books from all my most beloved authors and tear out the pages which I will use as ingredients in making the soup and wad them up into little balls and put them in a bowl of oatmeal and stir and stir with a wooden spoon and the secrets of the universe will be in my soup. I need to go back to school To save my brain from atrophying To save me from these defaulted student loans To save me from this aging .. .. .. Because I love to ditch class and read books anyway. Monday, October 01, 2001
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself (I am large, I contain multitudes). - Walt Whitman (1819-1892), "Song of Myself" part 51, Leaves of Grass, 1855 We should have DSL back up at my house this week, which means I can come back to my near-daily writing exercise here. I have much to impart. Not only the infintesimal (yes I know, I spell it wrong on purpose) details of my life, but the grand scheme of the universe which is opening up to me little by little, more and more, day by day. I can speak of the quality of life, and my search for the burning point. I can speak of the friendship I have now with the Connoisseur, as a "fabulously sexy" woman he knows (see previous entry). I could speak of the tempest which is my relationship with the young Pyromaniac. I could speak of the delicate friendship strengthened between Hugo and I. (or is it Hugo and me?) I'm creating my own personal myth, mapping out my journey to somewhere within myself. But to find the true light, I have to descend into the darkness and use only my instincts to guide my way. And the dream symbols of flight, of being pursued, of being unafraid, of power and weakness. I provide context and content. For myself, for others. Perspective and Self-awareness. If someone else is enlightened, it is my contribution to the universe. In this way I feel kin to philosophers. In this way I feel I have a burning point. But the burning point is an old soul spirit who has collected artifacts of life and love and in small ways, uses them to interpret our significance. What do I know? What do I see? I see myself, a small woman aging quickly in experience, but staying young and fresh in the mind. What keeps me young? My vulnerability. And the chikara marks the spot, at the nape of the neck, which reminds me and tells the world to read my skin, read into the mark on my shell: My vulnerability is my source of strength. What keeps me alert? A need to know why we act the way we do. A need to know how to emerge from the coccoon in which we were conditioned and imprinted, and walk independent on shaky legs into a life where we build our own moralities and journeys. I see myself, a young woman, struggling to keep afloat financially, never seeming to have enough money to pay off debts, support her family and herself, or save for a rainy day. I see myself, a young woman, wanting to reach out and facilitate growth for all the loved ones around her. But not often enough following through, because she is defeated by her own self-loathing. I see friends who have drifted away. I see family I don't really know. I see people who only come around when they really need me, and my own reflection in the mirror, feeling neglected and small and forgotten. Whenever I'm tripping I go to visit a girl inside myself. She thinks she is beautiful but she hides in the shadows. She thinks she is something that nobody wants. She thinks she is lost and forgotten. But she sings to me: You thought no one wanted you No one wants me You thought you were beautiful once Once, but not twice You thought you were strong But you break down all the time I'm lonely. We're lonely. Rest. Rest. Let the others take care of us. And who are the others? One is a girl who rides in the family van with everyone else. She takes care of her sisters and her family. One is a girl who answers the phone with a customer friendly voice. She takes care of clients. One is a girl who compromises to live in a shared housing space. She takes care to not impose herself on common areas. One is a girl who smokes cigarettes and never smiles. She takes care of the girl inside whose heart is hurting. Riding the MUNI today I had no fantasies. I felt like one of the masses. Staring down the street waiting for an express bus that never came. Looking at our watches. Watching the time tick by. Worrying about getting to making it to our drone posts on time. But this weekend I consumed some fungus and floated through Golden Gate park with a girlfriend. What a beautiful weekend. The sun felt good on my bare limbs. I felt purposeful and yet purposeless. We walked until we were exhausted. And we came out of the dark foliage and found my house again whereupon we collapsed on my bed and listened the the soundtrack to Purple Rain. We danced until we fell and then sang along with Prince. Time to kill the Ego Perhaps this self-effacement has been the right way to go all along. My mind has created the multiplicity to compartmentalize myself. For my own preservation. But the preservation of what? If I no longer exist, then am I not free? Oh my Descent into Darkness continues. Oh I'm just rambling now. And crying. So I'm just gonna shut up for right now.
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