I voluntarily exposed myself today by resurfacing on Instagram and giving access to this website and this blog, and I have learned that I absolutely loathe and resent having a blog, which is exactly the reason I need to keep it up. If a tiny amount of exposure makes me want to die under a bridge, then I need far more if I’m ever going to sustain any sort of public practice that gives me enough money to make rent. Although I currently feel repulsed by the self (my idiot one in particular), I’m going to keep fucking writing on this little platform like a coked up little mouse. Exposure exposure therapy. I do fear the way that acknowledging others’ perceptions will disturb my trains of thought. But it’s inescapable at this point, so I’m just going to assume that nobody’s reading these silly entries anyway. Sweet chariot of clarity. Recently I wanted to tell Vanessa that I was hungry but what came up was “I’m up in my grumbly.” So now I say that sometimes and it’s very exciting and fun to say phrases you made up isn’t it????????? Please calm down. It’s okay for me to be in the open, everyone’s busy zipping their collective fly and painting the Sistine Chapel. Flail, bitch, flail! Do it up real big. You know how I like it. A little sprawl on the carpet, I’m just trying to exist. One other concern at the moment is getting all of my writing to play nicely together in a thesis. Its content varies so drastically that I fear certain tones perspectives of my voice will come through as more trustworthy than others’. In the sense that people find out an actor has released a record, and are annoyed. Because they should stay in their area of expertise and so on. Yeah. Relax.
Sonnet Saturday? I'd Rather Die
Days’ Work
A person prides himself on what he knows
And takes what he can get while he is young.
The fires fight in craggy rocks below
The breath displaces air inside the lung.
A kettle burns itself in smoky tar
And duty tends to falter like the leaves
The line is waxed, the boy is in the bar
The night affirming something he believes.
A movement down the way to lonesome checks
The homes of all the people on the street,
But theirs are hopes of daylight’s bright effects
Its leading for their woe-be-laden feet:
With hints of early morning comes fresh bread
Their stone is full, and horses in the peat.
With language from Trader Joe's, Love Island, a truck...
“Pairs well with many flowers creating an elegant bouquet!” Filled to the brim, once distorted is the angled. It makes us stalky and so fern. Forlorn? Every color is a choice. There are places not emblematic. That is fictive. All, or entirely, or with season to, the right case of action. Except in the case of largeness, whose creature is without context. Leverage if sullen.
“The only really lips I want to kiss in this villa are Mackenzie’s.” Frontal bay of the St. Jonathan. Without future tenses exemplifies what villages lie beneath. Don’t. Walk separately! Exactly, with feet as well. Surprising that followed. The only piece to trust is civil. There are no ones. Furtive sinking, an obvious shout. Elemental is silverish, is wishing for (another).
“Your Best Business Partner.” A way, at least, in theory, to prescribe what is for attack only. Expecting not to release a patron (a worthy one). Truck sounds differently like in betweenness of sleep noise. You wouldn’t be able to remember unless a silver rumble between your thumbs. Of wheels, few. Of your flavored person, there is a tobacco-free cemetery. There is poise. No one tolerated that; we liked it, though. The normal is supplied and radiating.
Separate writing bits
Please barely read these. You won’t be rewarded.
Arthur walked back to the coop. He’d forgotten to give the chickens water, which was his duty, but which was easily overlooked due to the fact that the water pails lived in a far-off compartment of the barn-head, and that the water given had to come from the kitchen and not the outside tap, since the outside tap may or may not be poison to the chickens. They found that out after four chickens died one fall out of the blue. He was sweating like a guilty man, although he felt nothing in relation to the chickens’ overall collective health status, and frankly would’ve left them drink-less for the night if it wasn’t for the fact that Ann-Marie did a coop-check every evening. If that coop doesn’t look right, if the straw is scarce or the fresh eggs waiting til eight, her hollering will wake up the neighbor’s dog, who’s grown old but is still a rowdy mutt, and AM will curse you until the morning. Or at least til she takes her sleeping pills and her glass of wine and retires to her upstairs room. After that she doesn’t exist until the next day.
Six silky suns set silently, secretly, simultaneously. It was so beautiful that anyone who could have seen it would have secreted fluid out through every orifice at once, and then in a moment of pure desperation, suck it all back into a newly original and consummated self. Their eyes would begin to bulge slightly, and their tongues would hang slack. Some would die. The silk of the suns created such a sheen, such a shockingly simmering glaze smeared, part liquid, was the heat of the closest half of each sun. The suns were far away, farther than could be counted, but the distance was negligible because of the immensity of the suns’ auras, which extended outside them so that each sun appeared almost twice as large. It seemed as though they were setting intentionally, with such faith in their respective orbits. A determination held by no human, or anyone who imagines that, after all, he could have done otherwise. Suns brought themselves down, a self-inflicted power over the self, the eagerness of the patient.
At dusk six men were gathered in the reddish unmarked building just outside of Zurich their blindfolds arranged to cover not only their eyes but also their noses and mouths and most chins although some of the chins were so long and bony or fat and cakey that they just couldnt help jutting or bursting out a little bit which might allow a more careful viewer to identify Rostov whose flesh extended about twenty percent farther from his bones and muscles and tendons than the vast majority of the general public the men heard a ticker count down from five in French and then removed their masks all at once in a terrible rush and began studying their peers or brothers as they’d been told to refer to each other by their respective governmental authorities no words were yet spoken each man was exceptionally well controlled and cautious of his five new siblings the identities of whom were entirely unknown and yet must eventually be trusted exceptionally perhaps involving the extension of more trust than was custom for any of them toward even their closest family members these men you see were picked carefully so as to practically guarantee the success of the mission that now awaited them
He wouldn’t look at me. The therapist wove her hand, dismissive. There on the ground was a rug. I can’t do this. Writing narrative isn’t what I’m used to. It’s frightening, actually. I rather dislike it sometimes. And my voice sounds shriveled. Each sentence is a fragment, a window. But none enough to be a door. And I don’t want to lie. If I lied, then what? My lies are the entire page. I can’t bear to tell the truth. Not after what it’s done. Ah! Silly thoughts. Silly moments in general. The rabbit scurried through the tube. He went grasping after it. Some desperate scene were they. The rabbit a flash of white. He a desperate mad dash. He was ugly, true. A face like a pumpkin. And the hat wasn’t in style. Regardless, he was very popular. The rabbit didn’t like his hands. So many short sentences. One must follow the first. One must lead into the next. Only I live in isolated squares. The chopping block gives no warning. Soon you will be somewhere else. No planning, no expectation available. It seems cruel to give a story. Stories will pass into ash. Poetry is already ash. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I’ll give a story once I’m immortal. I tell only lies in fiction. I tell only truth with my eyes. Wait for privacy to give way. Soon it will tell you too.
She ate the porridge. She loathed the porridge. The porridge was both sticky and dry. It would coat her hard palate with residue.
When he was a child he would say
“Wait up!” and, following, “Wait for me!”
When he was an old man all of his friends died first.
When he thought about the past, he would say
“Slow down!” and “Don’t go!”
It was obedient and waited for him to catch up.
When he was a child he would say
“Wait up!” and, following, “Wait for me!”
When he was an old man all of his friends died first.
(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction *CAT POWER* music video
Listen to the song.
Inside a pleasantly decorated luxury train car, a 28 year-old brunette woman is looking down, reading, with her hair in her face. The woman appears a bit bored and despondent, biting absentmindedly at her nails. She’s dressed in 1940s clothing: a white blouse with a delicately beaded jacket. With the first errant note of guitar, she glances up and out of the train window. Nothing registers in her face at first. It’s dawn, and she squints, looking for the first note of actual sun yolk in the cloudy morning. It feels still within the cabin, but the train is going fast. It’s running through a semi-rural area in what appears to the southern United States. It’s the California Zephyr from LA to Chicago. The scenery outside is a somewhat monotonous arid landscape, and the track extends as far as the eye can see. Mountains rise on either side.
A 65 year-old woman across the aisle from our first character is fixing her makeup in a tiny portable mirror, brushing a bit of pale powder over her eyelids. It looks to be purely habit: she’s not preparing for anything or anyone in particular. Something catches her eye, and upon closer inspection she is now using the mirror to look at a man behind her. A handsome man on the train is smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper.
He’s actually sort of scouring it. An article mentions a fatal car crash, and he uses a large pair of red scissors to carefully cut it out, cigarette still in his fingers. He places it on the windowsill on top of a pile of other cut-out articles, and smoothens them out. The man looks aimlessly at the seat in front of him for only a moment, and then returns to his task. The sun is coming up now.
A mother and a father sit with their triplet 3 year-old boys. One boy is on father’s lap, one boy is on mother’s lap, one boy sits on the outside of mother. The boys on laps are quietly play-fighting with each other with some flappy gesticulations. They’re wearing matching tiny bowties. As far as anyone can tell, this is an ideal 1940s family situation. The third boy is looking out the window in excitement, and trying to get the attention of his brothers by tapping their shoulders. They don’t notice, so he goes back to staring out the window and puts his hands on the glass, completely absorbed by what he’s seeing in the distance.
An ungracefully tall train attendant comes by wearing a pinstripe suit and a little hat with a tassel; he bows, smiling, and offers the three little boys three little lollipops. Each child as well as their father turn toward the attendant in utter covetousness and glee. They all smile garishly. The lollipops are handed out individually to each child with a specific dignity. Father––popless––looks at the happy boys with disgust and resentment. Mother smiles at the children and wags her finger. She plucks the lollipops out of their hands one by one. They eye each other unhappily––they expected as much. She hands the three lollipops to the father. Father is overjoyed to have regained control; he leans over and passionately kisses the mother whose red lipstick smears and transfers all around both of their mouths. It’s disgusting.
The train appears to be moving into some clouds. The initial woman looks at the clouds through the window. Immediately they morph into something almost recognizable, a fish with feet. Now several: a school of barefooted fish. She opens her mouth in awe. It’s remarkable. She looks around desperately to see if other people notice the phenomenon. Others have not noticed, besides perhaps one of the triplets, but there’s no way to express the connection.
The hallway of the train car is now free and clear. There’s a sort of gaudy chandelier on the ceiling, and the people inside have all settled down. The rug in particular has a beautiful, complex pattern, and each window has a little velvety curtain affixed open with little gold fringes.
Suddenly a single blue butterfly appears in the cabin. It flutters back and forth hesitantly. It takes a moment for anyone to notice. Then the kids point and cover their mouths in delight––their thought of the lollipops is completely gone. They poke at Mommy and Daddy (who are now sleeping with their red mouths open). They aren’t waking up. The older woman looks up from her mirror and claps her hands, pleased. A butterfly! How darling.
The young brunette woman looks back outside again: formless clouds. Big, puffy cumulous clouds. No fish in sight. She shakes her head and goes back to her book just as the butterfly passes right over her hands. She looks up in wonder.
Two men are playing cards: the younger gestures upward to the older. They put down their hands for a moment, both happy to see the butterfly. They smile and nod. One of them begins to chuckle a little bit too excessively. Everyone sees it as a special little moment. It is a special little moment. People laugh and converse: a new lightness has fallen upon the scene.
After the entire car has registered this not-unpleasant situation, another butterfly appears in the train car. At first it’s a source of small excitement, but it’s also a bit confusing. The triplets look at each other with surprise. The older woman starts to look around to see the reactions of people around her. The men sitting beside each other are doing the same. A third butterfly now. The train patrons are all looking around at each other, unsure of how to react. It seems as though three butterflies on the train is probably two too many butterflies on the train. The man who was chuckling to the point of tears now strains his neck and dabs his forehead with a cloth napkin.
Our train attendant is on a mission to politely catch the three escaped butterflies. He prances around with a little net on a pole, swiping at the butterflies. He’s trying to do this delicately, but he looks lanky and awkward running around with the net. He runs back and forth with great effort but the butterflies easily elude him. Everyone prefers to be politely ignorant of the situation, and looks away self-consciously. The boys on laps giggle. The man trimming news is the first to actively swat at a butterfly with his papers. This action is met with a harsh look from the older woman sitting in front of him.
Now dozens of butterflies come flooding into the train car. The older woman’s eyes widen. The chuckling man has turned red. The train attendant’s expression turns quickly from panic to resolution. He tightens his grip on the net and looks around for the source of the swarm. It’s an impossible effort.
The train is now rounding the base of a scenic mountain. It looks calm from afar, chugging along persistently. The light on the mountain is beautiful, and the fine train flows along the track with poise and majesty.
Inside, the car is in a state of unrest: everyone is swatting at the bugs––the older woman with particular vigor––and everyone besides the sleeping parents is attempting to protect their faces from the swarm. The train attendant is swinging the net like a baseball bat. The two men who were playing cards pry open a window, and some of the butterflies fly out of the train, but a good majority of them decide to just stay inside. Attempts to make them leave are futile. People begin to leave their seats and run around in absolute chaos. The older woman faints back into her seat. The triplets bawl: Mommy and Daddy will not wake up to see the commotion. The three lollipops are decimated by the butterflies. Everyone is horrified, especially the attendant. The butterflies appear to be consuming the riders; every body is covered entirely with swarms of butterflies. A butterfly goes inside Mommy’s mouth.
From a distance, the train moves steadily down the stilted track. It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day, and the clouds are all remarkably shaped like fish with feet. They walk out of sight as the vision fades to black.
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A few paragraphs on Tom Stoppard's Arcadia
Using a fictional story to illustrate a scientific statement is effective and all, but Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia uses scientific concepts for more than purely demonstrative purposes. The scientific content of the play is not merely a literary tactic, but rather portrays the genuine tension between the purposes of science and art. The two realms have traditionally served as consolations to the variability and monotony of the world by way of inducing certainty and fantasy, respectively. But as we oscillate between the past and the present, these seemingly polarized consolations seem to reverse, and ultimately mediate each other. Similar to the way accumulation of entropy increases chaos until it is silently maximized, the play’s gathering of scientific and fictive information seems only to complicate perennial questions, unto a final state of rhythmic dissolution.
Hannah, Bernard, and Valentine are looking back into the past, trying to reimagine or recreate what has happened before—art may be seen as an escape to a different sort of world, as is indicated by their romantically historical dress for the eventual dance. Thomasina and Septimus, however, use present conditions to scientifically aim toward the construction of a determinate future. The activity of scientific projection toward the future is met with the literary task of understanding the past, and the two framed vignettes effectively yearn toward each other for the entirety of the play. This tension between past and present is the same sort as the tension between what is or has been determined, and what is created as time goes on: a story. Valentine expresses the phenomenon to Hannah: “The unpredictable and the predetermined unfold together to make everything the way it is” (51). In Arcadia, scientific striving to predict the future is confronted with the more literary truth of an indiscernible fate.
As the play continues, and various objects accumulate on the centered table, there is a sort of reversal in the respective trustworthiness of science and fiction. Rather than the truth being further clarified by the passage of time and the progress of science, understanding becomes more muddled; “The future is disorder” (52). With the understanding and incorporation of thermodynamic laws, the scientific attempt to reduce uncertainty begins to fall apart. The orderliness of a determined universe—one that can seamlessly be reversed and returned to its original condition—seems to no longer be an option. Science now points to the unknown, while narrative structure can be predicted by precedent, at least to the extent of a predicated beginning, middle, and end. While science now shows that certain things can not necessarily be predicted or reversed, here we are able to excuse ourselves from the binds of scientific reality in order to portray a creative narrative, a sort of dynamic competition, or rather, a play.
While science once seemed to hold steady our understanding of nature, it later shows definitively that indeterminacy is a fact of life. Literature and fiction must take on its role of softening the uncertainty of reality. In the end, once all information is accumulated, the stories finally merge; the play’s final scene shows past and present events occurring simultaneously in the same space. We see the ultimate demonstration of the confusion that constitutes the play— seemingly contradictory anachronisms abound, while an ordered pair dances as one, in perfect rhythmic time.
January 19th (8:43-8:53pm)
I can’t get through a single day without feeling a sense of absolute godlessness. A stirring restless emptiness. My stomach feels like a black hole. I should have eaten more food today. I imagine that a bit of nicotine would improve the way I feel, but if a bit of nicotine does improve the way I feel, then a bit more would be necessary a few minutes later to improve the way I feel a few minutes later, and so on and so forth. Joseph seems to think I am worthwhile. He called my work brilliant. To imagine. My wrists hurt and my brain is somewhat devoid of ideas or anything valuable. At least I’m saying something. I hate when I like my writing, because then I don’t want to write anymore, I just want to rest on my rotting laurels and not experiment anymore. I wish I felt the urge to stay awake past this time of night. I’m actually quite sleepy and even exhausted. But I wish there was something that made me really want to stay up. I’m sure I could create that for myself if I were to write something truly good. I’d like to paint soon. This Saturday I’ve got an online tutoring session. My first session with this student, and it’s online. This seems a rather difficult way to begin––the main issue of this is writing on the virtual whiteboard. I’ll have to have a set of examples all ready to go before I get on the Zoom call. My language here is coarse and graft. My hope is shambled and I’d willingly let cold water slide over me until I can’t notice it anymore. Any effects are point blank. All roads are egg. Whether you want to read me or not, I’ll write on your back. Good luck, then! Ha! A little syrup for your toast. Would you take me on a boat? If you had a boat? Would you take me on a jet plane? If you had one? He said he would, he said he would, he said he would. A ten minute interval is so very much when every second is an attentive one. I am a bit lonely in the sky. Glue laundress and the other find too. Well by the graft is an ultra rare once bitten fly board ball gourd. Won’t you sing with me? What do the bees say? Why are the forest flies open today? Is it Lent? I will lie down on my back, and if I lie down on my back, do you promise not to accompany me? Do you promise that I will find no rest? Six putty on my hand breath and you will never ever ever see the result. The result? Yes. Can you please put the placemats on the table? Yes. Can you scratch my back for forty-five minutes? No. I can not. I can not do that. A single left minute brings me here.
I was drunk when I wrote this (Myself and a horse)
All of my problems start with the I. Any expectation I have of myself is consecrated and endowed to the institution of the self. This is ridiculous! I am in near-constant flux––but do not let that detract from a stability of self––you see, my selfhood relies on its very fragility, its mosaic partisanship, so to speak, so much that to say I am a me would be utter blasphemy, disrespectful unto absolution or denial; this crime would be resented in full and persecuted in fuller––but my memory of such, naturally, in order to stay intact, would be severely depleted. That is, depleted unto nothingness, at which point my selfhood from may perspective should result in nothingness entirely, and with much allowance and encouragement, I should be able to share deeply into the ether and describe what I see there.
I see: a horse. This horse has been suffering––long from home, this horse escaped its stable without a clue of what to do next. All it knew was that Sam would give him hay, for which he was grateful, and he’d get some water and occasionally an apple or carrot. Now. After a time Sam stopped coming out to the stable. He’d developed a flu of the sort that requires nearness of a facility used to dispense of fluids and soft solids and such. Sam, so unfortunately preoccupied, thought of the new horse with agony. Twice he had tried to drag himself over to the stables to give him a bite to eat or some fresh water, but each time he’d fallen into a kind of stupor, and, only four hundred feet away or so, had been dragged back to bed by one of the night nurses. See, this only occurred him at night. During the day, Sam seemed clear as a peach––he spoke, wrote, even seemed to think. But everything that came out felt as scripted as any classic movie or sitcom. The day nurse might ask Sam “How are you this morning, sir?” And he’d lie there, yellow hands on his chest, and say “Well, I’m doin’ just fine” although he clearly seemed ill and all that.
Why you should develop a dissociative disorder
One must be of several minds at once. The only way to experience empathy is to find and retain a degree of separation from one’s own self. There must be several voices that do not harmonize; there will be discordance and interruption. This is necessary for thought.
Action is straightforward: a person can be a singular entity when she acts but must have several entities while in thought. Thought is inherently discursive. If there is only one voice, it is not considered thought. Inclination––“I think I’ll have some coffee”––rote belief, or ideology––these are not thought. The activity of thinking requires a plurality of self.
Empathy is a strange feeling. Feeling? Not quite. A prerequisite for empathy is the ability to acquire and retain for certain periods perspectives that are not your own…for this reason, perhaps those afflicted with schizophrenia or dissociative disorders––who think thoughts “not their own”––have the capacity for some of the most empathic dispositions around. The split self––as long as it can be integrated when it comes to action, belief, and so on––is the single most effective contribution to a multi-perspectival, and therefore likely truer, worldview.
A splitting of the self occurs in trauma. The narrative is fractured but continues on, unimaginably. You are who you were before x event, and who you are after. You are now two. Synthesis can only be drawn from disparate parts––it is discordance itself that constitutes the mosaic.
In this way, traumatized individuals may have the potential to experience both heightened empathy and a broader multiplicity of avenues of thought. Or maybe I just need a crumb of validation. Cheers!
January 18th, 2023 (6:00-6:10pm)
Remember when I was obsessed with moral purity because I was actually hiding the most sinister possible secret? Remember telling other kids that I think it’s immoral to gossip? What a fucking narc! And telling the truth even when a white lie would have been far more effective and emotionally competent––I mean, I offended people a lot when I was a little kid. If it’s true, how can it hurt? When I was in the UCLA psych hospital and we were doing art, I painted a face on a piece of paper. Once it started becoming semi-semi-realistic, people started to take notice, and basically started to crowd around me in an uncomfortable way and tell me THAT’S SO GOOD! Which is nice except in my own troubled mind I’d just released a demon or whathaveyou out into the open, and a little bit of my cold troubled raw meat soul was just chilling there on the page, in full view of all these other suicidal miscreants, and basically everyone was raw dogging my essence and telling me “YES GOOD” it is GOOD you are GOOD. And I couldn’t fucking handle being judged to my absolute most central point––like here I am having exorcised this vile selfness out of me, and now there’s not only a label on it, there’s a fat stamp of APPROVAL on it? Are you kidding me? It’s one of the reasons why I prefer poetry to visual art. Everyone thinks they’re hot shit when they see a painting and can tell themselves GOOD or BAD or whatever. In a poem at least you have to spend a moment with the soul shred––you have to at least sit there and read it once or twice. Even then, a poem doesn’t lend itself to a judgement as quickly as most pieces of visual art. Except to poets, but I don’t expect most people who look at my work to even like poetry. Poetry is an easy thing to absolutely despise. I remember living in Santa Rosalia also and kids crowding around me wanting to touch my hair, and I was this little 8 year-old thing trying to understand the loud noises and feeling horribly anxious and so on. But the thing is: none of these people meant to disturb me––in fact quite the opposite––which is one of the reasons it’s almost guilt-inducing to bring these kinds of things up. Like oh no somebody liked your painting, boohoo, but actually in my little brain newly pumped with a special brand new antipsychotic fresh on the market, it was judgement day, for my idiot ass, and so on and so forth. At least I’m writing––honestly, I can’t describe how relieving it is to write after such a long hiatus of fear and depression. I can’t even tell myself I’m writing because I fear I’ll stop––
January 17th, 2023 (10:20-10:30pm)
I am feeling sad, lonely, hopeful, fearful, nervous, depressed, and supported. I want to cry––in fact I might cry. That’d be something special. Now to write: to set a lifelong habit to write for ten minutes a day. Lifelong! Ha. Imagine. I’m a bit tired of being alive. I worry that most of my transformations have already been undergone. I know that there are millions of versions of myself beneath this one that are greater and more understanding and more generous and more vibrant and shimmering, but I do feel that many of the truths I believe at the moment will continue as tenants to which I will adhere for the rest of my life. I’m a clown of the self. But as long as I don’t fear ridicule (mainly my own), I think something can be worth it. Something can be worth itself. I can be worth myself. I have a few things I need to do, but something I need to prioritize is a looseness with creation. It will extend from me like disgusting tendrils and I do not need to recede. I am allowed and willing to write like a fool. I am allowed and willing to express every stupid worthless utterance that I so choose to spout. Nothing I say needs to be anything needs to matter in any way. Volume is the way, for now. Later is the time for editing but generation is the major focus at the present. Goodnight, Emily. My friend. Going to sleep is the most terrifying part of the day. I really hate it, and I don’t want to do it, and I am afraid of it. I dread the period of time before sleep even though that’s honestly the time I have many unadulterated and dreamy thoughts. Why fear that? I love my own thoughts. I do not need to fear my own thoughts. Silliness can be great in that it takes a lot of the power away. But reducing the power of something is a precarious activity. You’ve got to lessen its intensity without completely trivializing the subject. It can work if you don’t go too far too soon. I want to sleep without fear. I want my body to relax. If I can cry a bit then I will be able to cope.