Dear Fellow Member of Society,
Here we both are, swimming upstream in this. I do not know where you need to spawn. I do not care. That’s not my business. We will both eventually die in the abyss.
I am sorry my arbitrary set of rules and regulations I have created for myself and crystallized my behavior around conflicts with yours.
I realize in the grand scheme of things neither of them matters more than the other. It doesn’t really matter if there’s space for pedestrians in front of you or behind me or if someone’s in the intersection or if someone has eleven items in a line at a checkstand or if you aren’t carpooling or if you don’t cover your mouth or whatever fifty years from now when I’m dead or dying. I won’t care then. But right now I’m caught in minutia because they give me the illusion of control over something, just something, anything, a slippery sense of falling off into the void, and you got in the way. You got in the way of my feeling powerful over loss of ego. Ego is really what I need to lose.
I am sorry if I made you feel less that the amount of respect other human beings deserve. I’m working on it, but sometimes I need to work harder than others. I am sorry if I hurt you.
Hey, this is nasty. So just brace yourself for nasty. You knew I was inappropriate. I can’t turn this shit off.
I often feel like there’s something wrong with me–PROBABLY BECAUSE THERE IS–and like everyone is staring at me (I’m really not interesting enough on the outside for them to be–or am I?) but I don’t often feel like everyone can smell me. I bathe on the regular. I mean daily. Sometimes three times a day, if the man is over and I’m going to get some. I mean we’re going to have conjugal relations. S in the E-X. I guess that would be E-S-X. Which is how we do, because we are kinky.
So I couldn’t figure why I smelled like a truck stop toilet. Like really bad, and coming from my Netherlands. And right after I took a shower. What the fuck? I guessed I had an infection in the ol’ punani (my punani is old as the hills), which is terrible, horrible, very bad. And away from home! But the thing is: I wasn’t doing anything different, and this was the sickeningest odor ever.
For reals, my ‘nani smelled like a Gateway to Hell. Usually, I can clear up [I am not a doctor and this is so not recommended] a yeast or bacterial infection with a couple of drops of tea tree oil on a tampon and shove that shit up there and I’m good to go. So I went to the store to get my oil and felt ashamed. I hoped they just thought I stepped in shit.
And I did my poor lady cure-all. And it helped a little. But I had just had my period and–OH SWEET JESUS NO. NO PLEASE GOD NO….
OH yes. I had left a plug up there and I didn’t know how long it had been up there. At least 36 to 48 hours. But maybe even longer than that. I didn’t remember when I last put a tampon in, I really didn’t. It was Sunday and the last time I remembered anything tampon-related was Thursday. This has always been a fear of mine. I’ve even been to the doctor before because I thought I had one in (didn’t).
AND it took some doing to get it down. I did it myself, but yeah. Might have to do with the posterior cervix. Don’t know, don’t care, it’s done.
But Seer: how did it smell?
AND it smelled like a demonic abortion. Like I had had an incident with an incubus and then thought better of the whole affair and found a priest to exorcise that shit with a holy coat hanger. Like the soul of all the urinal cakes in all of the Port-a-Potties in all of Coachella. Like the afterbirth of the Echidna, after she pushed Chimera and Cerberus and Hydra and the rest out. (Did you know/remember they were siblings? Yeah.)
AND I don’t feel sick. Doubt that I have toxic shock syndrome. It’s really systemic sepsis–a full-on staph infection. Ladies usually get it from dirty hands touching their coochies when they put in a tampon (of course, toilets are straight up ill) and then you get pregnant–with staph. Congratulations! It’s sepsis!
SO, that happened. What did you do today? Oh.
I had a swell of fear tonight and had to call someone for help with it. There was no real reason for the fear. No new information that would lead me to be afraid. I’m not sick. No possessions of mine have broken. I’m not in a jam with school. I have no new problems to face. Just regular, run of the mill fear swirling its skirts around me, laughing and hissing and spitting while it talks.
It told me I was terrible at the thing I want to do most in this world today. It told me I have No Business Writing Anything Ever. Stop it, Seer. Give it up, girl. There’s no point! You’re terrible. The worst.
I called someone pretty soon to help me get out of the spin. He helped. Within twenty minutes, we got me out of the ditch.
I think the thing that fueled this doubtfest was a bit of extremely positive information about my work that someone gave me the other day. Crazy, right? What happened: Someone tells me they like what I do, and that they want to help me put my shit into the world. I ride high for a couple of days. Hey, I’m good at this! There is a place for my work in print! Huzzah. Then for a day I feel nothing. And then KABLAMMO I feel like shit and doubt everything I create. Everything I touch turns to shit. It’s all awful.
I have to remember: it doesn’t feel like angels sing when I make good work. That’s not why I do it. And when people connect with my work, they don’t tell me angels are singing in their ears, either. That’s not why I do it, either.
But I’ll be goddamned if I stop doing it because I am afraid. Afraid of what? Let’s see which fears are even real.
Am I afraid that people won’t like me? I have sung that song for too long. I can tell you that living my life according to what I presume people want me to do doesn’t make me happy.
Am I afraid that I’ll be poor? I’ve been poor making good money! When I’m unhappy I spend every dime I have trying to make myself happy. I’d rather have less to go around and be satisfied with my life.
Am I afraid that my work will never find a place in the world? Wheels are already turning to make that happen. Every time I read aloud I connect with at least one person there (that happens for almost everyone at every reading. If you’re reading this and you haven’t tried reading aloud yet, you may want to). And so what if it doesn’t? Some of my favorite writers never found a home for their work in their lifetimes. That doesn’t mean their work wasn’t good. And that bridge is so far away from me right now.
Am I afraid that I don’t have the chops? I got into a school, so I had to get past an admissions committee. My professors think I have chops. I won an award for some poems. (Did I tell that I am an award-winning poet?) So fuck you, fear.
You hear me, Fear? Fuck you! F you in the A! Go home and take a shit! Get lost! Go jump in a lake, you scrote!
not your pal, Fear
If you need something to put in your mouth and chew on instead of fear, BOOM:
I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing……Only I will remain.
And if you need something for your eyes and ears to hear instead of fear, here (Find musician Steven Buck here):
Open letter addressed to argumentative people who think they are just into spirited discussion
Hey, I am sure you have a lot of things to say that are really important to you about (but not limited to):
- Palestine/Israel/the Middle East
- Drug Legalization
- Prostitution/Sex Workers
- Wars/Military issues
- Government issues
- Veterans affairs
- Health care
- Oppression, general and/or specific
- Other assholes
But I don’t have time to listen to your stories. I’m not going to change my mind. No one over the age of twelve will change their mind on these sort of topics without seeking the information themselves. I don’t want to talk to anyone who doesn’t agree with me about these topics, and I don’t really want to talk to anyone who does agree with me on these topics. Shit just makes me angry. I’m angry enough.
But Seer, don’t you want to make a difference on [this topic]?
Yelling and/or nattering at me about bullshit isn’t the same thing as making a difference about bullshit. How about instead of telling me that the Onion shouldn’t be calling a little girl a cunt and how racism and sexist and arrgh you go make a positive difference in the world? Or something? Jesus, if everyone would stop getting their assholes all clenched about fake outrage and chopping teeth about it, and really did something with all that energy, problems would be getting solved!
That so isolationist/idiotic/small-minded/submissive to patriarchy/gluten-tolerant!
See, this is why you shouldn’t be talking to me about any of this. If you really want to be angry, go yell at someone who does or does not agree with you, but leave me out of it. I don’t like this. You know what I like?
I like this video and its ilk very, very much! So if you excuse me, I’ll be listening to this. Go be angry somewhere else without me. I got shit to write. And I really want to listen to these two albums again. I can’t do that with you talking at me.
No matter how insane and ridiculous they seem, you must follow your dreams. Even if they are talking to everyone about Proposition Poo-Poo Bananas.
It’s almost the first of the month! That means another chance to increase your luck for the month–the superstitious way. Maybe I should write a diet book. Lose Weight with Hexes. People would dig that, wouldn’t they?
Anyways, first thing when you wake up on March first (or any first of the month), before you say anything else and before you put your feet on the floor (these two things of the superstition are very specific–if you fake it or try and go back it Will Not Hold, I’m sorry for you, you must wait a month), say out loud, “Rabbit Rabbit!”
Then you will have good luck for the month! Splendid! Splendid in deed. Yes, in all deeds, all will magically be splendid and you will be so lucky. What will you spend your luck on, my friend? For luck is currency in today’s fast-paced, superstition-based economy. Mecka-lecka-high, mecka-highny-ho, says Jambi Gecko. Making shit happen.