Protip: unless you want to smell like a gateway to hell, don’t do this.

Dante's guide rebuffs Malacoda and his fiends in Inferno Canto 21 between ditches five and six in the eight circle.

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.


Next vocab word: seppuku


So the other day I was taking a nap and when I woke up the first thing that materialized in the fog of my mind was seppuku.  Yes, that’s the ritualized suicide by disembowelment of samurai.  (Incidentally, I knew what that word meant offhand.  I looked it up to confirm, though.)  No, I don’t know why this creepy vocabulary list is continuing.  All I know is that it is continuing.  And it’s really weird and that’s all the information about it I have.

So far, it isn’t hurting me or disturbing me, but these are casting further doubts on my sanity, yes, if you were wondering.  I mean, I know I’m not sane.  But I am within two standard deviations of the mean most of the time.  Most of the time.  This is three deviation shit.

This day, this life, they feel used, and I wonder if I am alive or dead

Sainte-Odile sur son lit de mort de Charles Spindle

Glory be.  World without end.

I’m not sure today if I made it.

I don’t know.  Today feels familiar, like I’ve lived it already, but it feels wrong.  Dirty shirt, smells like BO.  Gross.  Open a box of shoes: there are sweaty footprints on the insoles, and they aren’t mine.  I don’t think. Are they?  I can’t tell.  Why can’t I tell?  That’s a simple question.  Are these your shoes, Seer?

Is this your life?  Well?  Is it?  I’m asking you a question.

As it was in the beginning.

And I’m in my mother’s house, and she’s got the sutures, and they’re terrible terrible things, looking just awful, but it’s okay it’s okay it’s all okay and everything will be okay and I can forget forget about yesterday yesterday when I was fetal curled up in my own safeness crying because I had to come here it’s okay I can forget that it’s okay to be here forget if you don’t think about it you can’t smell the piss.  I have to wash my hair three times to get the ammonia out in the morning.  Forget it it forget.

World without end.

Sometimes I wonder if I really died, you know.  There were some times I came close.  When people shook the very death off of me like I had leeches on my back.  And I wonder if I came back to the world I knew I knew the world I knew was born into and of or stepped into a Purgatory version.  Am I paying off my debts now?  Do I ever get a list of what they are?  A receipt?

And ever shall be.

If I were dead, how would I know?  Do the dead know?  Would I even know.

Lemurs behaving badly


Look: you can see his naughty bits! NAUGHTY BITS. Watch your hoods, ladies. Also, where’s the body of the second one?

I’m not sure when my friends and I became the cliché of new Berkeley.  But we did.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had breakfast with Sparrow and Miss DeLoop the other day.  Brunch, I guess, since they got eggs and I got carnitas.  It was noon.  We had planned on eleven, but then Benjamin Franklin et al. got all up in our shit and messed up our morning with some Daylight Savings bullshit.  And then we couldn’t reach Zorro Smitty. (Yes, these are my noms de guerre for my friends.)  He was off the grid.  This shit doesn’t happen in the Age of the Cell; it used to happen all the time when we first met.  Remember?  When your friend wasn’t home and wasn’t at the spot and for all you knew they were being probed by the Alien Head from 1995?  But these days it’s disconcerting.  Someone could be trapped under something heavy.  Someone could be having a stroke.

Anyways, it turned out that Zorro Smitty had a callback for an audition, so hooray for him–for us all, really!  He got the part, too, but we didn’t find that out until later.  Zorro Smitty is a star!  And I am a star fucker, so I’m keeping my wagon platonically hitched to that boy.  I would anyways, but star fucker is so fun to say.

Sparrow is the one with a real job, a real grown up job that had sent her to Europe recently.  She’d even gotten to go to a fancy tech party with bands and shit.  It turns out traveling to other continents on business isn’t glamorous–this is what everyone has told me–because the time difference fucks your shit up so badly you can’t get right in a day or so for meetings.  You don’t have fun.  You just try and get your sleep right and feel out of it.

I am the old ass obligatory graduate student of the bunch.  I’ve had three real, grown-up jobs in the past.  But now, I am the one who regales them with tales out of school.  I have two professors who I think might be sorceresses.  I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw a magic throwdown between them one day.  I think the one would have a raven as a familiar, the other an iguana.  No clear winners as far as I can tell.

(Also, students take note: red light + theremin + animal costume = bad performance art.  I’m just saying.  That’s right up there with yarn in a tree.   That’s art school 101.  What, are you going to write “whore” all over yourself with red lipstick and jump up and down in a cheerleader outfit next?  Step up your game, people.  Maybe then people will want to attend your “happenings” instead of walking by your forlorn sad little venue.)

I got to the restaurant first, then saw Miss DeLoop.  She was still covered in body glitter.  Her back is doing better, so she was able to do a show for the first time in a long time last night.  She’s a trapeze and aerial artist, not a stripper.  [Do folks ask you that, Miss DeLoop?]  The show was for a birthday party that must have cost as much as a really, really, really fancy wedding.  As much as a really, really nice car.  With options.  I still think spending that much money at one time is like a potlatch, but not the productive kind, the kind where all this shit is amassed and destroyed.  You could feed a bunch of little kids.  Find someone in anxiety over their cancer payments or something.  But I guess you gotta spend money to light money on fire or something.

And then Miss DeLoop dropped a bomb on us.

“And I got humped by a lemur!”

Pics or it didn’t happen.

–She showed me the motherfucking pics.  Of a lemur on her shoulders with his little gleaming demon eyes.  Sexual demon eyes.

“He crawled up my back, and he liked my fuzzy coat.  And his trainer was all, ‘Uh, no Taj.  Stop, Taj.  Taj.  Bad, Taj.  No.  Taj.”

She said it was scary.  I can’t stop laughing even now.

Miss DeLoop, please send me the pic.  I think we’d all like to see it.

I imagine it went a lot like this:

No more angry mobs versus mourning sociopaths


So something really awful has been happening in the news lately.  Pick whatever story you want as your choice of Awfulness!   There are dozens and dozens of them!

And yet again: I can’t do this anymore, y’all.   I can’t read the news.

I was looking at the comments on this one news story (because TODAY ONLY, 50% off of masochism–and I just couldn’t resist), and so much of it came down to two things: vengeful, bloodthirsty mobs with torches versus bewildered, mourning sociopaths ready to split semantic hairs.

“KILL IT WITH FIRE!”  was the most up voted comment, usually, followed by, “I really, really wish we could…KILL IT WITH FIRE!  Watch the red, red flames lick higher and higher and send the soulless down to eternity of brimstone and–FUCK IT BURN IT NOW!”

The other side went something like, “That’s not hurting because I say so.  This is my world.  You’re my boys and girls.  You are all my little babies.”

Also popular: “Everyone SANE and RATIONAL, be careful out there because other soft-bodied bipedal creatures are delicate, unpredictable and not easily controlled.  It might tell some sort of authorities if you try to ‘kill’ ‘it’ with ‘fire,’ if you get my drift.  You might get on some sort of arsonist registry.  Think of your future.  And remember:  KILL IT WITH FIRE in 2016!”

Goddamn, it’s sick out there.  And “out there” is in the hearts of so many people.  And there’s nothing I can do but choose to let it infect me.

Or not.  So not.  I choose not.

No.  No more for me.  It’s not like I can do anything about these things by just reading about them.  I try and make a difference in the lives of the people around me every day.  I try to love them well.  Ignoring them by pushing my principles or by being an asshole because I’m all upset over this bullshit?  No thank you.

I’m just going to watch the video for Space Unicorn repeatedly.

Tell me about your past and future lives

E_innga_kyo The Illustrated Sutra of Cause and Effect- 8th century, Japan. 26.5cm height. ink, color on paper, handscrollI know I spend a lot of time on here–way, way too much.  Way over the rim with the rich taste of Brim.  Far and away too much–talking shit on Moms.  I’m [about to rationalize it away, this bad behavior] really anxious right now, feeling out of control and she is the symbolic manifestation of my trouble.

But in so many ways, she is awesome.  I think I’ve mentioned on here that she can see auras.  But have I mentioned that at times she can see people’s past bodies on them?  Yeah, that’s intense.  It happens mostly for her in times of her profound spiritual growth.

The one I remember the most was when some lady was talking to mom about not liking scarves or necklaces.

“I just can’t have anything, anything on my neck at all.  I have to keep it free.  Deep v-necks, boatnecks, everything.  I have to.  I can’t explain it.”

And like that, and it was all dark in the room, and it was the hold of a ship,  and Some Lady was a naked African man with thick rusty fetters on her neck and arms and legs.

“I can understand that,” Moms said.

It never helps to tell people what you see of them, though.  Everyone thinks they’re Jesus or Lancelot or Joan of Arc.  No one thinks they’re just some guy who got shot in the back while stabbing someone else in the face, you know?  And that’s why he has back pain?  Who wants to hear that?  How is that helping?

Moms has an irrational love for steel pans.  That, coupled with her love of dance (is she a good dancer?  Well, it ain’t ballroom, but it makes her happy, so don’t hate.  Lots of shoulders and thumbs, she’s a master of the high shoulders and waving thumb-fist.  It’s sort of a private Hora, perfectly content to sit right there in that chair) makes me wonder where she came from.  She also loves Zydeco, which I cannot stand.  It’s Louisiana hillbilly music with a lot of accordion and washboard and it sounds like blues on meth and glue and hooch before meth was popular.  I will listen to almost anything.  There are about three or four, maybe six artists and one genre–no, two genres I can’t listen to.  The only thing I can’t listen to that she doesn’t listen to are those there Juggalos, whatever that genre is.  That would kind of be awesome, if my late-sixties mother was into ICP.  She does like the raunchy humor.

I have an irrational love for the carillon.  I have always heard it pronounced “Caroline,” like the woman’s name, but I don’t know that for certain.  It’s hard for me to keep going on my way and not linger when I hear one.  The sound, if you’re wondering, comes from one of the weirdest instruments ever.  It’s a bell tower (like the one on the UC Berkeley campus, if you know that one), but it’s played with levers that you hit with your wrists or your fists.  Well worth watching, if you’re the kind of weirdo who likes antiquing for Catholic paraphernalia (I adore an old medallion or a rosary) and old graveyards and everything skull/skeleton.  (Yes, I love all things Catholic and bother my Episcopal mom about her religiosity.  I AM A CONUNDRUM AND A TROUBLEMAKER.  Bad daughter, bad!)  But my love of all this stuff makes me wonder where I came from.

Maybe this is why we don’t get along.  (Also, see troublemaker.)  Our past souls are too different.  I’m all uptight monk and she’s all loose smoke-tough Jamaican and then I got put in a herbed form this time and she’s in a straight-laced body this time and hijinks ensued.  And by “hijinks” I mean “fuck-you-pay-me,” and by “fuck-you-pay-me” I mean “you’re not allowed to set healthy boundaries around yourself without my flashing on you like a sullen thirteen year old.”  Oh, and “you” is “Seer” and “me” is Moms.

But y’all, I heard some music today that made me extremely hopeful!  I heard the music today that I think is my future.  I can’t explain why, any more than I can explain why the carillon is my past.  It’s from Thailand (at least, I think it is; I can’t read Thai, but that looks like Thai–I should ask Sparrow if that’s Thai.  She can’t read it, but I know she can recognize it.  She can probably read a few words, like “toilet” and “beer.”  Her brother takes or took lessons.  Why you would care I don’t even know) and it seems to be a mix of the old and the new and it’s fucking awesome.

Maybe Moms and I will meet up again there.  And maybe we’ll have another chance to get along and get it right.

This is how the steel pan is supposed to be enjoyed: in the street, with someone going through the garbage behind you, little kids in your way and such.  I’m also pleased with the random videography, and the weird tempo changes at the whim of the artist.

This is the sound that speaks to my soul: the carillon, a word I can never spell correctly.  They come from different movie soundtracks, no? No one I know who loves me can stand this for long periods of time. Not unless it’s Mario Brothers or something, and even then they lose interest.

This is what I heard today and it rocked me.  I can’t stop looking for more. I mean, look at how much fucking fun these people are having! Drinking and dancing nasty, immoral dances in the streets! It’s a tiny, movable rave! They look like a second line party, like the people who come back from the cemetery in New Orleans after someone is laid to rest. The living cut loose, because you only have so much time, you know?



so much





i need to stop

with the angry

I am the Prophet of the Spelling Test

Theo_van_Doesburg_201 Tesseract with arrows pointing inward

I got a weird flash the other day.

“What’s tesseract mean?”

“Huh?” says the man I love who more than puts up with my insanity.  This is my version of pillow talk.  He gets karmic points for being with me, yes.

(Later I asked him if we would still date if I had only one toe on each foot, but it was the entire width of all my toes combined, and had one nail, like a flipper.  This was a little much at eleven at night.  He was more confused than anything else.  I made a note to back off of the “what-if–my-body-were-shaped-like-a-plot-device” talk.  Also always interesting to me: what if all my body hair were concentrated in one place, like a rhino’s horn?  Yeah, sometimes this tries the patience, but note that I am an excellent cook.  Like really, really good.)

“Tesseract.  Is that the name of a pyramid in three-dimensional space?”

“I know that’s what they use to get energy in The Avengers.  The blue thing, remember?  The cube?”

“Oh yeah.  So is it some sort of Euclidean solid or something?”

“Why Seer?  What?  Why ‘tesseract’?”  Indeed…why…?

“I don’t know.”  I didn’t.  “I just had that word in my head and I don’t know rightly what it is.”  No voice gave it to me.  It just came through me, really.

This satisfied him.  But not me.

I looked it up today, but not until after I got another word.

A tesseract is the analog of a cube in four dimensions (square : cube :: cube : tesseract).  Look, I can’t explain it as well as Carl Sagan can, and you’d rather hear him than me, believe me.

After I took a nap today, the word torpid came into my mind.  That’s when I’d had enough and I needed to look both of them up.

Torpid means numb or slow or lazy or in stasis or hibernation.  It’s also used to describe a stupor in mental illness.

This dormouse is described as torpid or being in torpor.  He’s also snoring up a fuck.  That’s the technical terminologism.  You can look it up.  I studied biology at Science University Tech State University College, you know.  Go fighting louses!

Why am I getting a vocabulary list from somewhere?  Hell if I fucking know.  I have heard these words before, but if you had required me to define them I’d have had to have made something up.  I could have probably sounded convincing.  But I’ve already told you, my psychic powers are stupid.  Is it any wonder my prophetic ones are also for shit?  (If you want a great prophet, you want the Third Eagle of the Apocalypse.  Now there is a great man with great logic and the ability to prophesy.)