So the thing about being in a writing program is it feels like all writing needs to be devoted to making work for my program. I feel less guilty wasting time doing things that make me feel worse about the world than I do about writing here. But reading about how shitty the world is is starting to get to me. I can’t spend time on the internet anymore. It’s just too terrible a place.
All this to say: I’m trying to come back here. It’s better than reading about who hit whom, and who is going to prison for what, and where in the world is on fire, and where in the universe smells the most like farts (spoiler: it’s everywhere. Everywhere smells most like farts).
I am trying to finish my thesis for school (a novel! A novel about a terrible family doing terrible things to each other terribly, but the writing is good, so I got what I came to school for), and another project (a weird, weird sort of semi-autobiography thing, made up of bizarre answers to a questionnaire I stole from a psychologist and an inventory of myself and a gazetteer of the places I’ve lived–needless to say IT’S HOT, SO HOT, AND ALL THE KIDS WILL BE IN THE THEATERS SOON WATCHING A MOVIE BASED ON THE BOOK OF MY LIFE), and I’m trying not to stretch myself so thin I just give up on everything and eat salty snacks. I ate a bag of goldfish crackers yesterday and it was painful to open my eyes this morning. They weren’t crusty or anything, the corneas were just so dry the lids were almost sealed to them, pieces of rubber to glass.
I have no illusions this will last. We shall see.
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.
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.
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.
I 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?
i need to stop
with the angry
I’ve been undeniably cranky lately. The past several weeks. It’s been either contagion and I got it from somewhere or I’m Patient Zero and spread it up and down to all the people who are porous around me (sorry, so sorry, I didn’t know I was giving you pinkeye on the Third one. At least is isn’t visible and people will still sit next to you on the bus). People I have noticed it in:
- Little gray asshole cat in the neighborhood (has taken to shitting on the fucking sidewalk, how dickish is that, can’t even be bothered to shit in the gutter or on the bare dirt around here, fucking little asshole cat)
Okay, I had listed three other people here, but I removed them, because I’m trying not to talk about other people. As long as you aren’t grumping at me, which they aren’t, I don’t mind. Have your feelings. Have away! Don’t take them out on me and we’re totally cool. There have been some miscommunications because grumpy people are more anxious and forgetful–this includes me–so I need to take that into account. But it’s more than just me, it’s a lot of people, which makes me think this is an emotional virus.
I think it’s starting to shift, though. At least for me.
I got a huge shift of creative energy the other day. Well, I got a huge burst of toxic energy (I felt like I was dying–don’t worry, this happens not infrequently to me), and then I had to go see Moms. But I was able to push this shit out of my psychic colon and paint this energetic poop on the walls of my own private asylum. I can use it for creative inspiration, is what I’m saying. So I’m onto a new, short-term project.
It’s shadow side, this project is, so I’ll be dipping my cup into the darkness a lot in the nearness. Next few weeks or month or so. That’s fine; it’ll give me a constructive channel for all the yechery. Maybe I’ll be less of an a-hole. Maybe. No promises.
The thing about taking on a new, highly energetic project: it hurts to do this. It’s like shedding a skin. It’s cutting the nails past the quick and bleeding. Losing teeth makes for the tender, bloody, pulpy spots, you know? That’s where the energy comes from. The energy comes from the parts of the body that don’t normally get exposed. It comes from the humors. The bile, blood, phlegm. Growth and creation hurt. If you don’t believe me, ask a pregnant lady. Hella them are fucked up crazy people. But you get a baby/work at the end of it, so hopefully you’re at least satisfied about the whole thing. Not always, but you know, there was at least some sort of payoff. Flu just sucks and then it sucks less and less until you can hold your head up without it feeling like it’s full of dirty rocks and motor oil.
This is good shit, is what I’m saying. But it’s way potent. I’m already having waking visions and sleeping dreams related to this project. I’m not taking more of the project on than I can handle (I guess, but probably not, I’m probably doing too much, letting it eat too much time), and I totally know my dealer (that’s not true, really; I have no idea where this shit comes from. Do you know the Muse? Or the energy of the universe? I fucking don’t. I feel it, and have only a rudimentary understanding of it), but still: creative energy is a helluva drug, man. Crazy-ass trip.
We’ll see how long there’s catshit on the sidewalk. That cat is a fucking nincompoop, really. No decency.