Hangover

I wish sometimes I could get on a bus and just keep going all day and night. Then I remember that busses run on loops and I would just end up back where I began.

Have been considering the condition of Sherrie Levine and followers much more than usual. For some reason, I have become enticed by sensations of deja vu…I thoroughly enjoy those satisfying (yet rare) occasions when you realize you have been there before, and yet are able to pinpoint when and how. It seems that Levine’s castings not only give me the excruciating “been there, done that” feeling, but also allow me to relive the last 4 years in an effort to figure out when I have seen her work. Turns out, I saw her work in 1919. Or, in 1932. Or, in 1966. The list goes on. 

Perhaps that is why living in a world of simulacrum is comforting for most. Deja vu is imminent. We need it, though. Sometimes, seeing a familiar face is better than sex. Better than love. When I see myself responding in a Gestaltian manner, I feel really, really fucking good.

To celebrate my feeling kinda good, here’s a recipe for blueberry cupcakes; I’ll be posting pictures of the gluten-free ones I’ll be making tonight:

• 1 1/2  cups  (about 6 3/4 ounces) plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour, divided
• 10  tablespoon  granulated sugar
• 1 1/2  teaspoons  baking powder
• 1/4  teaspoon  salt
• 1/8  teaspoon  baking soda
• 1/4  cup  butter, melted
• 1  large egg
• 1/2  cup  low-fat buttermilk
• 1/2  cup  2% reduced-fat milk
• 1  teaspoon  grated lemon rind
• 3/4  cup  fresh or frozen blueberries, thawed
• _____________________________________________________________

 

Speaking of which, I made a new friend recently. I find him challenging and enthralling, like trying to grow tomatoes on your balcony. He sometimes looks me in the eye. He seems coarse but has a gentle bit to him that I greatly appreciate. It is 6am. I can’t sleep. My new challenging friend and I had a relatively heated and difficult conversation. As with Lucas, and of course my lovely David, it seems that whenever I allow myself to get close to boys they tend to think I am somehow in a hot romantic chase for them. Well, maybe it was different for one. We were young and intelligent and full of ourselves. That’s beside the point.

Luckily, this conversation turned out quite well and we moved on to other things. 

What I am quickly realizing is that, unfortunately, I am not 16 anymore. My closest friends are getting married and the people I have held so dear to my heart have, well, moved on. I wanted to tell my new, challenging friend that this will inevitably happen to him as well. You meet someone fun and cute, and no longer do you have a need for neo-Platonic friendships. Suddenly, the universe makes sense and all is right; never again will you need to talk about entropy, the avant-garde or Sonic Youth. That’s how it is.

Right?

Cig and coffee now. Go to work early, get things done. Payday. Find an apt. Tired. Miss my mom. On and on.

 

Big dog.

Considering the condition of autism in children:

Difficulty in reading or recognizing facial expressions in others.

Does this mean that they inherently cannot recognize the meaning of words? Can they read poetry and understand its profound impact upon one individual versus another? Do they understand that their words can affect the emotional conditions of others?

NPR reports that kids who grow up with dogs tend to interact more positively with other children, and furthermore, will be able to better interact with adults as they grow. This is due to the fact that a dog will learn to respond to a child’s emotions. When a child is happy, the dog will be happy; if a child is upset, then the dog will learn to comfort that child. 

–> This works both ways. Children see the dog responding to them, so they learn to respond to the needs of that dog. A child who grows up with a dog will be able to recognize sickness, apprehension, tension, etc, within the dog. This, scientists say, transfers to their interactions with people. They are more able to “read” people.

Question: If this is true, then would raising an autistic child further their ability to “read” others? Will they be more likely to understand concepts such as, “If I call you ugly, and you smile about it, does that mean that you are not hurt? Can you harbour feelings that are not shown upon the face?” With proper face-analysis training, combined with the partnership of a dog, will an autistic child be able to understand present and unexhibited emotions together?

———————————–

 

Have you ever read Emily Dickenson? Good. Me neither. I always hated her work. Seems to me like all her poetry can be rewritten into the song, “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” Hate it.

However, today I was thinking about her poem, “I am nobody. Who are you?” The only part of the poem I actually remember is:

“I am nobody.

Who Are you?

Are you nobody too?”

That’s all. Terrible stuff, it is. But the reason why I remember it is because my mother had an illustrated book of Emily Dickenson’s poems. In the poem, she is sitting in her bedroom, speaking to a bird. 

Who are you, anyway, bird?

 

Made in Iceland. God knows they need it now.

I woke up sick the other day. Home sick, eventually. But in all reality that romance is gone and instead it left a hole in my self that kept my stomach bleeding into my other intestines. 

 

Long time since last post. Will try to pull head out of ass and write something sometime.

Achey and confused, lately. I guess anemia and WWII had something in common. Spending the days unpeeling oranges and then not finishing them until they become hard and crusty on the outer cellulose skin. Mostly seedless, thank god. Metro, traveaux, dos-dos, beyond that. Spending lots of good nights laying in bed, early mornings on the back porch. Read The Unbearable Lightness of Being, only after reading The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. I’m beginning to miss my evenings masturbating to the words of Kundera while I listen to the neighborguy downstairs throwing fragile shit at his girlfriend. Its too warm, now. He stopped yelling and throwing because he knows everyone is opening windows. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I read in The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. It has been a month or so now since finished, and quite honestly I’ve forgotten most of the first half and am struggling to find words to enlighten myself about the latter. Something Peter Pan-like, I believe. Except the Lost Boys never raped anyone. I keep thinking about the rape of Sabina. Aren’t all adults pirates? Why, yes, Wendy. They are.

When I was sick with an intestinal virus in the 10th grade, my mother used to hold me as I cried. Today, she still reminds me of doing that, of sleeping at the foot of my bed so she could keep one firm hand on me. If not, I’d shriek in pain. This weekend, I needed so badly to be touched. I think I scared Kyle away. Maybe that’s why Kundera felt that Sabina needed to be touched, molested by those children. She gained something undestroyable in her violations. I needed Kyle to violate my space and rock me back and forth while I cried. 

Maybe nostalgia is my real crime. I’m expecting too much out of others. I’m grinding my teeth without a bathtub, sobbing when the pipes underneath the kitchen sink start smelling like tar and feces. I want someone to pour the water over my head to wash the shampoo from my hair. But it is too late. I’m a pirate now.

Possiamo essere perdonati?

Can we be forgiven?

 

Where am I?

The Rose Art Museum is closing…pawning off all their goods for cash. 

My body hurts. My heart hurts. I need to wash the floors. 

Fuck it. I’m getting a dog.

 

I’m tired of not having sex.

Enough said.

 

With/out

So. Here I am, writing a review of Jason Sheppard’s work. This is how I arrived here:

For the past few weeks I have been inconsolably sad, cynical, and…well…very Hamlet-esque. I mean, how many bodily fluids can you count? Mine was melancholy, the black fluid that pisses everyone around you off whilst you are moping around your castle. Right? Hamlet-esque. Anyway, suddenly the weather became beautiful again so I could ride my bike. The earth’s rotation and degree-of-tilt intuitively acted and regained my confidence. Yesterday was better. And I made a phone call.

Now, I am never an advocate of therapy. I think it is a waste of time and money; save the addicts and those that are actually crazy. But lately, my friends haven’t been present. My family believes that if I have any problems, that I will most likely commit suicide. My co-workers…well…we see / hear enough of each other. So as you can see, I am greatly understaffed in the ‘HELP!’ department. So I decided to find an outside resource.

It was quite effective, actually. I made a pact with myself that this would be the only time I went to any “counselor” about anything. Now, I think it was the best decision I have made in a long, long time. Turns out I’m not defeated. But it is about time that I do more than move it; I need to let go. For one reason or another (I’m attributing it to an unnamed pizza incident), I regressed into my previous self. Lost confidence, lack of an ability to articulate emotions and problems; bullshit fucking incidents pushing paths away.

So it is better. Not to say that things outside of my control are any better, but I can let go of them.

My biggest fear: Kyle leaving.

I still want to move.

 

I have now written you 17 love letters, none of which I have delivered.

I always felt that things are different, even after being gone from someone for so an hour. An hour can change a person. 

My stomach hurts. I’m scared.

Kikulachu ki nguoni mwako. That which eats you is in your clothing.

 

Go retrieve me breakfast!

I had a dream last night that my ex was following me to my work in Denver. I was trying to write a note to my dad, and was somehow afraid he was going to find my new phone number. Then he began talking about how he wanted to have a show of his “work;” I asked, “What are you going to show?! You haven’t DONE anything!.” It didn’t seem to bother him. I tried to walk away, but he would always be right next to me. It was disturbing and dulling. He makes frequent appearances in my dreams. In several of them he is drunk and violent, trying to rip off my clothes and berating me. In others, he merely appears in a silent moment. Nonetheless, I won’t be escaping his presence until I leave this place behind. 

He threw away my sneakers. I had good sneakers once. Then, he got me new ones, white and pristine looking. Secretly, he threw away my others, saying that I didn’t need them later when I asked. They were fine, just not enough “kanye” for him. But he would never let me wear my new sneakers outside. We got into a big fight about it. For some reason, I ended up apologizing.

Last night Priya and I went out for drinks. I realized shortly after we had a long conversation about our exes that I never actually told anyone about just how bad it was with John. I would tell stories to Jess or Audrey. Both would tell me to drop the mic. But I was so enthralled that it never hit me how bad it was. If my family had known…if my friends had actually known…

Feeling mildly prokaryotic today, as you can see, very reminiscent. Not nostalgic. Just waking up from a few nights of weird dreams. Its not like Macbeth actually finished with a field of fallen angels. I walked through that swamp and heard their crying from the mud already. 

What a weird morning.

 

Sober

My contacts have suctioned themselves to my eyes.

I feel like a giant pumpkin. Or a crew of rats.

I feel like I am finally seeing it all for the first time. 

Let’s…let’s just run away. No? Okay. I’ll stay. Its how it is supposed to be.

 

Days

I have been having trouble remembering my dreams lately. It is quite unusual when this happens; usually around times when my waking world is mildly needing more attention than my dreaming world. Perhaps Freud’s ridiculousness doesn’t apply to some…in that I may or may not be needing my subconscious to know just how fucked up things have been lately. 

Kyle is sitting right next to me yet still I am missing him. Funny how seven feet can feel like seven hundred million light years. Like I’m in another galaxy. I miss him. I miss having a night with him. I miss this kitchen. I miss feeling like I did in the summer…thus meaning I miss feeling free. Now I feel cramped. I feel like I should be having drawn out conversations with my refrigerator while I let the milk go bad. We don’t have milk. We haven’t paid our rent. I don’t have toast. No peanut butter. Friends are gone. Audrey is gone. Feeling disconnected again.

That is what it alway seems to come down to. Being disconnected. When I’m in NYC I always feel like I should be this way…I should be feeling far away from things. Once my friends all left it was like I had no motivation to make connections with others. I think I’m just jealous…watching the ones I love move forward in their lives while I dangle rather unmerrily around doting on other people’s dogs and having a broken bicycle. I need some encouragement. I need to fix my bike. Not getting much for my internal being…I think I should find a replacement for my inner-alien in order to get SOMETHING REAL DONE. No work, no play. 

Oh, god. Days.