Days like today.

Some days, like today, I feel as though I have been crying all day long. But I don’t remember shedding a tear. 

Evaluation

Light dances on the windowsill, waking me. Sleep does not leave me quietly.  Laying there the silent battle in my head debating the day, the life, the work, causes my head to throb.  My jaw aches from my anxious grinding. Opening my mouth I hear, but don’t really feel the light click of my mandible popping back into place.  I’ve turned my alarm off perhaps ten times, and wondered why I woke up at least eight. I can’t tell whether an hour or five minutes has passed.  Finally I find myself standing before my coffee grinder not remembering getting out of bed.

I’m on the T and people surround me, I look at the clock on my phone and realize I’m going to be late, I can barely breathe.  I’m at home standing at the doorway holding the knob in my hand. How long have I been standing here? What time is it? My stomach, aches, lurches, and I shake.  My backpack feels as if I had filled it with bricks. I sit it down, look through the veil of the white curtain out onto the road, I need to be on, and try to turn the doorknob. My fingers flow gently over the cool brass warming it, and I try to turn, but can’t seem to remember how. Suddenly the heat of the knob is scorching, my hand flees the knob as to avoid being burned.  I check the dead bolt, then go lay back down.

The studio calls me, and my head screams at me to move, get up, get out, go do, go make, but my heart reminds me of the endless talk, that takes and beats the life out of what I love, and some one hands me the stake, “We’re merely deconstructing what it means to paint, what it means to make art, what it means to be an artist,” Some how deconstruction got confused with destruction, and I can not participate in the naive massacre.

When I do make it up to the studio, its like staring at an empty mirror, not recognizing who or where I am. I try grounding techniques, but that only seems to send me flying further away, or deeper down. My shell walks above me, and I am trapped below looking up through murky waters, reaching, reaching, reaching, for the surface but never making it up for air.

I was not always this way? I cannot honestly affirm yes or no. I know myself as a disconnected thing searching for the self and knowing the outside other. For most it seems that they know the other exists because of the self, but for me it is reversed, my greatest other is myself.

When I am fully present I remember everything and feel everything that was. Those horrible moments that lead me to this state of fractured self. I try to make work about it, because that’s what I want to do more than anything. But when the reflection is empty, how can the hero kill the gorgon?

Pills oh the pills, the hope filled oblongs of promises: sanity, clarity, and health.  But only one will work, only one is the right match, and thousands of suitors sit before me and shout, “Eat Me!”. Like Alice I reach and take, with the trust or sheer curiosity that this one, this one will work, this one will help. I sit on the couch and spew out and the back and forth helps relieve some pressure, but mostly I still feel as though I treading water waiting to remember how to swim.

In the fall it was attack, attack, attack, always on the offense, but with the winter I grew weary and weak. Sick with exhaustion from the battle and trying to cull the screaming wellspring of anger that was inside of me, and missing my target every time.  Reviewing and seeing all my work together was helpful, made me realize how being up on the rack for too, long can weaken one’s muscles. The words I used were filled with uncertainty and confusion, and spoken with a quietness coming from insecurity and doubt rather than humility. I did not want to speak so much as I wanted to listen to what those I respected had to say about what they saw, what they were experiencing.

The monsters inside of me battle. One: the monster creator. The other: the monster unnamed. The creator had been loosing this winter, tired from the constant thrashing and hunting of the unnamed. But now, now, new light has come and I see, the monster creator sees, that hunting for that which is unnamed has no reward, there is too much to do, too much to make.  That which is unnamed does not need me nor a creator to name it, let that monster find its own name, let it be, let it be unknown.

The Toll of the Troll

Chatroulette is the ultimate trolling tool.  Which makes it one of the weirdest places I’ve been on the internet. I’m sure that there is a term, but I don’t know what it is. Where a person will be like talking to you, then they ask you to help them jerk off, and you do, and then right before they cum they change the camera.

This was okay in some instants, but man did it make me feel awkward in others. I do not think I will be returning or paying that toll again.

It didn’t really cure my boredom, wasn’t that interesting, and yea. I defintely don’t think I could be a phone sex operator. Since talking with strangers on chat roulette is so difficult for me, plus I didn’t really care, wasn’t really into it, and kept laughing when I shouldn’t.

All well.

Dear Therapist,

I’m sorry if I was unpleasant last session. You see I’m just terribly unhappy and upset. You know why. Or I’m guessing you do, since you seem to pay pretty good attention.

When I was talking about language… you asked me, “Where did you get the idea that you have this kind of power?”

I think I miss spoke, because its not so much that I think I have power to truly hurt people, its that I find that words have weight, words have power. And I guess I have said some things that are powerful. Sometimes mean things, and mean things hurt.

But maybe they weren’t really mean per-say, since they were how I felt, and I wasn’t really trying to destroy, more relieve the pain that was inside of me. But seeing people’s faces fall is something I a well familiar with. I watched it in school how a prof would show a student how their world view was illogical, or wasn’t quite the thing that maybe they thought. The expression that would come over their faces. So beautiful, seeing an epiphany happen.

I know the power of words. I’ve seen them, felt them.

I continually feel their weight.

The word abuse.

Abusive.

Being used to describe my family.

Gotta be careful with that shit.

Question of the day….er, night.

How can I give the most context, with the least amount of information?

Goals

There was a time in my life where I had goals and they mattered to me. I was looking at my friend’s 25 before 26 blog and I thought…that’s a great idea, maybe I should do that.

Then I realized I don’t care.

All I want to do is make bullshit food. Paint bullshit pictures, and make bullshit objects.

And even then, not that much. Every time I make food I have to clean it up. And I know that’s a dumb complaint. I do. What a first world problem. Fuck I’m an asshole.

When did I become such an asshole?

I had to shave all my pubes to do this body caste tomorrow. I look like an alien.

Not taking the medication helped some.

But my stomach ache is back. And I still don’t give a fuck. I never want to leave the house.

Having roommates makes me want to leave the house, but he’s gone till…maybe when I’m gonna be leaving.

All I think about is sex and death. Did I mention that already? I don’t remember. And Mad Men.

In many ways I hate television. But I really love this show. Its a great story. I relate to so many different aspects of it.

I suppose I could have a goal to leave the house each day.

A goal to shower twice a week.

To always be honest with my counselor. Who may not be my counselor after May.

Am I too sensitive? Some people have said that I should develop a thicker skin. Other people have said, “Oh you should really get over that guy, doesn’t sound too bright”

I know that they have no clue. I know that they mean nothing but encouragement by it.  But the thing is.

They have no clue.

No fucking clue how hard it is for me to sit in some classroom every day. I hate everything. And when people tell me things like that… I want to ask them how they would feel if…

I once clung to god and Jesus when I was wanting them to exist.

Now I feel as if I’m clinging in the same manner to meaning. Life as meaningful.

I don’t think that’s true.

Maybe meaning is the last god for me to kill.

Booty Call

I’m sorry for not updating… like ever. Please forgive me.

I think I’ve come to the comfortable conclusion, that booty calls are my friend. I like the idea of hanging out with a person, ever so often, just to meet my carnal needs. Because, quite frankly I can’t handle much else.

Every time I start opening up…. lets just say things end quickly. Sometimes its me, sometimes its him.

I like the honesty of saying… I like having sex with you, can’t really do/afford much else right now, so want to fuck here and there?

In the past week I’ve had sex with three different people. Each experience was pleasant. And honestly I think increasingly with each one.

Would I be cool with screwing these three people ever so often? Sure. Do I want to get to know them beyond that. Yes, but mostly because I find them interesting, not because of some strange spark in the pit of my stomach.

My counselor said that I have a very blasé kind of attitude towards dating. And he’s right. I’m extremely indifferent. I feel nothing for these men. I think that they’re interesting, and I have fun with them, but when I stop and analyze my feelings… they just aren’t there. Do I want to keep fucking them? Sure. But more because I focus so much better when I get laid.

I don’t really focus very well at all when I’m left to my own devices. I end up masturbating for hours on end… Having a partner, really allows for more of a resolution. A kind of… Okay now time for something else.

Is this what polyamory is? Maybe, but I think its further from the Ethical Slut, and more towards….just something else.

Am I acting out of character? No, I don’t think so. I think in some respects I’m still redefining my character from when I was raped, and from being divorced.

I told one of the guys about my past. Rapes, hospital…you know the whole schtick. But I don’t feel closer to this person. I may never see him again. I don’t know.

Will I see the guy I saw last night again? I don’t know…. And I don’t know if I care. He has a Michael Fassbender quality to him, and I wanted to fuck him. Now I have, and I still want to, but do I need to? No.

The other day I put my kegel cisor in for the whole day. Just to see how that’d go. I think that was a mistake. I mean I didn’t damage myself, but lets just say there might be such a thing as too tight of a pussy.

 

I just think that maybe I should cool it with the kegels for a minute.

I stopped taking my medicine because it made me sick. And then once I spaced out the dosage, I realized I had become increasingly numb, and a bit suicidal, so no more Effexor. I feel much better, actually….feeling.

I think its also part of the reason that I was having a really hard time in the studio. Like…the medication made me see the absurdity, and frivolity of what I do, and then all my head would tell me is what an asshole I was for adding to the junk in the world. Make me feel guilty for the need to create.  Sooo… fuck that.

With out making art, I am a miserable cunt of a person. It is life to me.  It is my oxygen. I know all my life feeds my work. Lately, due to the nature of my work… sex definitely does.