i can't explain and you can argue, but don't argue with me.
i have extra silver hoop singles in my bathroom cabinet the way other have single socks.
but even when they're not dangling from your ear, whispering directions into your head, they emanate cha cha girl wisdom from the box in the bottom of the bathroom cabinet.
white girls shred their men. if they're still calling them the old tattered version of a "Feminist," then they downright make peanut butter out of their men, and i have no fucking idea why white girls do that because they're the same ones who sneer about how weak their men are.
okay, good and quick lesson:
always see how someone you're interested in, loves others.
see the shape of the people closest to them.
how did they break up with past loves? how do they still talk about or treat them?
that's paramount to me because i'll be on the other side in about ten minutes if they take themselves way too seriously.
that's paramount to me because i'll be on the other side in about ten minutes if they take themselves way too seriously.
because i have old problems with "spontaneity" regarding my rage and ending up in a predicament,
i avoid people who can't handle anything chaotic because they can't be grounding.
i love that james walks away when i get too loud.
i respect it.
it's only had to happen i think twice and now i get it:
james will let me sit on the floor and pull legos out of my armpits in public and sing an aria,
but he won't tolerate me yelling at him.
so i respect it, even though i don't really think i was ever yelling!
(smile)
i'm from the east coast. so, sometimes i talk a little loud. cripes.
each time he left i was always like, "damn. he really did it."
and he doesn't warn. he just gives me the keys and leaves.
i think he walks the long way home because he hates buses and he'd take the walk as an opportunity to see the city from foot instead of bicycle for a change.
anyhow, i digress.
make what you want to fuck.
do you want to fuck a man you make bow down, but can't get up and be higher than you to pick you up?
you have to check yourself, your reasons.
but if you do, you're already the rare minority who also believe in raising kids with more attention than a houseplant.
---
another thing:
the reason i think you have to figure out if you're here for love or money, is because the truth of being pretty and fucking in luxury because of it, just means you're really a live-in hooker on retainer. that's why such girls are always the bitchiest alpha queens.
not because they feel superior. it's because they're mad they didn't even bother trying to take the SAT test for some back up plan, because hanging around the world on your looks alone is so fucking boring you can't even imagine, and i love terror, but i can't stomach the kind of stopwatch terror on losing your looks. that's like asking for an existential crisis with your own fucking cherry on top. if you've gotta sit around in a car waiting for your man, you've gotta sit around your life waiting for your orgasms of all kinds.
as they say: you earn every dollar, so see if your own pussy is superior to the silicon botulistic rot they're milling out there.
to do it well, you have to be able to charm every man in the room while sitting at your man's feet and elegantly evading any appearrance of impropriety.
the cheap ones are always looking to trade up.
you get "skanky" fast that way.
it's a play and depending on the spells you've cast, you're playing short or long games and you have to protect your reputation because it's money.
this is like a tenure track way of thinking and it's real. and terrifying.
white girls come back from playing hookers for fun.
colored girls don't.
hell, i've been called a tramp for things i didn't even do.
besides, i could never keep a crappy job for speaking my mind, and mark said if i ever had to become a maid, i'd become the kind that was watching their porn, paging through fashion magazines, and lifting up my feet while i make them vacuum their own damn dirty ass house.
the color thing made it so i'd only be the colored girl fantasy of white people i grew up with.
here, as i write of the past, jewish and white are the same. "jewish" was generically "white" to me until i moved to california in my 20s and saw how fucking white actual white people were (except for seinfeld, who ushered in the era of The Complaining Asexual Spineless Whining Pussy Superhero Man we're still reeling from today. talk about inverted genitals. eek!)
suburban jewish guys in high school were hands off because even the secular ones would only fuck non-jews but only fall in real love with jewish girls in case case kids were involved later on.
so most mainstream jewish guys seemed to be hands-off until they got their first set of actually-jewish kids out of the way.
i get it now that i've seen actual white people, how that jewish lineage thing is hard wired because it wasn't that long ago the germans were stuffing jewish hair into VW seat cushions.
anyhow, i loved white boys and men. some of my best friends really were white guys. hung out with them. for hours at a time. they were funny.
but italian guys weren't the ones who could talk about philosophy until 3am and bite the back your neck at the water fountain the next day. those were the jewish guys.
i could relax as all white guys tended to be less sexually open than black guys who'd slam you down with their eyes and fuck you after "hello."
besides, most young white guys aren't ready to fuck someone of another race until they've exhausted diddling the family dog and jerked off to the same white girl in different variations for 15 years.
it'd be like the mind fuck of getting their first blow job from another guy.
as they say: you earn every dollar, so see if your own pussy is superior to the silicon botulistic rot they're milling out there.
to do it well, you have to be able to charm every man in the room while sitting at your man's feet and elegantly evading any appearrance of impropriety.
the cheap ones are always looking to trade up.
you get "skanky" fast that way.
it's a play and depending on the spells you've cast, you're playing short or long games and you have to protect your reputation because it's money.
this is like a tenure track way of thinking and it's real. and terrifying.
white girls come back from playing hookers for fun.
colored girls don't.
hell, i've been called a tramp for things i didn't even do.
besides, i could never keep a crappy job for speaking my mind, and mark said if i ever had to become a maid, i'd become the kind that was watching their porn, paging through fashion magazines, and lifting up my feet while i make them vacuum their own damn dirty ass house.
the color thing made it so i'd only be the colored girl fantasy of white people i grew up with.
here, as i write of the past, jewish and white are the same. "jewish" was generically "white" to me until i moved to california in my 20s and saw how fucking white actual white people were (except for seinfeld, who ushered in the era of The Complaining Asexual Spineless Whining Pussy Superhero Man we're still reeling from today. talk about inverted genitals. eek!)
suburban jewish guys in high school were hands off because even the secular ones would only fuck non-jews but only fall in real love with jewish girls in case case kids were involved later on.
so most mainstream jewish guys seemed to be hands-off until they got their first set of actually-jewish kids out of the way.
i get it now that i've seen actual white people, how that jewish lineage thing is hard wired because it wasn't that long ago the germans were stuffing jewish hair into VW seat cushions.
anyhow, i loved white boys and men. some of my best friends really were white guys. hung out with them. for hours at a time. they were funny.
but italian guys weren't the ones who could talk about philosophy until 3am and bite the back your neck at the water fountain the next day. those were the jewish guys.
i could relax as all white guys tended to be less sexually open than black guys who'd slam you down with their eyes and fuck you after "hello."
besides, most young white guys aren't ready to fuck someone of another race until they've exhausted diddling the family dog and jerked off to the same white girl in different variations for 15 years.
it'd be like the mind fuck of getting their first blow job from another guy.
so i had until my 20s before i had to start keeping an eye on where things were going.
i see why mark lammers used to say it's incredible that white people run the world because when they're babies they look like they'll never make it.
white guys were more like brothers. friends. they could take a joke and talk for 3 hours about philosophy as long as they were charging your car outside of the only open supermarket for miles in a snowstorm.
as you know if you've read my books or this clog, i bypassed sweet and floral first kisses from androgynous girly suburban school boys who couldn't possibly scare me with their miniscule amounts of testosterone.
but i cut my teeth on grown athletic black men and that apparently makes all the difference in the world.
and it never even occurred to me there'd ever be any possible reason in the world to actually fuck a white man....
that is, until they put all the strong black men in prison, put the rest in dresses, and rendered the remaining superheroes insane.
---
but just as they profess every other year that some color orange is the new black, white is the new black.
look for the holy in the sleazy y'all.
if i have to explain, i'll do it later.
there's no easy transition here.
we can't be distracted!
we must focus on energy because i've been avoiding this because it's the thing i know least about,
but need to understand in order to better master my passions and focus in what time i have left on this earth in a fragile human body.
okay, so energy--
so everyone has their mystical secrets that makes them titter and feel like a magician.
but you've gotta be humble like an old jewish salesman even as you're this fierce goddess superhero thing. it has to be a simultaneous thing. like living in iridescence.
you have to always be magnificently huge, while being able to accept that you're a tiny spec of nothingness, and take it on the chin.
everything i say has its counter, that's why i say ignore me. do it your own way. if this inspires a rebellion that nets something more productive than what you were doing before, then that's perfect.
learn to see between the atoms. that's the new "underground."
since no one who needs and loves a city can actually afford to live in one for all the screen people who like the "sound" of living in the city, we have to find other more creative ways to see each other.
so now we have to become smarter and break through our own fourth wall and start to look at the greater CONTEXT.
where the fuck am i going?
i don't know. i'm just writing. no editing. you get what you pay for...
so energy...
there are many reasons you can be empathetic. i hate words or calling it anything. the moment you try to define anything, you try to make yourself feel special.
like me kicking around the idea of having a sexual business arrangement to continue my work. i turn it down because it seems like it'd be nothing more than a hair stylist telling her client his bald spot looks like it's finally filling in from the rogaine.
i can't do that. i can't even tell you your cock is big when it isn't. but i will be able to tell you that i'm relieved your cock isn't huge because i'm not a size queen as i like to be fucking slammed hard by a man and a big penis is usually attached to proud lovers who think that's enough.
i can tell you that people with something to prove or tell you are the best lovers. they are also the best artists. the most interesting people. i can also tell you that talkers and charmers are often surprisingly uninteresting lovers.
that i can tell you.
but the fake shit is just gonna make you weak and then i'm gonna wanna punch you for it later.
so energy.
i'm intense but i'm in a very vulnerable position when... when? now it's like all the time. i was thinking when am i most strongest? i feel strongest on a stage or when we're in rigid roles because i know that you'll stay where you are: away from me, and i'll get away with being more of myself than in real life.
that's a true and surprisingly (to even me) maudlin, hackneyed answer from an old vaudeville routine.
but it's true.
anyhow, so i have this friend from art school who's passing through here in SF again, and he was having a hard time and he calls me and says he needs to see me almost 6 mos back. i'm in the middle of trying to make things happen and only see him because he's an old friend.
i'm barely sleeping for hearing voices and imagining plays, and know that i've got to look insane. he knows me. seen me during all the big dramas and adventures and...
wait. i'm too tired to finish.
i'll finish more another time.
i know these writings will be more like snatches of ideas and i'm okay with that. that's how it's gotta be.
but i worry about putting more manipulative crap out there like some smarmy pick up book.
but the thing is that things are already so evil and creepy, i can't possible help further evil with these ideas because they're more intense and self-canceling.
basically, you get what you put in.
if you use this to get over, what the hustler always learns is that you never get over.
ever.
so that's the self-correcting thing that i can tell about a man who's also on the other side of his magic and lost. a man who's got all the power in the world to make you roll over and bark like a dog, but he knows that if he indulges it for no reason, he's gonna bring a heap of trouble only onto himself.
high school kids play with this shit like heavy guns.
girls?
don't get me started.
this is why i'm the quasi modo.
women can get so good at this stuff, they start and run plays from previous lives.
but for what?
the plays are so little.
every woman is born to be a whore.
that's what feminism is REALLY about to me.
about saying fuck it to a life fated as a certain level whore.
(but Feminism and white women are the ones who asked me to lap dance for tips while the boys taught me to hold out for True Love!... if you don't think this was an ice pick to my temple of understanding, then you shouldn't even be here. talk about a paradigm shift of epic proportions)
because every girl knows this whore thing.
she fucking loves it if she's on the shiny side.
combs it all all like baby doll hair and the evil kitty on a bond movie.
every pretty girl knows that there comes a point when she tallies up her score in the mirror and sees if she's able to go for the big game or little pissant game.
the high school girls who sit like pigeons on lunch tables and look beautiful? trophy wives in training, but life shakes out the street walkers, wives, and quitters.
me? a bit of a quitter, i'm afraid. i never played even though i started out the quiet one.
don't get all fake romantic and think "aaaw" because to me it's not realistic.
to me, we've all gotta break sometime.
or i think i'm superior. superhuman.
unrealistic.
and everyone does it, right?
nah. again, i'd have to behave and be too quiet.
but men are the ones who've reminded me of the romance.
that even if it makes no sense, it makes perfect sense.
and there's absolutely nothing wrong with trophy wives and hooking and sex work, etc.
nothing.
in fact, i think some of the most honorable women work in the sex industry because they're direct, frank, and don't fuck around but they know the reality of the art.
i once went to a gallery show where the woman artist had a video running of her fucking her male patron on camera.
how much more honest can you get? and have a gallery show?
that's magic.
fuck... that's real art.
more later on the energy thing.
i'm skirting the issue because i feel like i'm putting absolutely all my weaknesses out there.
fuck. i already was stupid enough to upload that uproduced screenplay with my home address on it, and wonder why some drunken couple's trying to get into my apartment at midnight.
silly me.
anyhow, i have to start winding up my writings on this because after the holidays i've gotta get back to work. writing takes a ton of time from me in order to be even as clear as i am. i have to think for days and hours, i lose sleep. that's before i face the keyboard.
then all this other stuff comes out and then i've gotta deal with that, and so that's why i like being blank and not thinking and communicating so much.
especially "in general."
when i talked to laura and margaret in the cafe last week, i thought, "oh. i prefer this. eyes. i must make room for more of this and less 'in my own head.'"
it's like art school.
hours and hours talking about ideas in the real world and your work.
but i feel myself getting smaller in a good way.
i'm surprisingly glad now that i've quit art and writing.
i thought i should still be crying last week,
but i realized i felt free.
i was actually to give everything up.
i've been working constantly ever since i left the group homes and bucked out of high school a year early.
i'm not kidding. i'm beat to hell and i've not stopped.
even adventures and lovers were shoe horned in.
i used to write books on deadline so i lived my life on deadline. i'd force epiphanies out of myself by using my own mind fucks on myself.
i'm not kidding.
that's part of why i am so sacred about energy. protecting it. maintaining it. seeing who feeds it, who taps it. who needs it. all that stuff.
more later.
fuck. this shit just goes on and on.
i wanted to be down to my last 2 posts or so.
now i see three maybe.
it'll probably be four.
but i really only wanted to come back to answer all the people who seemed worried i'd offed myself.
thanks. i was worried, too.
that's the energy thing.
i've seen people with crushed hearts let their defenses from life down, and then they get sick and die.
and i totally fucking get it.
it's like you actually will the black cloud of death over you and submit to it and say, "okay, i'm ready to go now."
it seems rather easy when you're feeling ready to be done here on earth and go away.
too easy.
it scares me because i promised james i'd never be the one to leave him.
he'd always have a home here with me, wherever i was.
i have to keep my promise in a myriad of ways.
the simplest way of always having your energy is to simply scare the shit out of yourself a little bit every day by being vulnerable where you don't want to be.
you don't have to mount a fucking hallmark card commercial, but little things like emotionally exposed emails can be earth shatteringly terrifying for me because the likeliness of being ignored at first is scary, then you shrug and know this is why people don't do it, and you move on.
you move on because you have only so much time in this world.
time to find the ones who do get you.
and when you are yourself, they will find you no matter where you are in the world.
it's why i don't ultimately worry.
i am myself. and the ones in my future are quietly watching me and plotting and planning and waiting for their bogart in casablanca moment.
watch. or anyone who's known me knows that as many people as i alienate, it's just crossing the assholes off the list so i can get to the good ones.
this is why i don't date.
i've never needed to.
relaxing and eating and laughing and sharing with others is most special to me.
by the time i sit and break bread with someone, it's like we've been married 30 years.
but i do need patience.
i'm long past the expiration date of "the pretty girl."
when you're free of that, you can do anything you want.
never "need" without being able to snap your neck and chain yourself to the bumper of a truck and drag yourself away. what you're supposed to have will come to you when you live like this.
i knew this. james has to remind me of this. it's not the fucking "goal." the goal is just what you tell people at cocktail parties.
living so you try to turn yourself on more than any snake fucker is the constant, ever-changing, beautifully alive defiant goal.
it's rebellious. it's "fuck you." it's hot.
at least for me.
more later.
e
but just as they profess every other year that some color orange is the new black, white is the new black.
look for the holy in the sleazy y'all.
if i have to explain, i'll do it later.
there's no easy transition here.
we can't be distracted!
we must focus on energy because i've been avoiding this because it's the thing i know least about,
but need to understand in order to better master my passions and focus in what time i have left on this earth in a fragile human body.
okay, so energy--
so everyone has their mystical secrets that makes them titter and feel like a magician.
but you've gotta be humble like an old jewish salesman even as you're this fierce goddess superhero thing. it has to be a simultaneous thing. like living in iridescence.
you have to always be magnificently huge, while being able to accept that you're a tiny spec of nothingness, and take it on the chin.
everything i say has its counter, that's why i say ignore me. do it your own way. if this inspires a rebellion that nets something more productive than what you were doing before, then that's perfect.
learn to see between the atoms. that's the new "underground."
since no one who needs and loves a city can actually afford to live in one for all the screen people who like the "sound" of living in the city, we have to find other more creative ways to see each other.
so now we have to become smarter and break through our own fourth wall and start to look at the greater CONTEXT.
where the fuck am i going?
i don't know. i'm just writing. no editing. you get what you pay for...
so energy...
there are many reasons you can be empathetic. i hate words or calling it anything. the moment you try to define anything, you try to make yourself feel special.
like me kicking around the idea of having a sexual business arrangement to continue my work. i turn it down because it seems like it'd be nothing more than a hair stylist telling her client his bald spot looks like it's finally filling in from the rogaine.
i can't do that. i can't even tell you your cock is big when it isn't. but i will be able to tell you that i'm relieved your cock isn't huge because i'm not a size queen as i like to be fucking slammed hard by a man and a big penis is usually attached to proud lovers who think that's enough.
i can tell you that people with something to prove or tell you are the best lovers. they are also the best artists. the most interesting people. i can also tell you that talkers and charmers are often surprisingly uninteresting lovers.
that i can tell you.
but the fake shit is just gonna make you weak and then i'm gonna wanna punch you for it later.
so energy.
i'm intense but i'm in a very vulnerable position when... when? now it's like all the time. i was thinking when am i most strongest? i feel strongest on a stage or when we're in rigid roles because i know that you'll stay where you are: away from me, and i'll get away with being more of myself than in real life.
that's a true and surprisingly (to even me) maudlin, hackneyed answer from an old vaudeville routine.
but it's true.
anyhow, so i have this friend from art school who's passing through here in SF again, and he was having a hard time and he calls me and says he needs to see me almost 6 mos back. i'm in the middle of trying to make things happen and only see him because he's an old friend.
i'm barely sleeping for hearing voices and imagining plays, and know that i've got to look insane. he knows me. seen me during all the big dramas and adventures and...
wait. i'm too tired to finish.
i'll finish more another time.
i know these writings will be more like snatches of ideas and i'm okay with that. that's how it's gotta be.
but i worry about putting more manipulative crap out there like some smarmy pick up book.
but the thing is that things are already so evil and creepy, i can't possible help further evil with these ideas because they're more intense and self-canceling.
basically, you get what you put in.
if you use this to get over, what the hustler always learns is that you never get over.
ever.
so that's the self-correcting thing that i can tell about a man who's also on the other side of his magic and lost. a man who's got all the power in the world to make you roll over and bark like a dog, but he knows that if he indulges it for no reason, he's gonna bring a heap of trouble only onto himself.
high school kids play with this shit like heavy guns.
girls?
don't get me started.
this is why i'm the quasi modo.
women can get so good at this stuff, they start and run plays from previous lives.
but for what?
the plays are so little.
every woman is born to be a whore.
that's what feminism is REALLY about to me.
about saying fuck it to a life fated as a certain level whore.
(but Feminism and white women are the ones who asked me to lap dance for tips while the boys taught me to hold out for True Love!... if you don't think this was an ice pick to my temple of understanding, then you shouldn't even be here. talk about a paradigm shift of epic proportions)
because every girl knows this whore thing.
she fucking loves it if she's on the shiny side.
combs it all all like baby doll hair and the evil kitty on a bond movie.
every pretty girl knows that there comes a point when she tallies up her score in the mirror and sees if she's able to go for the big game or little pissant game.
the high school girls who sit like pigeons on lunch tables and look beautiful? trophy wives in training, but life shakes out the street walkers, wives, and quitters.
me? a bit of a quitter, i'm afraid. i never played even though i started out the quiet one.
don't get all fake romantic and think "aaaw" because to me it's not realistic.
to me, we've all gotta break sometime.
or i think i'm superior. superhuman.
unrealistic.
and everyone does it, right?
nah. again, i'd have to behave and be too quiet.
but men are the ones who've reminded me of the romance.
that even if it makes no sense, it makes perfect sense.
and there's absolutely nothing wrong with trophy wives and hooking and sex work, etc.
nothing.
in fact, i think some of the most honorable women work in the sex industry because they're direct, frank, and don't fuck around but they know the reality of the art.
i once went to a gallery show where the woman artist had a video running of her fucking her male patron on camera.
how much more honest can you get? and have a gallery show?
that's magic.
fuck... that's real art.
more later on the energy thing.
i'm skirting the issue because i feel like i'm putting absolutely all my weaknesses out there.
fuck. i already was stupid enough to upload that uproduced screenplay with my home address on it, and wonder why some drunken couple's trying to get into my apartment at midnight.
silly me.
anyhow, i have to start winding up my writings on this because after the holidays i've gotta get back to work. writing takes a ton of time from me in order to be even as clear as i am. i have to think for days and hours, i lose sleep. that's before i face the keyboard.
then all this other stuff comes out and then i've gotta deal with that, and so that's why i like being blank and not thinking and communicating so much.
especially "in general."
when i talked to laura and margaret in the cafe last week, i thought, "oh. i prefer this. eyes. i must make room for more of this and less 'in my own head.'"
it's like art school.
hours and hours talking about ideas in the real world and your work.
but i feel myself getting smaller in a good way.
i'm surprisingly glad now that i've quit art and writing.
i thought i should still be crying last week,
but i realized i felt free.
i was actually to give everything up.
i've been working constantly ever since i left the group homes and bucked out of high school a year early.
i'm not kidding. i'm beat to hell and i've not stopped.
even adventures and lovers were shoe horned in.
i used to write books on deadline so i lived my life on deadline. i'd force epiphanies out of myself by using my own mind fucks on myself.
i'm not kidding.
that's part of why i am so sacred about energy. protecting it. maintaining it. seeing who feeds it, who taps it. who needs it. all that stuff.
more later.
fuck. this shit just goes on and on.
i wanted to be down to my last 2 posts or so.
now i see three maybe.
it'll probably be four.
but i really only wanted to come back to answer all the people who seemed worried i'd offed myself.
thanks. i was worried, too.
that's the energy thing.
i've seen people with crushed hearts let their defenses from life down, and then they get sick and die.
and i totally fucking get it.
it's like you actually will the black cloud of death over you and submit to it and say, "okay, i'm ready to go now."
it seems rather easy when you're feeling ready to be done here on earth and go away.
too easy.
it scares me because i promised james i'd never be the one to leave him.
he'd always have a home here with me, wherever i was.
i have to keep my promise in a myriad of ways.
the simplest way of always having your energy is to simply scare the shit out of yourself a little bit every day by being vulnerable where you don't want to be.
you don't have to mount a fucking hallmark card commercial, but little things like emotionally exposed emails can be earth shatteringly terrifying for me because the likeliness of being ignored at first is scary, then you shrug and know this is why people don't do it, and you move on.
you move on because you have only so much time in this world.
time to find the ones who do get you.
and when you are yourself, they will find you no matter where you are in the world.
it's why i don't ultimately worry.
i am myself. and the ones in my future are quietly watching me and plotting and planning and waiting for their bogart in casablanca moment.
watch. or anyone who's known me knows that as many people as i alienate, it's just crossing the assholes off the list so i can get to the good ones.
this is why i don't date.
i've never needed to.
relaxing and eating and laughing and sharing with others is most special to me.
by the time i sit and break bread with someone, it's like we've been married 30 years.
but i do need patience.
i'm long past the expiration date of "the pretty girl."
when you're free of that, you can do anything you want.
never "need" without being able to snap your neck and chain yourself to the bumper of a truck and drag yourself away. what you're supposed to have will come to you when you live like this.
i knew this. james has to remind me of this. it's not the fucking "goal." the goal is just what you tell people at cocktail parties.
living so you try to turn yourself on more than any snake fucker is the constant, ever-changing, beautifully alive defiant goal.
it's rebellious. it's "fuck you." it's hot.
at least for me.
more later.
e
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