so long for now.

"Because hope, to translate its definition out of the ornate moral philosophy of the day, isn’t a sense of entitlement that insists that good things will inevitably come one’s way. Rather, it’s the recognition that some good can be achieved no matter what the circumstances might be, combined with a sustained willingness to try." ---John Michael Greer

"Most Positivists are disturbingly pessimistic at heart, banishing any distress that dares disrupt their fragile fantasy of certainty. Anyone who cannot tolerate dissenting (read 'negative') views possesses little faith, hope, or confidence in a world beyond their control. They are hopeless and often quite embittered from it."--- Christophe (commenting on Arxhdruid Blog)

---

those quotes above were just snatched from a conversation james and i were having yesterday and i liked 'em.

i had to finish that last thought (all that i've been writing about lately) and now that i've bum rushed myself into answering it for myself, best i can, before the new year, i have to get back to "carrying water/chopping wood" of life and figuring out what i need to do next to take care of myself and be in this world.

i hope that you guys out there start putting a little more physical appreciation into receiving those blow jobs. you don't have to always talk, but just drape your body over our heads and stroke our backs and lovingly stroke our cheeks like the sweet, adorable, tiny cock suckers we are in the moment. yank our hair back into "i love you" and maybe give breaks from swallowing once in awhile and if you've got a superfreak at home you might notice the free time for more attention one way or another.

worrying about a fire hose down the back of your throat is like always expecting the bough to break and babies constantly falling. / everywhere.

besides, watching a man come can become it's own umpteenth wonder of the world and leave the great wall of china in the gutter where such walls belong.

 now i think swallowing is something reserved for someone special, or it's like putting wedding rings of everyone on all your fingers and toes. that's just me now.

but i never knew all this other stuff. and i've got a new appreciation for the power of the ejaculating man from below. wow.

and i love how after he's all big and aaaargh! and it's over, james cups his penis in one hand and his semen in his other hand so's not to make a mess on the rug, and he immediately seems adorably small, boyish, and polite as he shakes his head, opens his eyes, and says the sweetest and most appreciative, "thank you, ma'am" in that texas accent of his that only comes out when he's too tired to catch and cover it.

then he paddles over to the shower for a quick rinse off.

fuuuuck....

i just about do it all over again.

i've learned to emulate what i love.

and i want to be like james is with women, and only have the body of one man written on my own body. 

i'm tired of acting feral and mad and being everyone's ID, reaction, dark side. there's no money in letting the world come on my face.

and who put that idea into practice? who?

it breaks my heart that women will sit together on their knees at a pro gang bang for the facials. it breaks my heart that these boys think this is a great idea.

you make what you fuck.

and so i get it. how can we not hate ourselves?

the darkness isn't everything. we forget. it's only one side.

so i may sound like some weird puerto rican leprechaun whore thing, but i'm as lost as you are. i'm saying things that cause me to want to kick my own ass. "that's how it works?" how the fuck do i know how anything works? and what is "it"?

all stories meant to make us feel special. / and if so, fuck it. 

i'll be a shrugging queen who doesn't know shit. just don't check your cell phone around me. the moment i catch the glance, i'm out the window with other thoughts and i'm just looking for an opening to go back to being by myself or with james or the girls at the gym.

that's why i need to get offline so much. it takes a lot to think and be clear. 

it's time to see eyes and the women at the gym now. have conversations and laugh, and scream to sweaty zeppelin songs in pasik's class.

it's time to be small so i can be massive again, in another way.

(smile)

but jeffrey won't talk to me until i start working on another project, so i'm going to draw again and learn to animate my own tiny monster girl movies in my own tiny crusty view master way.

i'll post art here but right now i feel like settling back into the life i have here.

i really do thank you all for giving a fuck and writing and giving me the space to not have to write back.

i'm actually thinking of phasing out of email. all this writing about charlie sheen got me laughing at how he was like the last one on earth who'd not heard of twitter, and he's the only one actually LIVING life and spilling over and doing analog sweaty wild things.

the rest of us were watching from our cages with flashbacks of terror from our own prior attempts to say fuck you and race for the helicopter outta here.

and i laugh that twitter and everyone used him as an example for the new age. the new age where paying for publicity is over now that we all have access to the bullhorn. 

we all have access to the bullhorn.

and i laugh because now you've gotta have a promo budget at least four times what you needed before. fuck, sheen's million-some followers cost him his sanity, his prior career, and twitter's going around adding him to the egyptian revolution on their resume of accomplishments.

everything's just more promo bullshit for the IPO later.

and everyone retweets and facebooks this shit on forever just for the 10% coupon at the end of that god forsaken rainbow.

nothing makes fucking sense.

so i want to quit this fucking computer social life and see eyes again. i want to remember how people smell, taste, feel, think, look. 

i want to be small and human again. 

imperfect, confusing.

and i've no idea who i am now. but i'll handle both the tiger in me and the narcoleptic goat, in some way. 

i'm already doing better.

when i was at adrienne's christmas party, the biggest sweetheart in pain in the room (and the one that women were ignoring but with a little encouragement, he'd be one of the best fucks around and they'd suddenly see his swagger and complain about how there are no good men. he was passionate, telepathic, loving, generous, fat--which usually means a brutally ignored romantic/sensualist and can lend a nice "daddy" quality to his caretaking, and he could fucking dance and well, and long. need i say more? --anyhow, this guy was all that and more, and yet he's alone, lonely, and no one sees him. he knew i recognized him but to me it's a whore thing to be open to everyone's mind/heart. it's too intimate. i look away out of politeness).

anyhow, so this secret diamond found me in the room--and he was instantly naked and i fell in and his eyes weren't saying what his mouth was frantically saying. he was just spouting things to keep me there. 

and i started to panic because which fucking conversation are we supposed to have?

and i'm trying to steer him to what i see in his eyes and he's got so much pain and he's so lonely and hugely loving and he doesn't understand why the world works the way it is and he's in agony, and it's all so private and in public and i can't have this over-conversation for people while his eyes are screaming and yet he won't let me go. everything he says is to keep me there just TALKING---

and i said, "i can't have this conversation now because it's going nowhere and there's nothing i can do so i'm going to get up. james, you talk to him."

and he was stunned but james laughed and he was sweet.

then i fell asleep right there on the floor for 20 minutes like a narcoleptic goat.

and adrienne and margaret didn't make a thing about it.

a lot of times women get mad at me for not being more like a regular nice woman at a party.

they think i'm not aware and selfish. 

fuck, i give at the office at home everywhere.

anyhow, happy new year.

good luck with everything. it's gonna be a doozy out there. 

i'll be back with posting art as i do it.

but i can't be regular here.

and i can't answer emails and comments. 

pretend public erika is dead because she is. 

thank you for sharing your hearts. i can actually feel you there.

i can. i get a lot of love from people.

i feel it like sweaters, hugs, beat downs, kisses, and fucks.

it's what keeps me standing, to be honest.

thank you again.

x

all photos above are of rob trujillo from metallica. a centaur you'd have to be fucking insane to ever wanna conquer. best you can hope for is a yank at that ponytail--just hold tight, baby girl.

okay. the part i've been avoiding...

the first time i realized i was a total pussy was after i'd come out of years of intense creative beat downs and hell. not this recent one. the one a few years ago after i slaughtered my writing career and toured a show.

after years of crouching in a mad fetal position, i showered, stretched, and met with dave eggers to see if he wanted to work together. we were writers, peers. when he was first starting out with his mogul/empire thing, snarky fucks in the weeklies would be envious and take him down. i didn't care what kind of guy he was or if he'd perfected the art of and "aw shucks" superiority. he's a fucking genius and he's supposed to be an asshole.

so i was his junkyard dog before we'd even met, and would write and defend him wherever i was. any other writer makes it with his work, and he's paying runway models to rub his nipples in the morning. eggers thought to start an empire. and i can always get behind any financial "fuck you."

we were supposed to check in as old pros, and i asked if they needed any help after the PGW bankruptcy had left them in the lurch. but he was fine, and checked his phone every few minutes. somewhere in there, he picked up the triumphant screenplay ("all witnesses eventually die") i'd repeatedly raped myself to write for years on welfare/foodstamps and he looked the cover over and asked,  "what did this take you? a month? my wife and i wrote a screenplay together in 3 weeks and it's being produced now ["Away We Go"]...."

after an hour-and-a-half of him name dropping and talking about how great things were going and checking his phone, i ended up leaving with a despairing wave of nausea for all of humanity that never went away and landed me in bed for 2 weeks.

the next time was more recently, a few months ago, when an old, dear superfreak friend from art school asked to see me in the middle of me trying to make this tour happen. i was raw and direct, and when he was milling around chinatown wondering where to take me to talk, i said, "you needed to have this figured out before you picked me up," and i wanted to go back to the car and home.

he got irritated and snorted, "what? are you some kind of princess or something?"

and i laughed and said in a low voice, "but _____, that's how it's gotta be."

and he looked at me a moment and saw i was serious and he about-faced and got super directed and walked me right to a cafe in north beach and sat me down and went to get us a couple of fluffy lattes.

for the next 3 hours, he told me all of his troubles and i could feel him, see him, like when you focus on a lover. and all i did was say how i saw things, and other ways, and he got thirstier and thirstier and more intense. he's an artist. knows me. so as soon as he saw the way in, he barged IN.

but he took, took. he didn't know how to stop. he couldn't. he was in a lot of pain. years of pain. he was lonely. he was gorgeous, one of the movie star gorgeous guys who thinks too much and ends up alone and you don't get it.

i still don't "get" it, even though it may be simple as pie.

but anyhow, after three hours of us driving around and he won't take me home, he's now adoring me and taking care of me and i'm trapped with him in a truck and he needs me and i feel like i'm dying and after awhile he's off fighting with the parking attendant and i'm calling james saying if i can't get home soon he needs to intervene and i'm scared.

so i finally get firm, i'm slouched in the front of the truck, and he takes me home and i had to sleep for a day and a half with james taking care of me.

i was embarrassed.

and then my friend wrote something like "what happened? that was amazing!" and i didn't know what had happened and he wanted to see me again but i've avoided him ever since.

i told him that he needs a lover. he has so much and if he adores a woman, she will be able to see him back and it's a loop, i think. but i said that james can't keep taking care of me when people take it out of me. it's not fair to him. that's what we need lovers for. because for my friend to give me back the energy i need, i'd need to let him in and take care of me.

but he doesn't know how yet.

you have to work up to this stuff. it's all baby bird stuff.

anyhow, so this is why love and attention can make people go insane.

i joke about the first few white guys freaking out, i was with after black men for so many years.
but i didn't really DO anything.
i'm not fake swaggering that i'm some secret great lover, because i'm not.

i think if you are a good lover, you begin anew every time.

i've been the most horrid lover when i'm performing and in control. that's easy.
like doodling the same doodle. there's no sweat, pain, growth.

growth is in the terror looked at with DETAIL, and that's when people crack.
that's when reality shifts.
that's when people go insane.
from too much true and real attention.

because when you look hard and long and lovingly enough, nothing or no one is inherently bad.

and then you realize all this pretend shit is a fucking waste.

but i don't want to change how i think/see/act, either.

every time i think "now i've got it," it's another illusion and i was wrong.

so now i'm shrugging about it all more.

but ever since i had to fight back for a reason to make and do art and CARE about it, i need to understand ENERGY now that MONEY can't be my main currency.

part of the reason i'm such an asshole is because i'll never, ever feel like he who has the cash is king. maybe i'm the "new boss same as old boss" other side of art, but i feel like all this terror and work i've done is worth way more than money.

fuck. i feel like i went out and brought back life.

i get the prometheus thing. i get all the old legends and tales of yore as if they were written yesterday by some loving grandmother or grandfather artist/writer/poet/philosopher, like warning notes left over the dishwasher for when i come home from school.

how to live this life above the fucking cubicles and see only the olivers and alexanders and katies and biancas and us all.

because i don't think at all that we're done being amazing when we grow up and agree to suck.

i think that's when mastery and creativity and newness is at its peak!

you can't actually accomplish anything of any massive amount to counter the shit out there when you're 8 years old.

"free to be you and me" is dying and bleeding in a gutter after being brutally gang raped by us all.

marlo thomas used to make me feel safe.

anyhow, i made a promise to myself or am listening to that old lady's edict in my head at age 8. i'll never let myself get old and boring and waste this go around.

but i'm also realistic enough to know what happens to such people.

i've tried to be okay with james taking care of me.
i thought i was a failure.
but i thought he'd try to control me with money.
he doesn't.

i didn't know people could be like this.

what blows my mind when i look back on my life, is that gloria and lucia taught me that we enable each other to exist as large and as beautiful and as alive as we can be.

yes, lucia had to walk the streets when she was kicked out at 14 and pregnant.

and she clawed her way back to herself and loving herself.
you could see it.
she emanated a sadness but a deep love and visionary ability to see the best in everyone and bring it out.

and yeah, i was only 10, so maybe there was a whole lot going on that i didn't know about.

but i can tell you from my old lady eyes looking back, that she was the real thing.
both of them were.

and i see james and i sometimes cry because i have everything and so much more than i knew.

because he is strong and surprises me with his new self every day.
and the bigger and more he is of himself, the more excited i get about him.

i've even started to reconsider this sex thing because he's gotten very strong and confident.

sometimes he grabs my neck gently and kisses me on the forehead.
(FUUUUCK!)

and sometimes he gets a blowjob every day and he fucks my head like a master because that's all he's got access to. he'll curl around it, grab my ears like handles, or pull it toward him with these massive hands that make me feel like a fragile egg.

but he's not mine.

even my former therapist doesn't understand.
everyone thinks i'm insane and that he's gorgeous, masculine, strong, open, etcetera.
they all want a turn at him!
but
i feel like i've been keeping him healthy and open for someone else.

he's too intense and you can't fuck with james physically without almost wearing your own groove into his skin. or you can waste him. (as we can all be wasted)

he's an intense, kind, passionate lover and a good woman deserves him.
i will ensure that no woman fucks with his head needlessly.

anyhow, so this is how i live.

and jeffrey is so in my work and art, i can't imagine doing anything larger than a sketch without him being involved. we are more like brother and sister in that we're not mushy or affectionate and we don't talk unless we're working.

but that'd all be chatter.

when jeffrey gets in a motorcycle accident or even goes to the doctor for a checkup, i get panicky because i couldn't imagine life without him around.

we didn't talk for 6 months and it sucked. but the moment i got a call from a producer, i had to make up with him because i can't do work of any epic size or scope without him.

he's an amazingly talented art director. but that feels so small compared to his ability to even envision and manifest things in his life.

and he loves so intensely. but he's an arm-smacking kind of guy so he'd HATE even knowing i was writing this.

james doesn't give a fuck what i write about him or us. he doesn't give a fuck what anyone thinks. he's kind of like brad wyman that way.

but you don't fuck with jefe's privacy. he won't even tell me stuff because he doesn't want me to remember. but i KNOW jefe more than anything he could TELL me.

capice?

why does anyone read this stuff? it's so maudlin and serious. what are you all NEEDING???

i wish i understood what was going on out there.
or even in here.

i guess that's all we can ever answer if we're being honest.

and even then, it's still just a guess. a story.

but that's my next thing. to learn how to be like this, open energy, and not have it incapacitate me. so that's why i avoid people and run away more than ever. because i only know how to put my game face or fuck you face on, and i don't want to do that anymore.

it's a lie.

i think i lie a lot. more than i'd like.
it's these stories. they're dangerous. words and outlines can be dangerous if you believe they exist and aren't just approximations of feelings at the time.

i have no idea what i'm talking about.

lots of snot. i don't know if you're even gonna find any cashmere in here.

but all i can do is show you my raw humanity and hope that it inspires you to share yours during this plastic time when we need to remember how to live an analog life with all the pops and crackles of imperfection and decay.

i love james' wrinkles. i love his defiant muscles. he is beautiful. i am living with a david sculpture that philosophizes and loves me as a verb.

and all this after years of fighting but sticking it out because fighting with him was more fascinating than being alone without him.

and he's not even mine!

if this is the quality of my relationships
how can i ever fucking complain? see why i want to beat myself? my constant american ingratitude shames me.

but i won't end on shame. fuck shame.

so i'll try and not be ashamed of the fact that being so open has turned me into one of those narcoleptic goats who instantly passes out with my legs up in the air the moment i'm depleted.

x

so i get a bunch of books on BDSM for ideas of where to go next with my life, and i'm going to hurt the independent book business myself by returning pretty much the lot of 'em because white people always always always have to fucking cut things up and put them in little boxes with labels and arm bands! the fucking arm bands.

george carlin was so right.

and when i say "white people," now that i'm in california, i also count black people. black people in america were made by white people. punch me if you want but it's fucking true. you can't be free when you live in constant reaction to another in order to define who you are.

maybe i'll change my mind tomorrow. fuck it. i'm tired of watching what i say when it doesn't mean shit, anyway. it's what we do how we live etcetera, fucking etcetera. all the rest is distraction.

like all this fucking "coming out."

any real cowboy knows this is all just prancing in front of the mirror feeling pretty good about yourself because there's no one COMING OUT. if you do this human shit right, every fucking moment is "coming out."

so white people have written books about "i'm a top with a bottom sensibility at the supermarket and a top in the shoe store..." what the fuck is this shit?

yes, part of the insanity of living spontaneously and freely, is bouts of insanity as you come up against all that you thought you or the world was.

and it feels safe once you think you've hit another scary age when you think you're supposed to know more of who you are by now, so you glom onto the "i'm a top who bottoms from louisiana."

fuck you.

who can fuck that?

who has the time?

this is why i don't date.

i don't listen to a fucking thing anyone says. and everyone's so glad they've got a little lunch box of goodies to present to the person across from them.

i want to meet someone and assume you can fucking throw away all that you thought you were and see what the chemistry of something new makes.

i'm not a fucking pair of shoes or an ottoman to settle down with.

not yet, anyway.

there isn't enough money in it.

and that's back to money.

i realized after a long morning talk with james yesterday, why i ultimately can't ever, ever fuck for money.

if that's what you're doing, fine. that's your story and where you've gotta go and what you've gotta learn.
i've no judgement at all. in fact, i send you affection and best wishes because the better you are at what you do, the more they will see themselves and their vulnerability, as well as the wasted POTENTIAL of all this magic, and they will try to stab you with a fork to discredit you.

it's human nature.

the art of twisting the dark side is all there is for me because that's how i'm still here.
it's too easy for me to lick my own cynicism back to life.
but i fight cynicism so hard. it's cancer. it's that black cloud of death you will over yourself when you're too fucking weary to figure out how to go on.

and for those of you who sit there and go "awww" about the sex work thing, i'd bet both of my tits that you haven't figured out how to not be a whore to your deepest dreams and desires and who you are.

thing is, i've been looking for a mentor on how to live free for my entire life. people only have corners of the corners on it. i think the most free people are the ones who're living under bridges with smiles.

and i haven't seen them, either.

but when you cease to see the fucking point of all this "success," it's scary, because there's less and less hold on you to pretend, to behave, to even CARE about the fucking towels with holes in them and then who are you?

you're dreaming of falling in a fucking heap at the feet of The Snakefucker so you can bark like a dog?

and then you read a book to find out what the fuck that's supposed to mean, but there's no "god" in it. just more arm bands and labels, and that's so not sexy to me.

to me there's no daytime. no cubicle difference.

and that to me is how to not ever be a prostitute. to live in cubicle by day doing things for other people for money so i can go home and hope to feel alive for a few moments.

i want to live this way in every moment or i feel like a sell out prostitute.

i've refined the art of saying "fuck you" to an immediate sexual tingle.

i'm strung out on "fuck you." and i know that as a woman, it's not cute to be like this. only if you're a guy.

but i don't care.

i've seen too many gorgeous examples of defiance from james, jeffrey, brad,  dorothy, and of course my father.

we never lose. that's so silly. we never lose because we don't want what you all want.

and that's why i don't yet know where i am. i'm at a new level of fuck you freedom that is trippy.

success? those porn videos are more successful than any art i'm seeing out there today (with the exception of a few die hards still in it).

but i'm seeing more confusion, life, drama, rawness, and discovery than in any fucking corporate-backed indie crap. and that's most everything.

like warhol said he preferred central park on a rainy day because he had it all to himself, the darkness is like that. rainy days in central park. you have it all to yourself to run around and see what's there.

that's how you find the holy in the sleazy or dark or undiscovered.

that's what a good trophy wife figures out. how to not trade up because you don't have to. no. not when you take the time to think and survey and see the man who may not be the most charming in the room. but the strong, quiet one who's watching for his move like bogart in casablanca. the man who's patient, strong, sure of himself. willing to take it on the chin and move on.

then that's not trophy wife hunting. then it's turned on itself and become love. love as a verb. to find the secrets in someone and help bring them to the light so that we may all continue to "come out" as ourselves every day.

that's why there's holiness in the sleaze. like jerking off past the pain for another level of intensity, you have to go past what you know in the darkness to manifest the light.

(i have no idea "what" i'm saying exactly, but it feels right)

it's terrifying.

it's terrifying to think you've discovered that you're finally gay or into BDSM or whatever, only to realize it's just another adventure. another side of yourself.

that's how spanish people are different. i mean spanish in all smears of the word.

blacks are more like whites. they want what white people have and now only have their influence.

our colonial shit enabled us to have more of our families and histories and keep our lands in our hearts (i think puerto rico is no longer a "place" to my father, but in his heart now. he can't go back. it's over. but he loves it and would actually die to keep it from becoming a state).

and the colonial model of conquest is why i can't even see things so black and white. new boss will always be same as old boss with that routine.

it's how i see Feminism as a form of colonialism that took me from my father.

white women want to fuck my father like he's a new centaur for them to CONQUER and break.

you can't break a fucking centaur! why would you even WANT to?

that's what most "old world" spanish women KNOW.

the moment you conquer the gods, you're alone with your thumb up your ass like my longtime movie star crush, jack klugman, in that twilight zone episode where he beats the best pool player, jonathan winters (LOVE HIM!!!!), at a game, and ends up all alone twiddling his thumbs as The Best. The Legend.

don't take down the best when you wanna always be curious enough to still wanna fuck the best!

that's the old colonial assimilate and kill model.
it's not the model that sits back in wonderment at how gloria could dance like a goddess.
it strives to dominate and eradicate her.
and the magic that she brought with her.

how can you not hate yourself for killing kittens?
and how can we not all be in this self-hating/other-hating/omni-hating culture?

but i don't know about kids now and what they know. things change faster than i ever imagined and also take LONGER than i ever imagined.

but white people are afraid of what they can't see or understand.

i'm half white and more white than even jewish people from california (that's pretty fucking white).

but i see that there's so much magic "being white" closed me off to.

i see that keeping me from my father, like the legal system does with fathers, was a form of that assimilation thing where they took indian kids off to school off the reservations.

i see that Feminism in practice was about breaking men, making them submit to "female superiority."

what crap.

and yet it's all true. play with it in sex. not life.

the lesbians leaving the vaginal folds to fuck men are a tiny sign i've made up. a sign that we're finally realizing that something's missing without men in our lives in their full splendor.

we can't make children on our own.

but we also can't live without them, nor do we want to.

the best ones are "sexy" in the full vibrance of the meaning: they enable us to forget our former selves and let go and play and see who we are now and let go. they give us the strength to not freak out and leave the room in tears.

and the best women do the same.

we have all prostituted ourselves for plastic versions of ourselves and all that we thought we wanted.

that's what scares me. i don't need or want money when i'm like this. i can always say fuck you.

and that's why i feel like i'm finally art now. in my being.

i won't let you fuck with me and who i want to be.
i won't submit for plastic shit. for your shitty reality.

but i will submit for a beautiful beating or a rousing fucking.

i will only fuck for transcendence now.

i said that when i had a vision, a quick glimpse, of what just might be possible.
sex and self discovery doesn't have to be like a game of miniature golf.

(it's more like opening the box in hellraiser and getting slashed within an inch of your life, if you do it on deadline. no time for whistling past graveyards in art.)

i will also only do art for transcendence.

nothing but the packs of gum are for sale.


and that's how i've lived on purpose since i was 8.

i could take the beatings with a straight face from my mother and not cry.
it makes everyone madder.

i see it in the world.

it's terror to come out as yourself every day. that's the real work.

because even the new group to whom you now thought you belonged,
they have arm bands and rules.

rules that may one day need to be rebelled from.

and that is what i'm about now. learning how to let go of my own "fight" and work more in tandem with a complimentary energy.

i always have, though.

because the other reality is that with all these fucking words and labels white people put on everything they feel queasy about doing so they feel safer, the other reality is that according to your regular american way of living, i'm a total fucking submissive with the men in my life, and i fear that anything i say will sound like phyllis schlafley.

i guess it started with lisa robinson even though she's not a guy. she was 1 or 2 years older than me so that was enough.

but she started the paradigm:

lisa was the rock steady smart, long-view one.
no cheap bar girl (like me), she was the kind of woman who'd enter a room and know which man was willing to work on for MONTHS.

and i'd tell her what i wanted to try next, and she'd make it happen. i'd forget all about it, and she'd have it in mind and grab scenarios/opportunities as they came up. she "directed" me and things, and kept me safe even during the most adventurous childish years of our lives.

and jeffrey hicken is like that. that's why i call him my art husband. when i met jeffrey in his office, when i was trying to freelance my art, i couldn't leave.

it was like instant True Love, and he's been the boss of me ever since.

people talk to me when we're working, like i'm in charge. but when they leave i look at jeffrey and ask if we're gonna work on it or not.

as with lisa, i tell jeffrey my crazy ideas. he thinks for a moment. then he spits out this line of direction that already has an arc in his head.

i have to totally let go of any of my hard end visions and check in with him.
if he says no, i move on.

sometimes i might argue when i see something more definite, but he's pretty much the boss.

and at home, james is more boss than ever before after i lost it on The Snakefucker.
i knew i was on new ground, out of my mind, and i needed to make my deadlines and focus harder than ever.

fuck. i'm still running on that adrenaline. powerful shit.

-----(I've deleted a section here and photos from the post because i'm slowly leaning towards more privacy)

but i will tell you that i saw how perfect art, love, control, and submission is with EVERYTHING. and i saw how my men had helped me envision something worthy of walking into as i get older and more myself.

they've helped me re-invent and invent myself time and time again and finally i could see it in art.

and that's what art is about. showing us the possibilities for ourselves as a people.

and that's why you have to see art and love and romance in the sleazy, dark, hidden.

because the truth is that capitalism and money will only ever truly allow the safest bets.

it takes human superheroes to go insane and go after the impossible and take us all there.

we can't really make babies without men.
we can't see ourselves without men.

it's time to stop drugging them into submission in schools.
they were meant to run around and hump sofas and love and show us ourselves.

we're dying for killing off our men.
for colonializing and beating them down and assimilating them into "us."

this is why even seeing charlie sheen on "two and a half men" while turning the channel (i've never seen the show. i can't take comedy like that without bleeding to death---and yes, seinfeld was funny, but that such a pinched asexual man ever had any such girlfriends was so hard for me to get beyond), but it's why seeing such a man on the show was like watching a bear get paraded around by the ring and made to dance.

and it's why i hope sheen succeeds where mickey rourke wasn't able to make it. cripes. they're just short of putting mickey rourke in a dress now.

snapping was the best thing for charlie sheen. to me it was a sign that he's a whole lot fucking smarter than anyone wanted to give him credit for (but of course!--they must discredit anything that threatens their stronghold on a reality).

and this is the most interesting time of our culture in a long time, because what you thought was "good" is "creepy," and who you thought was black are white and vice versa.

the movie charlie sheen's in, isn't one that anyone edits and shows you. it's the one happening NOW. watch now for what's really the best part. we know how screenplays turn on pages and points. watch reality for the real and truly edgy and surprising turnarounds, red herrings, and denouements.

he keeps getting up and going back out. and look at where he comes from to see the quality of the rage. he comes from papa sheen (nee, estevez), the one who made pedophile meat out of us little girls with little girl who lives down the lane with jodie foster.

fuck he was crazy mad hot and i was like 8 years old.

anyhow, you can't have a little flaming liberal estevez brother trying to do good with his work, and not have a quality to your own rage that is really your job in the family.

it's all out there.

fuck, the release valves for the family must also be discredited or all hell breaks loose.

just like in real life.

and that's how we all recognize each other.

a lot of us don't make it.

anyhow, we're the leaders now.

we've all been the canaries, covering the corners of our coal mines.
now,
it's a time when we have to all go blind and count on our gut feelings.
fuck, we splash in feelings for fun!

and during such times, all former troglodites and sewer rats must stand and share what talents they know to help us make it.

we must go insane and question what we assumed was gospel.

the moment you feel yourself reaching between your legs when you think about how you want to live your life, then you've got it!

and the tragedy is when we keep this realization to ourselves and don't teach others to radiate it outward.

there is evidence of our disasters. the prisons, the poverty and imbalance.

but there is also
inspiration everywhere.
this is what art and movie stars are about.
it's all a reflection on ourselves and where we're going, or where we want to go.

i realize that i have to stay in it as much as i can to help others find their words, too.
find the lines around what we're doing and where we want to go.

for oliver and for my sister's little boy, Alexander Xavier.

i've always wanted a son of my own, so i'll just have to imagine that they all belong to me.

e

being upstaged by animals, children, and meat dogs...

(photoshop the girl trying to help out, and this is perfection to me. a big meat dog being pummeled in the ass by another meat dog. i'd have a mural of this. it's gorgeous. like being fucked by a gladiator... a centaur...)

http://www.youjizz.com/videos/horny-bisexual-3-some-149468.html

sometimes you have to go a circuitous, meandering route to get what you want. hell, most times, it seems it's that way.

it's worth it to watch some of this video just to see this centaur's taint. it appears to be the seat of all of our civilization's semen. i've been developing a metaphorical as well as actual appreciation of BALLS lately.

 ....she's relegated to trying to be helpful...

 she's like distracting pubic hair in your mouth at this point. don't tell me men aren't sweet or thoughtful.
if you watch this movie, he's going down on her out of politeness while he wants to eat the centaur now like macaroni and cheese over the sink.

 she's good, but they've long since left the building without her and even as much as i love love love clamping down and eating pussy, she's dandelion fluff next to a sunburned man tasting cock as if he's going off to sing on a lesbian cruise ship for the winter

oracle of delphi... i'm telling you.... there's no position the centaur will be in that this guy won't find to suck his cock.

most young straight girls would find this video to be a nightmare and against everything they think they're supposed to be living for.

you only get into your man being buggered ruthlessly up the ass when you don't need your sexuality to control him. you've gotta have a strong sense of self to even try and stay in the picture with them.

if i had a centaur who'd do this with (for) me, i'd be the saran wrap, the sharpie smiley face with tits that makes them feel heterosexual. but i'd quickly slip out from under and have an emergency earthquake stash of a hitachi magic wand and a bag of potato chips so i could watch.

i'd never blink so i could watch everything so well, it'd be the only thing i'd talk about in my doddering old age. and you know how old people repeat the same stories? i'd happily repeat that story.

anyhow, gay boy porn is that way for me now. this week, anyhow. to get the truly meat dog slam downs, you've gotta go to the BISEXUAL porn area. that's where you get the most famished straight guys getting buggered brilliantly like a visit to The Oracle at Delphi.

"bisexual" porn in the straight world is full of drama. well, internet porn is like art house films for me now that there is no truly independent cinema or indie films going beyond yet another fucking coming out film.

funny thing is that there are a lot of lesbians fucking guys now and it's a bit of a shame in the community. moments of silences. that kind of thing.

anyhow, that's a digression i haven't the time for today.

but bisexual porn isn't really that bisexual the longer you watch it. you realize the woman's just saran wrap. an excuse. i start out admiring their tits and chutzpah at thinking they'll even TRACK on film next to these guys.

amazing tits and can-do attitude and all, this woman above fucking CEASES to exist to anyone once that guy sees the centaur they brought in to fuck him.

hell, i cease to exist when i see those testicles.

and the middle aged man's body? yum.

when i was at the pennsylvania academy of fine arts, there were casts of sculptures we studied from, and the Laocoon always stopped me for a moment of reflection and admiration because the weight, heft, and relaxation of the middle aged man's body is quite awesome.

things aren't so "tight" and precious and designer muscles. for being in stone at one time, they are more alive than many men who're frantically at the gym.

gotta go.

the art of the mindful mind fuck" continued...

this is the part of my knowledge that comes from my hoop earrings.

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.

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.

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

i'm back earlier than i thought because i pulled out the big guns on the "muse" thing: i'm pulling out both brad wyman and my original muse,  mark lammers, and even to some degree, kris kovick.

kris wasn't really a "muse" as much as a woman who was like me, and the other far, far away woman, and dorothy and some others. women who pretend they don't see between the atoms and see the same plastic world you do.

i'm scared and i feel like i'm finally burning any remaining ships i have to the larger world but i have to not care because what have i to fucking LOSE? i never had anything to lose. that was the illusion.

last time i wrote, i was just writing, not thinking before i just let go, and i even winced at what i wrote.

there was the residual shame, the "maybe i really am nothing more than a fucking cheap painted harlot who spins on coffee tables in her own mind to resist the ugliness. maybe the world is ugly and we are meat bags on a spinning planet..."

and then i laugh and think that's ridiculous. i caught that evil little troll "ego" thing before it had a chance to sit on my lap and suckle. i'm getting better.

i went to the only christmas party i'll go to--adrienne's. i know she knows how i am and so i feel at home. i make all sorts of faux pas in front of her when i really don't want to, and she smiles sweetly and sees me as i really am.

even my mom saw me for who i really am sometimes and that's when she'd try and show me she knew by buying me something fragile and gold.

i never wear gold because it is so fragile. i wear silver. i'd wear stainless steel if they made jewelry out of it because i figure once you put pretty things on, you should never have to take them off for certain things. if you want to weld in gauze skirts and go up in flames, then that is a cartoon death i'm worth of.

anyhow, the energy thing.

fuck. it's EVERYTHING.

anyhow, so i'm crying a whole lot. for who i was, for who i thought i was, and how badly and harshly i treated myself when others had taken a break. and i finally see why sometimes i got fragile gold jewelry from my mom.

i've never stopped and looked back. no time. and i'm finally unable to charm myself out of another disaster and am forced to see myself and who i really was.

i wince only when i see myself as others see me. when i am just erika, as i was born, curious about all i'm curious about, then i am okay. i am where i'm supposed to be and i feel okay.

i was thinking about what career i'll take up to make money after we shut everything down, and i was in the car looking at a man's beautiful UPS legs in his open truck and thought, "i get to finally see if i've got what it takes to be a UPS delivery guy!"

when people used to say you've gotta have something to fall back on (they meant "teaching" others art so they can grow up to also teach it), i used to want to be a mailman. not the kind standing and sorting, but the kind with a bag and i'd walk around and wave to everyone and know the neighbors and get fresh air.

but i was told by someone in art school that it takes like 2 years of hard work to get a delivery route, and that seemed like too much more work than trying to be a famous artist who succeeded where basquiat didn't. he thought being an insider would keep him from getting fucked by the bourgeoisie because he was one of them.

psych.

when rich white people get drunk, all that life-is-complicated fancy liberal arts schooling goes out the window and the darkest or the youngest girl or boy in the room ends up wearing nothing more imaginative than the fucking maid's costume or yelling jungle chants while the patriarchy's on the floor naked, whimpering, and jerking off into his wife's shoe.

i'm scared because i remember when i saw a clip of james baldwin saying something about being able to speak and that scaring the shit out of white people.

and i think i'm gonna die.

and so i've got nothing to lose.

and so i want my remaining years here on this planet to be adventures and i don't want to beg for a slavery position and will look at the dirty jobs show for ideas of things that no one wants to do. but if i have to pick up road kill, that would put me in existential crises every day.

so i feel like i have to step up to my fears faster and faster so i can move on.

i feel like i've been living life in some kind of improvisational way, where i'm along for the ride. i used to feel like it's intuition, or cute holly hobby crap, but sometimes i "wake up" to where i really am and i get freaked out and can't move.

i'd call it panic attacks but that's too holly hobby. take paxil or whatever for your shit. i'm trying to face what's really here or not here.

and so back to queen stuff.

i have to talk about what i think is here, what i see. i have to honor it.

and while i can also cry for being a 12 year old girl giving nude massages to a 27 or 28 year old man, i was scared, but i LOVED it. it was fucking hot. i've got a love of the male smell that is now so primitive, i savor the smell of an unwashed morning man the way you all would ooh and ah over a fucking wine or impossibly dark chocolate.

and as skanky as i may seem, i'm so fucking precious about my own pussy, save for one time with james, i haven't been able to actually fuck anyone because i'm hung up on the snake fucker. women are different. i haven't been able to actually fuck women because i don't know why.

i feel like i'm protecting my energy.

maybe that's why.

back to energy.

i'll tell a story and i have to not care that it'll make me sound evil, because i come from and live in another world. i see things differently.

i come from you all. i can't repeat that enough. everything you have hidden, i am it come to life. all your racism, misogyny, feminism, all the rights you thought you were fighting for. i'm not borne out of a vacuum. and it's okay that james winces. he LIVES with me. what i love about james is his absolute innocence and purity.

james reminded me how to live like a princess and brought me back as a queen.

james taught me how to love.

that's what i'm telling you all.

we're denying ourselves when we don't see the magic around us. the intensity. get your inspiration anywhere, in the sleaze, in what scares, horrifies. you will find yourself, and realize the monster yelling "boo!" was just a test of your ability to twist it back into beauty.

that is our job as lovers, if you were born one: your job is to love fiercely, intensely, and enable people to always be strong enough to step up to their higher selves.

this world is very related to sex work and therapy and therapists are closer to hookers than you'd ever imagine and trophy wives and blah blah blah. it's all class. it's reality.

the middle class seem to the be the ones who have a more openly romantic ideal on marrying purely for love. wealthier and the poor are more pragmatic about using all your assets to keep what you've got or get more.

the middle class believed in monogamy, nuclear families, and pensions.

everyone else said, "sounds good. if you figure out how to make it happen, let us know."

because i actually encompass both very strong female as well as male sides, i speak of gender as an "energy." not genitals. i can move smoothly between my male and female sides, and am trying to know more of my female side now. men are showing me that side beautifully. almost cosmically.

the reality is that in the days before investors made a different kind of wealth, there were scrappier men. the mind readers. the ones who figured out the world by first grade. they were magical because their charisma went beyond flattery or seduction--they could move an entire group of people toward a bigger reality.

it's the rock star concept of power that every politician or comedian dreams of. but it's a very real energy because people want to fuck you for being unapologetically big, alive, god like. it's natural and beautiful to adore others.

but everything gets co-opted and bastardized if you're not careful.

anyhow, so before power and wealth became acquired by fucking EVERYONE over, business was more like a game among somewhat equal players (someone eventually emerging as the victor in which mode of electricity was used or who stole the patent, etc).

and for me, a sign of such a visionary and artist, is a temporary bout of insanity.

because when you swagger through life with audacity, you constantly come up against others' illusions/ideas and you have to try and read EVERYONE'S perspective and know them.

that's the mind fuck in daily use.

but when you live in the moment, while being aware of it, you can kind of "split" and go a little mad sometimes because you want to yell, "it's so OBVIOUS! why can't you all see how insane this fucking game is?"

and you can't. you have to pretend there aren't monsters with dripping carcasses hanging from the ceiling. you have to pretend that their actual low voice is all that you hear. even when their EYES say something else entirely.

that shit makes me crazy.

happened at the christmas party last weekend.

fuck. i seem all over.

but how do you even WRITE about this shit? where to start?

do you assume everyone knows?

knows what?

i have to think of mark lammers. man, i miss him so much. 3 houses down and we're done forever all because i can't get over the push.

i just can't.

anyhow, i know i've left some things open ended. but that's how it'll have to be. i jerk off with my own snot and you've gotta find your own cashmere.

so i'll start with what i know now and work our way back:

so i realized that in order to see my pops as he's meant to be seen, i'd need to stay back east as long as i can. my father is best in 90-second doses, like the time you get from the car to the front door.

these are men from another time, so if you're under 40, you're used to boneless guys who know what cellulite is and talk entirely too much and share their feelings.

i'm talking about the kind of men who are babbling if they say 10 words that all relate to their emotions.

like brad wyman, he's not old, but when i say we never got along and fought a lot, what i'm actually saying is that i'm the one who's ranting and writing 39 emails threatening to make his life a living hell while he just ignores me.

james walks away from me if i even RAISE my voice to him on the street in public. he will give me the keys and walk away and take a fucking bus home, leaving me to look like a raging fish wife.

anyhow, so my father, i decide to make every visit back east revolve around those 90 seconds with  my father. he's got all my free time so he can be himself and come around when he wants.

it takes a lot of energy to be us, so i actually don't mind anymore. i used to think he had to "be" there whenever he had free time. he needs to work on his old mercedes and he's fine.

and besides, i've come to just love his current lady friend, and so i advise her on him. just a little. enough to also teach my father lessons he's been slacking on.

so my father is free. no one has any call on his time. no one knows where he gets his money from, although he's retired. he's always been that way. he'll go for months without putting brakes on a car because he's trying some convoluted way of using this out-of-work alcoholic bus driver as the mechanic because he wants him to feel valuable.

you almost forget who you're talking about and begin think it's a money thing, until you hear two guys with a restaurant borrowed money from my father to stay open.

this is why my mother thinks he was actually a CIA agent because he got involved in intelligence.

and you believe it, because my father is way beyond anything i think i can figure out. i don't even try anymore. even his eyes are closed to me.

so my father, he comes and go when he wants. he'll be 6 hours late and it drives his women crazy of course. he can take a woman from singing and cooking in the afternoon, to having mascara tears and a cold, un-cut pot roast by nighttime.

he makes up with them and they soon forget and feel ripped apart and put back together again.

but it goes nowhere, and eventually they tire and move on. and my father is actually relieved because he gets a break from blowing their minds with all the other stuff they expected.

when i tried to tell his lady friend this, she almost nurses her despair like a baby monkey. she looked like she was listening to a sad song that always makes her cry, but she loves. i realized she is in this on purpose. there are few victims for me in most things. children and the weak or sick. that's about it.

and my father is also locked in because his magic is now shtick and limited. it is old and no longer magical when he has the power to make women fly with his love and attention.

so my father was set to pick me up and take me to the ny-bound bus a few days later.

within the few days he wandered off onto some other project and forgot about me when i'd left a message confirming the day before.

he got back to me about not being "sure" of making it in time to take me and tried to get me on the phone and left messages and when i got him, he was helping homeless veterans on the bus, and said that he needed to be here to pick me up at X time.

then so that i could get ready without distraction, i turned off my phone and continued to pack and get my makeup on.

i was angry and knew i could get a cab but he NEEDED to put down what he was doing and yeah, if it took 1-1/2 hours to come get me to take me 15 minutes away, then that's what this would be about.

it's not about getting to the bus so i could keep my word in nyc.
i'd re-written my time and my life so that i could be there for 6 weeks to catch him at 90 seconds at a time.

if he said he was going to take me to a bus at X time, then that's what needs to happen or this is a different deal where we catch each other on the fly in the future like everyone else's quickie bullshit.

and my father knew that and just when i thought he'd not make it, and i'd have to call a cab, he arrived in the mercedes he was tearing apart, driving in on squeaky fucked up brakes that were down to the drums.

and that's all that matters.

there is no safe sex when you live like this.

and my father was enraged with me for 2 weeks. our 90 second walks to and from the car were silent, even in the silence.

and i told him to stop telling himself stories and that i loved him.
i told him that i will honor what makes him himself, and that he must do the same with me.
i hate to be late. don't make me late.

i told his lady friend to stop waiting on him too much.
men like him, they need a little pain of doing it themselves.
they love to open the doors, carry the luggage even as their arms are falling out of their sockets.

you have to ignore their real weaknesses in front of them and encourage the strengths.
we need to correct them when they forget we are queens.
because when they treat us like queens, we treat them as kings.
it's so simple.

when i dress as a lady, my father walks straighter, his hip hurts less when he wants to get the gate for me first. i tried to tone down my summertime girly fun because i knew he was in more pain than usual.

but men like that are like dogs who jump on broken legs in front of you to show you how perfect they are.

you can only indulge the cute adorable weaknesses. like cuddling and spontaneous blow jobs.

(smile)

anyhow, i saw how my father's lady friend looked at me as if i had an evil cruel streak when i'd give her tips on my father. i said, "no, he NEEDS that from you. he doesn't want you to be his 'call in case of emergency' lady. he's famished for a mythical goddess beat down and correction."

she's strong. very strong. she was able to sit through me melting to the floor in a big sobbing pile, and i begged her to stay with me to tell me if i was going insane. i said "please witness anything insane!" and i ended up witnessing HER GRACE.

she's this born again bourgois elegant woman who's given up a cushy life for the modest life of a school teacher who told her wealthy husband he could keep just about everything when he bypassed the lawyers and asked her to cut him slack. he was in too much debt. she said "okay." she didn't care about the stuff.

i see her tattered bath towels and i know where she came from and i know that even my mother, the former hippy, will throw away an entire set of towels for one hole (well, she'd send it to me and figure my joy would know no bounds, as i prefer second hand things. the stress of ownership is easier that way. but i also am bourgeois enough to think towels and any underwear should be tossed at the sign of a hole. i'm fine with tatters on the outside, though. i care mostly about what's underneath. that's the truth.).

anyhow, so i know my father has met his equal, and when she comes around to see what i was saying in another way, my father's lady friend sees that i am not insane after all.

i just don't know how to SAY things. the words. what i know has no words for it sometimes.

anyhow, so she is getting stronger and i will tag-team my father with her and try to break him open, too.

he never wanted a woman to get in and ruin his life like my mom had, ever again.

he only lets his daughters in.

it's not close enough for my sister, but she's more like my mother and needs the last minute drugstore cards and flowers for the apology.

but when you stop asking men to dance how we dance, and let them do their thing, it's supernatural.


this seems messy, convoluted.

even to me.

but here's how i see things:

it used to take a certain type of entrepreneur or adventurous innovative crazy person to envision something and go through the fight inner/outer to bring it into being.

you can't play around in the inner and outer world with any kind of integrity or powerful effect without having partners or a partner.

and over the last 30 years, we (artists/writers/producers/agents/politicians/society, etc.) have created a powerful man business hero who is a complete detached asshole based on some capitalistic superhero.

it is inorganic, chemical, sexless, automated, digital, technical.

it has consumed sex, friendships, courtship, and our relationship to our bodies and nature---or lack of any integrated relationship.

i have said it before and i'll say it again:

we women (and gay men and trannsexuals and intersexed--those who flow in and out of these inner/outer states of communicating), but still, mostly we powerful women are not only making such men, but we're using our powers in small, uninspired, dangerous, fatal ways.

we're pointing guns at ourselves and our children all because we thought it was about the annual designer handbags.

feminism forgot about our mystical and how the mystical is essential for connecting with the other side's mystical.

we fucked men royally.

and if the viewer of art is the CO-CREATOR, i'm going to use my supernatural ability to love to imagine charlie sheen into a beautiful superhero for the new age.

you all want to love what is already rubber stamped as beautiful and acceptable.

but you have to see true love in the shadows, the sleazy.

for exemplo:

charlie sheen. only one to probably ever call those two girls GODDESSES.
who's the real fucking asshole, y'all?

and any woman who knows that by him calling them goddesses that he strives to TREAT them as such,
while the american media snickers at him and them? who's the asshole?

anyhow, i've gotta get to the gym and i've got a lot to do.

and i've made less sense here than i meant to.

but this is complicated stuff.

there is a track for the "pretty girl." i was considered pretty enough when i was young that when i was in art school (i was slipping in middle class status in my head and you've gotta be careful when you fall too low. it's very dark and has a brutal undertow)

anyhow, when i was in art school but still had a foot in another life, this old sugar daddy contractor guy i knew used to tell me to get a sugar daddy. he tried to set me up with his son, all very out in the open because i was a higher level because i was light skinned, educated, and charming with strangers (for entertaining later).

but i wanted to BE such men.

i tried to re-visit the possibility when i was back east but saw that the new generation of wealthy is fucking retarded and as exciting as dried playdough.

there's nothing to "make."

and so i don't know whether i really did stand up to my belief that i'm not about money, but i didn't tell james i was going back. i didn't tell anyone except a couple people because you've gotta be nice to a girl who's turning herself inside out to see if it's worth anything falling in love with.

you give a lot up on that kind of play because you'll lose your soul if it's not for real in some way.

but i couldn't even see the sliver of grey area i used to see.

i don't know where i am right now.

i only know that my pussy's never been more precious to me than it is right now and for that i'm grateful.

and i've never been so into BEING myself. i get so aroused by just BEING me. i love how i feel. i love how i surprise myself. i love how i'm not evil even when i'm not understanding why or what i'm doing at the time.

i'm glad that even when i'm lost, that living this way is like driving stick. you don't have to think about it.

so i guess in a way i have given up to life and let it tie me up and fuck me mercilessly with a ball gag in my mouth.

now to find true love to make that a reality.

yes. i can live even in my own head so much before i figure out what i really want to eat for dinner.
sometimes it takes me a moment to see what i'm craving.

it's fascinating putting everything together. it's like eating cornchips in the middle of your sandwich.

i'm so glad that i failed and was forced to give EVERYTHING up.

even i know that when you burn the ships, that's when things REALLY start to get interesting.

i have no idea who i am but i trust myself.
i am so lucky.
i have been given so much.

so please, don't ever, ever feel sorry for me for what you imagine you know.

there are a zillion ways to look at one story at any given moment.

i love my parents, i love everyone who's had the fucking guts to play with me, to love me, to sandbag me.

x