when i was a teenager visiting my sister and mom in cherry hill when i was living with my grandma in the bronx, some girl my age was picking on my little sister and rode her bicycle onto our front lawn with her friends hopping around her like evil little troll elves from the wood.
my sister ran inside crying, so i simply went out and simply punched the big simply girl on the bicycle in the face.
that's how my sister tells it to me. i was her hero that day and no matter how much of her life she tries to blame me for today, she still swoons when she thinks of me that way.
i only remember the terror of having to be the one next in line to take care of my little sister, even though i carried 20 pounds on the girl, easy. i've always felt more like my sister's parent, and i think she thought of me that way, too, when she'd blame me for her marrying badly, etcetera.
i have to love her, but hold her far, far away because the blades don't belong to me. i did the best i could as my hands were full fighting for my own life and sanity in crazy upon crazy situation.
that's how i roll with things a little easier than most. i still get the afterward nausea of going too far, but learning how to ride the chaos into some kind of "skill" has been more rewarding than bumbling through life with a "bucket list." my life IS the bucket list to you all.
cripes. all the artists you had warning you about this being it. no rehearsals, and still with all the bullshit. there's nothing you'll stop at to see an uptick in your stock. even as you're eating your own UPPER THIGH MEAT.
anyhow, last night i was with the girls from the gym, and one of the more periferal ones i barely know, was there and blew my mind and my lethargy out of the water.
a good existential crisis usually nets some kind of philosophical truce or compromise. everything still ceases to have meaning, but then you realize then EVERYTHING means EVERYTHING. and you giggle, because the answers suddenly become the questions and we're back to the eternal image of the snake eating its tail because there is no linear "end."
and as i've been looking for inspiration in reliving the adolescence i WISH i'd had the first time around---lots of girly pink, long baths, and stomping through my days without having to sit in the "S"-curve during the day to hold in my stomach, only at night, and yeah--by age 11 if i so pleased, which i still would. if i'd known the seventies would end and crash into the deadening 80s that've led to the facebook mediocrity of today, leaving alive people to scurry among the shadows, hiding their unbotulistic expressions as if being stopped by the gestapo and checked for a back alley circumcision check--
did you lose your ass in the paperwork? most likely.
.....most definitely.
all these years of asexual hateful love...
but i've found my superhero waist and when i slept on the intensity of last night, the sudden intimacy i thought i'd be too tired for, i was ALIVE and fed and i felt ALIVE. she was the scream in the midst of the crickets that i hear out there.
i don't know her, and yet when she squeezed my hand and ranted about all that was so utterly fucked up and wrong and how she was destined for something more than... THIS... what? --she didn't know... but she'd never been given the chance because like a lot of us, she was wiped on eternally until she could barely get up anymore.
we who are the keeper of the truest and most secret late night emotions, so that others may retain a fake air of integrity and keeping it together, while we quiver and die in the gutters, we can't carry your semen and mistakes anymore.
we are tipping over.
and she lost a friend in a fucking HOTEL room after a bludgeoning day of plastic surgeries from face to lower abdomen all at ONE TIME 12 hours of anesthesia and my alive friend's wail has nowhere to be heard because the same dead faces she looks to for sustenance are the ones who need her to shut and behave like it's all okay.
hush. you're acting INSANE.
who's insane?
how many useless fucking waves of feminism does it take to have us still bleeding from back alley abortions in expensive hotel rooms recuperating so that we'd be FUCKABLE enough to earn our keep and get to stick around?
what the fuck?
and the comfort women you wiped on endlessly need comforting now. the men who were before us are in jail, neutered, insane, or scattered buffalo corpses and it's time to rise up and show more than our fucking scrawny terrified, barely-behaving LEGS on the fucking STAGE.
it's time to SNAP before the death is YOURS
show the stomachs that bore us ALL. the stretchmarks, the breasts that sway NATURALLY! they are beautiful gorgeous and it took fucking men pariahs to teach me that all pussies are worth jerking off to simply because they are alive and here. human! and we strive to become machines just to save the gas because meat is eternal, right?
our daughters are disposable like soylent green pussy.
cripes.
and we're the assholes.
anyhow, when she held my hand last night and sobbed about all that had been done to her and she was tired of pretending it all never happened so that others could live comfortable lives in the daytime and wipe their monsters on her and expect her to be floral come first light.
no. no more.
i had the suicides. she had her friend's death.
we all have something that happens so close that you know you're next, and when you find you're fighting for your life, you're so in the here and fucking NOW that you claw for your life and how? no one wants you to know HOW, so you have to be silenced because the moment you start leaking the fucked up truth, economies topple, wars are waged, and it's all bread and circuses with the beat going on and on...
we're so first world civilized?
we see what we're willing to do for cheap fucking GAS or a new fucking apple product.
daughters are cheap. sons even cheaper because they'll fucking DIE for pussy and call it their cuntry. it doesn't even have to be virginal.
so she holds my hand and she cries all the same rants i rant, and she apologizes for her temporary insanity slip showing, but she is ONLY SANE to me.
and i see that i'm walking into stories i wrote already. you go out there, and you find your people. your gang. who's lost it all and not gonna take it anymore? who refuses to ride the convertible dutifully over the cliff?
but they got the kiss in. we all do our rick in casablanca moments when we can.
i don't know what came first. chicken or egg is irrelevant, because when you can't find inspiration out there, you write your own. you have to listen to a higher self that reminds you to live by your THEME. not a person or a feeling or a fuck or a distraction.
i live by a THEME and that's why i'm never bored. it answers questions, gives direction. edicts, even. i drag my feet into all of these such "edicts.'
i'm in my own fucking MOVIE and as the woman last night also admitted, "i'm scared of EVERYTHING... even the fucking FLOOR!" / i feel the same way and it's what makes me SEEMINGLY fearless at the same time because i just figure there's nowhere safe to even GO.
so why not go for broke and what's interesting instead of surely hellish?
but i think the constant act of "resistance" for me will have to re-emerge as the girl who went out and punched that girl in the eye for my sister. i love the terror but the pride i felt inside as i knew i did the right thing for my sister even though physically it was a pussy match.
but not when you're the only colored people for miles.
we were supposed to be quakers, so i knew i was gonna get a whole lotta shit and a talking to. but the reality when you're colored in a white school system has its own non-santa reality when you realize the big jolly white guy ain't coming to your house after all, because he doesn't even believe you exist, like leprechauns---and you're totally on your own.
like livestock.
maybe beyonce and jay z will bid their daughter's name off like common stock if they ever hit the skids.
money or god.
warrior or whore.
you choose with the claw and you get as many re-tries as you want without using another quarter.
it's the quarter peep show booths you've gotta worry about. more on that later. much later, i suspect.
not that this is a direct connection, but
sometimes you have to fight a little dirty to aim above morality. that's why i also never know what i'll even do or end up.
if i end up in prison, i'll kind of figure that's what i've gotta learn and figure out how to defy its gravity.
i go toward the itch. i'm addicted to the pain and suffering but i want it to be ever knew and better.
we all adore suffering.
it's just the paper airplane you make with it.
you gonna fly or crash?
but the more i lose, the more i laugh about letting the fuck go because i control NOTHING anyhow.
and then i'm taken over by inspiration that sandbags me when i least expect it.
and it sparks a new inspiration and direction. this is what is GOOD about emotions once you stop trying to splash only in the primary colors of them. mix them like paint when you see they are each new and net knew INFORMATION.
i'm very pragmatic about the lessons net from emotions. i'm a total realist.
i want safety and predictability now with my life with james, but it is also an illusion. what IS solid is our ephemeral love and respect for each other and our separate spiritual trajectories. and in that, each person is actually more solid and secure than any marriage ring.
because it is so rare to find that, you don't simply skip away from such a friendship. you focus and stare just as you would with new art materials and open yourself to the possibilities of the kind of life you never imagined.
art as something you want to see in existence yourself.
not just sofa art.
make what you CRAVE to see that's not there yet.
that's the miracle of simply being born NOT a fucking machine. human.
our weaknesses are our strengths.
our ugliness is our beauty.
there's nothing truly ugly beneath the wracking sobs of shame.
only hurt love and betrayal.
most people are used and then beaten down so they won't suddenly realize it later and come back and ask for a raise or some kind of repurcussions.
the perpetrator knows it's wrong. it was usually done to them. but they're just hoping they can keep you quiet until they're outta here.
but generations come back and nothing has anywhere else to go.
the water this planet has is the water this planet HAS. we're not shipping it in from another galaxy.
when we blind our neighbor in a fight, we have to lead him around for the rest of our lives.
yeah, pops. i get it all now.
and i get the reality of arousal and life and anyone who tries to slap your hand is trying to control you and tell 'em to fuck off.
but i want to start a gang of super hero women and smack the world down with their ignored beauty as i see it, and as we all TRULY see it.
this what we're seeing out there and doing to each other is bullshit. and i may not have anymore fucking money or commercial power, but i have empathetic power and i've seen that is often enough, if not everything.
it snaps your neck so you can see your own beauty and unquestionable lovability, regardless of anyone else.
and so i will not just allow these powerful meetings be for us alone. i will share what i am able to, without sacrificing anyone else's privacy, and hopefully if you are sulking in feral despair about feeling alone, maybe you won't feel so insane or alone, wherever you are.
and my biggest fears and embarrassments, even here, are always because i'm terrified to admit out loud how earnest i am and how much i truly CARE. i'm used to being told how naive or childish i am. but i realize i'm the LEAST childish, and they are the ones who're being childish and passive and accepting a cynical commercial reality force fed them so they'll consume more unhappy miserable crap.
it is more grown up to step up and love and protect, especially when it is unpopular.
and that is so rare.
anyhow, i cannot get my books to sell or movies to be made, and i realize that wasn't ART or where my art needed to go, then---those were just JOBS in the first fucking place. the point in the original place was to inspire the wild people out there to hang in there because they were the resilient alive ones needed to envision a newer world as the old one deteriorates as the machine people cannot get enough DATA to understand how this could possibly happen.
anyone who deals with the emotions of people in sales or hustling, they knew people are always always always the same wild cards that'll defy any perfect seeming "system."
fuck, we're in a world that honors its gods by slaughtering others to show its love.
no wonder our movies suck and no one knows where the fuck to go with LOVE, except into a brick wall of no new ideas.
so there.
that is my art next.
my murder life mystery. the question that will guide the decisions of my life until i answer it enough to ask another form of the question, or a new question entirely:
the question is, "if love is everything and worth giving up everything for, isn't there a more expansive form of this love that can get up off the yoga mat and fight in the chopping wood/gather water of daily life?"
so i will go back to the energy of my pink monster girly self, before i spent my life finding infinite ways of hushing and hating myself. i will go back to lisa and passion and long discussions for the research and remembering what we forgot.
what would i do if i could do life over again?
nothing because i GET to do it now! i'm smiling because i'm having at myself morning and night again, and i feel the excitement of saying a great big huuuuge beautiful, artful and masterful "FUCK YOU" coming back up.
what i was born to become.
that is why i can't be sad for long. i've not compromised on myself ever. i've learned and corrected.
i don't need to be greenlit by ANYONE.
i don't need to listen to pussy billionaires dance in front of me so i can tell 'em they've still got full heads of hair.
that doesn't set the world on fire!
i get to be an asshole.
i get to do it out of love.
for the love of a sister and the baby boys.
all of us who love so much and get slammed so hard by the people who were too taken about by its pure beauty and couldn't stand to look straight at it so they butt fucked it in the gutter.
and we came back from that. we allowed everyone to wipe their confessions on us, cry holy tears, then go back out into the world to be assholes.
we invested in our own fucks and our own LOVES.
we didn't hold them to higher standards and teach them how to love us.
i will.
that's why i don't see myself ending up with "anyone." i'm not that kind of girl. i'd rather be alone and entranced with my own thoughts and a hitachi magic wand for later, than having some mundane habitual shtick with someone else.
i live like a movie because the idea appeals to me whether i'm right about the existence of god or not.
i've come through a lot of sewage and i know vultures are gorgeous. it's all how you see it. what you want.
but see yourself first.
did you choose money or god?
if you chose money, i think "security" becomes your boring mundane god and you'll always be looking for the spices of curry in others and cheating yourself.
once you become what you want to love in others, you become the man or woman of your dreams. everyone else really is extra and you can fully enjoy and feel THEM. not what YOU need or want them to be because you never got around to spackling that hole within yourself.
people are a lot of work when they don't fix their own shit.
that's why i'd rather stay alone over having ANYTHING. my own shit is enough work without dancing backwards and blind with someone else's.
but i'm going to LIVE "the revenge of the harlots" as a monster girl in everything i do from now on. that is my act of love writ massively large.
i will show you yourselves and how you don't suck and aren't horrid. that the particular sag of your breast is how i know it's you in a sea of conformity. that the bent leg and jagged scar on my leg is erotic to me because it is behind so much of my life and settling down and SEEING and no longer running.
i was badly hit by a car at 15 and it cut short all of my running wildness by instantly grounding me.
and as we remember those who died in agony before us for feeling so wrong and alone, i want to scream that we're here. that no matter how you separate us with suburbs and gentrification and the deadification of EVERYTHING, there are those of us who're still alive and jerking off even in the dust up because that's how we can keep COMING BACK TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY.
and i'm coming back, no matter how small and puny and insignificant and IMPOTENT.
in fact, that's FREEING because i get to howl ever louder, then. i'm a leo. i love a good beat down in the gutter. be sure you kill me because i love getting up stronger, and this time with more people.
i don't know what it will all look like or anything.
all i know is that deaths are on the line, and mine could be next, and i'm just too fabulous to be wiped on anymore and wasted. we all are. and i'm too close to remembering the titillation of punching a bully for my baby sister and how elena got treated well after that.
i'm not proud of the punching. she was smaller and suburban. she didn't know life COULD hit you, yet.
but i'm proud that i overcame my terror. once you prove you can cross the line in either direction, you can get off when it's a more positive direction because the mirror effect comes back to you like getting your wallet back in the mail.
so i see clothing still. everything i am is still the same. but the methods will have to be more remedial since i'm so marginal.
here's what i see as my future in theme:
the revenge of the harlots is very real and powerful to me as a concept and vision.
i've slept on it, and it's an idea that nets worlds of inspiration in how i "am" revenge of the harlots.
this is what i mean by living in service of an idea instead of what "i" want. hard to explain. but all my choices will be made on the end answer i'm looking for, and my early death could be a part of finding that answer. i'd rather it NOT, but the idea is bigger than my COMFORT. what others would generally ask as, "what's good for me," "what do i want and need?" etcetera.
such questions to me are very small and narrow north stars, and why your life can fall apart with the divorce from another person.
people are too fragile and fickle for "ideas" and get people off course more than any "devil." if the person fits in with your larger IDEA or THEME in life, it is apparent when they are dangerously hurting this bigger IDEA. and you can correct together, or part.
most part because it's a pain in the ass to look at yourself. all times for self-reflection are incredibly inconvenient. they never come on vacation. they come when you find yourself stabbing the gardener with a pen before a presentation.
it is how people also love small and abusively. they are not loving with a bigger vision of the endlessly same consequences that end in hell and despair.
and my over arching belief, after crawling out of the emotional sewers of my childhood, that love really is holy and all the pain and abuse and suffering is needless because it is based on fear, terror, control.
how can such relationship strategies not make their way into everything we DO in daily life?
it is colonization. it is the same system that conquered us in the first place and told us the spot they just discovered in our own pussies is the "grafenberg" spot.
no. it's MINE.
i said that before, i say it again.
i don't think it's pollyanna to cut through all the evil crap we layer on ourselves and each other and say, "it's pretty fucking miraculous you're here at this time, and i'd LOVE to know all about who you are and what makes you tick and how you SEE things."
you learn so much without even TRAVELING.
why look for martians when we're so fascinating right here???
fuck. just look up from your screen and having an unpredictable conversation where you say what you REALLY feel and think will shoot your life across the galaxy with excitement! and you don't even have to groom your pussy or take another shower right afterwards.
and so i will be as many movie stars as i wanna be, film strip or animated. and i will see the women around me as my other movie stars.
fuck wearing purple in my old age. i'm going back to PINK and that's bad news for anyone who gets lightheaded at the sight of blood because that's all you're gonna SEE once i figure out how to corral all this into something that can whip a big crack at all the bullshit against women and superfreaks out there.
here "superfreaks" are artists, thinkers, philosophers, rebels.
and women mean transsexuals to me. anyone who lives in the borderlands and has enough emotions and love to end ass up in the gutter without the courage of a gang.
i've always ALWAYS always been here and alive to let you know that you're not alone. you're not alone now, and you're not alone at 3am when the Truth seeps in when you're too tired to prop up the hypocritical bullshit you're told to live by any longer.
i'm excited because i have yet to see love practiced in the newer, yet more archaic way that i've always felt and envisioned.
i mean romantic love, but what really excites me is even james and me trying whatever happens next in our friendship. i mean it with the women, with you all, with my ART as me. with myself.
i see using all that we know in our mystical abilities to reinvent ourselves as women and superheroes on a BIGGER level with the support of each other this time. usually women do it alone after awhile because hyper focus on someone takes not diluting it by telling girlfriends and others.
that's why it's "unnatural" for me to write about ANY of this stuff. there are no good english words for any of it. you see why the white western cultures ARE so blunt. their words are blunt and have no room for the nuance of the unknown and magical realism that we DO experience for REAL.
life is more like the old true faery tales, and now faery tales are more like the TV news.
who're the children, now?
see why it's all a mindfuck?
but to KNOW and SEE this shit and then... WHAT? how do you navigate it?
how do you navigate rebellion without getting shot before you even begin to RUN for the helicopter???
that's my eternal life's question here this time.
how do you not waste your life and what you know?
and that is why i'm grateful for the time to be quiet and NOT know.
because i saw her last night and i wanted to go outside and punch everyone in the face on the front lawn.
and so i shall.
i've nothing to lose except whatever else is holding me down.
we are all beautiful fuckable gorgeous.
don't look at the pictures out there. they're supposed to make you feel like shit so you'll buy more crap and behave and sit down in circle time and question your relevance.
if you're even HERE reading me, you know you're called to do this.
i know i sound like i'm crazy in my own clubhouse ranting at the imaginary playfriends.
but i'm not.
PEOPLE DIE.
that reminds me it's a pussy move to be polite and sit in the "S" curve so my waist looks smaller.
it's time for big strong legs to not coyly poke out of the elegant black dress of their forties, but to stomp out for the ones who come after.
we have to get further than we have.
feminism has fallen like communism.
it's time to stop making sure someone's at your side and assume we are because we haven't time to check for I.D. / you have to scream for yourself, for me. you owe it to everyone to let us all know you were here.
not in the dancing on the coffee table way. in the way that fights for things to be so much better. they don't have to suck. no one has to die needlessly. maybe we won't get there for 400 years but harriet tubman didn't plan the underground railroad as a business venture to break even in under 5 years.
and she couldn't do it alone.
we have to defy geography and verbalization to resist and fight back. even if it's only in your own mind,
and you're waiting for your own perfect rick in casablanca moment.
you've gotta play for the long game. no one got free in 5 years or less in order to take the tax break.
we're human beings. remember. splash around in your emotions as if it were money because it's better than money. you think money can buy you humanity and a higher class of emotions they have to reach for with the rolling ladder thing.
anyhow, that's what's next for me.
revenge of the harlots. but real life somehow. i'm making my superhero body and next i'll be making superhero clothes for myself. the wrong people are in jail and strung out and wasted. enough already.
the coven, the clubhouse, the gang--each girl giggles as she feels an affinity for another term---
anyhow,
this forties thing is gonna make my baby girl years seem like a turn at the convent because to do my part, i'm gonna be the one who hoses down the blood in the peep show booths. there is nothing HOTTER than losing everything, your vanity, your shame, your money, your looks, your future, your power, your art...
because fuck the beauty of someone telling me to fuck myself, because things REALLY and TRULY get endlessly interesting when you've got nowhere else to go except to follow what blows your fucking mind and makes you jerk off first thing in the morning and last thing at night.
i'm not yet back to "and anytime in between" yet.
i've been here before. at least a smaller version of "losing everything." and this one's the biggie i've heard about. the one that can make you go insane and slice your own jugular with a keychain.
and that's why i know it's got the ability to be equally transcendent and mystical on the other side of facing that terror. that's just how it works if you hang in. i've not yet ended my life with a "period" and thinking that, "yep. everything's truly evil underneath. that's the end of that."
i think we're each terrified of the holy in ourselves because once you realize it, you've got no choice but to tear out the carpet and change EVERYTHING.
sometimes it seems easier to just be quiet and watch more TV. pass the mistake onto the next generation when it's harder to break out of the tiny sow pen.
so this is the theme of love for me. if i can delay suicides a little longer so these hearts and souls can spray paint a little more truth and dissention and reality, is my maternal job now. fuck me. i'm dead and over. this is for the kids.
(smile)
x
p.s. kids, lesson here: "all cynics not only suck horribly in bed, but they advertise their inability to be sexy and let go." if that's what you're going for, then you've got security of a more captive man who won't inspire much to happen in, or outside, of the bed.
because love and art and planning anything for the future takes imagination, absurdity, courage, intensity, messiness, resilience, creativity.
that should be on your non-negotiable "list" for men, friends, and life. church only on sundays nets a "church only on sundays" kinda joy.
and sexiness is forgiveness and surprise and wonder at one's humanity, human-ness.
to choose the machine (money, security) is to do the work of many machines.
share what you know to make 'em better. don't change, control. ADD. give more. teach. see if it feels good in a long game way. then it's right. if it feels cheap, it's just like furniture or clothes, and you're gonna pay twice.
sexiness is mess, surprise, aliveness, joy, acceptance. the rest--ball gags and cross dressing--is just the small stuff. window dressing.
so cynics suck in bed, and any who ARE good in bed, are not true cynics and drop the shtick to fuck well. they can't occupy the same holes.
you think the fun lies in discovering which one you'll unwrap at home? life's too short. save time. pick the one with the balls to be himself and give such a fuck the first time out.
and cynics don't do anything for "fun." they take shits. slow, laborious, passive, indecisive craps. they leak. like bloated corpses. nothing on purpose with any full-hearted care. they just passively ooze. all over everything within 6 degrees of separation or kevin bacon. they leave behind greasy stains reeking of death and despair. they do not give life. they taketh and whine, for when they lose a tiny comfort, they are rigid like old, ossified. they are Death incarnate to anything that strives to smile in this difficult fucking life.
...but if that's hot for you, you're not even reading me this far. i lost you at the letter "e" before my first name.
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