call that strange, call this life.

there was a poor jersey girl who fell to pieces. not because of anyone doing something to her. nothing could touch her. the reverse is truer in constraints. that was the problem. not being able to touch anyone. to be non-feely. not going on, but calling it so. parabolas of meaning whose maximum semantic intake is too known to care about. notice what? i will not explain by first-person allegory. i had a concierge of too little mind. she was all heart. i hesitate to write about any of it because of how heartless it makes one sound. she wanted nothing, so nothing is what i gave her.

it’s strange aging. you start to see your former ideal selves as quantifiable, categorizable, things. neologisms apologized for, and the march of memes carries on. one would say what a strange time to live, excepting the omission of calling that strange. calling this life. does everyone get so lost that they wake up one day, as nobody, suddenly in mock awe at the strewn remains of the past ten years? totally empty? oh you can work up a narrative, give it its due popular yield, as a narrative, but you remain the difference, inside.

i wonder what will come next. i hope i’m not. i hope they are. i know i’m afraid of finding the reverse again, which is to say the same old coda, the end that won’t just be itself. all one can do now is work. alone, never; together, a clone.

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what are you lookin at

One comes to crave meaning so much one learns a new way of craving. I can’t even say desire because the term is so wrapped up in Lacan and how speaking about Lacan reverses the work Lacan suggests one desire by, yet there exist entire publications designed to pull the curious and unrecruited in to act as confirming gaze for psychoanalytic milieus transferring young souls into the academic bank. This is not a cynical rant. I have no interest in mania, or passivity, or being being-seen. Sometimes I think television … and I suppose now all moving images on//with dual narrative screens are simply religious icons, the better to practice the fantasy of being seen and judged by embodying that gaze for a screening of a future perfect self.

truths that’ve finished with me

(this is a code)

“Popular themes of the genre include murder, suicide, depression, abuse, mutilation, war, religion, barbarism, drug abuse, terminal illness, domestic violence, rape, homosexuality, incest, pedophilia, child sexual abuse, insanity, nightmares, disease, racism, homophobia, sexism, disability (both physical and mental), chauvinism, terrorism, genocide, political corruption, torture, and crime.”

ever wonder why the impulse to laugh wells up as one reads on to where such sentences might and inevitably may full bore take you …

there are many reasons why i’ve not added to this blog in months. the easy answer is that it’s a symptom of distraction by something, and the easier answer comes from impulsively projecting one’s own, but alas dear reader, i can now say these myriad reasons encapsulate a tripartite of competing drives.

one.

i’ve consented to shoulder some complicity by way of vocation; I now write for a publication in the financial district, where i spend as much time spreading the myth of innate hierarchy and naturalized capitalism as i do lining bankers’ pockets with rhetoric about why banks must be the foundation of economic trust. since suffering from amnesia in this case would be more farcical than not, the truth is that this first major distraction in my life is about bullshitting “definitively,” as my boss’ boss would say. but i can’t really write about it here, because i need to eat, and he’d probably replace me for holding the entrepreneurially uncouth beliefs i truly do about such perfidious phantasms as of late, late capitalism.

two.

the old drive: to write, and write well, i.e., in secret; alone (for me). for me, art making should not rely on an immediate social circle’s confidence, both because i don’t have the heart to fool my friends into becoming a means and not an End, and also because why the hell should I cash in my works’ potential for a short-term relationship with one person?

i do however enjoy casually eschewing truths that’ve finished with me into the farcical ears of ideologues, whose eyes exude eternal superiority joined by manic laughter and self-parodying impressions used to rebuild a sense of lacking autonomy. it should be noted that per the Greek etymology of autonomy, the word has nothing to do with independence; on the contrary, it has everything to do with dependence on a set of rules or laws that determine the entity’s position and function in a greater system of laws, circulation, mediation, et al. was it Nietzsche who said that people don’t want the truth because it destroys their illusions? in the abstract it’s quite banal, but face-to-face with those in the concrete, known psychologically, socially, known sexually … it’s anything else.

sometimes i wonder why i’ve chosen a life this intense; why i continue to choose to swim on the surface of words, metaphor, discourse and argument, instead of building a submarine (religious following) or warship (brand) to leverage legal or financial or psychical violence against those I could much easier deem an obstacle embodied than a person whose liberty i might oppress. only in allowing oneself to be vulnerable – by remaining honest and open enough to risk damage from others’ violence – can one know another as oneself. this is why in my travels i’ve never acquiesced to those who claim the masque artiste, and yet refuse to re-spect who they speak their title to, i.e., em-path(os)-ize. hypocrisy really gets on my nerves. let me explain.

three.

The worst, beyond the Derridian sense, although still very much an issue of grammar, is when an artist, formerly irresolute to practically self-eschewing and sociopathic portent(s), later starts to believe, whether from acquiring a degree, publication, illness, or simply the tested patience of any arbitrarily recognized life-event (à la Badiou), that they have already empathized enough, cared enoughdone enough to be bothered to care or feel or think for anything but their own good again.

it’s a weakness of the heart, and a weakness of the intellect; when the latter feeds off the former for security, and this is when a person slips into fascist thought-patterns.

speaking of grammar, let’s break the fourth wall and let the fury go for a minute. the very first post on this blog involved the retelling of a tale of abjection. Much the same as its recent reccurrence in my life, a sophistic stranger sorely lacking in self-referential awareness, in that they know neither what they were doing nor to whom they leveled it, leveraged sex and sexuality to obtain cultural capital. Ever the compulsive fucking saint, I tried to diminish the extent of their violence, both times picayune and both times psychical, by explaining the hypocrisy at hand.

This is probably out of my idiotic (literally) conflation of Kant’s bi-conditional dictum, “you can, because you must!” mistaking the possibility for greatness in a constellation of another’s young personal (con)fidence for the will to make that self something great. try to remember the last time you asked someone a question as ostensibly boring as, like, hey: why are you living that way and were really heard.

so, memento.

never underestimate youth’s fear of being wrong.

unconscious and heroine

sometimes i catch myself wishing poetry on myself. not to say such things are wished for, no, rather I

(I! think!)

poetics are cursed.

a turn away from empty tethers of commons and civil unions, to the real;

to be denied more than lived.

bodies become slow death(s) of self(s) expressed in ephemeral jest(s), and no one else was certainly there, or you were also she who you sought the whole fucking time.

because there-then was always a lie, because already never was.

the weird new know –

No’s knowing my favorite poets are all women.

fitting telling.

While one may not hero worship,

unconscious and heroine may be two terms

more synonym than not.

bushwick impressions precede its expressions

It’s the second week of mine here at my new little palace in this cozy corner of Bushwick. There’s not much to look at outside the front door besides a community college across the street and the big L station buried under what looks like an abandoned mortuary. It’s funny that it looks that way because the other side of it is the biggest graveyard in the borough, or so I like to believe. When I’m doing a bad job of living and waiting at the station in the day all anyone seems to be able to do is gaze out at the thousands of tombstones rolling away to the horizon under a gray sky. I mentioned to my roommate earlier tonight that it’s probably a source of unconscious comfort for most residents because with the greatest mystery right there on the other side of the tracks, living and working and trying to love doesn’t seem like such a crazy idea.

But enough about death; the fact is that I do have a backyard, and neighbors’ sporadic security lights alternate in a sequence slow enough that if some poor dreaming straggler with too much whiskey on his mind were to trounce through it around midnight, he might tune back into the general sensorium just rarely enough to fool himself into thinking it’s a german disco arranged primarily for his catharsis, and rejoice in chemically-prolonged celebration at the irony of such a serendipitous light show put up for his own truest self.

But the whole best true self scenario feels too numbed down for that dissociation to actually happen. The self is buried in the work somewhere, floating along in an undersea river along with the rest of these other roommates, and we’re copping a proverbial tapestry in terms of psycho-social pirouettes. Did I say social? I meant sex.

Some godless union of raw artistic talent is obviously on the horizon, and for once I’m not the only artist here, and for once I am the only writer. But it’s early; first trimester for this particular inter-subjective baby, and so there’s no sense in placing bets on blue or pink when everything is gray and maroon.

One thing any friend of mine would find appealing is the presence of other like-hearted folks trying out Bushwick like it’s the abyssal end of the punk world that somehow still works…the women in this cafe and around the block who are probably a semi-consensual part of the complicit half of gentrification feign a guard when they pass, but check in for anything with a momentary glow of the iris. Distrustful, yet not mistrustful. Careful, selective, but not disconnected. Or maybe I don’t give my visage enough credit. I wouldn’t know.

on the trauma of privilege.

The night before last I spent five hours analyzing the semantic and performative contours of the phrase “as if” in-text. Tonight, I vacillate between secret applications on one imperious hand, and the abject denial of the pernicious contingency my last ex proved me right in inevitably being on an Other’s.

Accepting that second-guessing intelligence is more harmful than acquiescing to the truth of said intelligence’s brutally proven first nature in its first instance has a lovely indelible flavor, and a third hand is holding spectral position over this amazing Crown Heights studio I’ve enjoyed for two weeks. Nevertheless I remain ever-readied for a second move in two days, and I’m writing fiction like never before on yet another fucking hand, and I threw Anaïs Nin’s “trauma of privilege” motif out the frigid window with fully conscious glee, and I drink under a nomme de guerre with two-dimensional strangers.

I’m beginning to believe in the existence of an intermediary class of inauthentic extroverts, those who are really introverts, yet lack the commitment to follow through, and so make much better extroverts, digitally. No hate, no foul.

Don’t know about you, but I’d rather not be here right now.

I barely touch my social media accounts. It’s kind of exhilarating to imagine the emotional détournement everyone is copping on the hourly, perpetually fighting the urge to conflate their concrete situ with their self-produced produced-self.

But clearly it’s still worse to run from the acts one does, or continue metanarrating one’s failure to act from an abstract, presumably innocent position. My god, the casual ease of blaming one self for hurting oneself, while one freely switches between judge and accused.

In other words, I’m quite pleased with myself, and I know it. Apologies to most readers for the cryptic nature of this post, but look at your fucking clock. Look at it. Goodnight.