01.24.2015→much later, with sun

I’m settling in for a few weeks of the most mortifying work I can imagine, in any town. I don’t even want to say what it is. I think prostitution is the next step down.

the New York economy is onerous!

I read another blog’s latest post earlier today, and it reminded me of a distinct difference in social relations between asia and the states–respectability: in the east, I was basically a demigod wherever I went. Except for the few who’d already made names for themselves by establishing cultural capital (bands, art fests, interdisciplinary performance troupes, etc), most expats were predominantly reduced to nervous, flattering and attention-seeking behavior.

Oh, how sad I was back then.

I’ve entered this strange stasis, now, trapped between two mutually exclusive outlets: this awful job as my only means for survival, and my writing. The latter’s been difficult for the past day, seeing as this caribbean wake upstairs connotes 9 hours of bongo-bashing per night. jesus. my roommate’s ceiling is coming apart. whoever passed had better be up to some serious bliss.

I am writing three pieces, two of which are due next week:

the first is an essay on the notion of future anterior in psychoanalysis. the most compatible experiences to employ as examples are trauma and love. oh boy.

the second is my SF piece. I’m submitting an excerpt from the novel, but I need to expand it, sharpen the dialogue, insert some psychosomatic and etymological play, take advantage of the use-mention antinomy, et al.

They’re just for contests, but hell it would be really nice to receive a $4000 grant, work-space, free workshops and two public readings. Talk about a different world. There are a thousand ways I can rip myself apart about where I am, the life I presently endure, who I can and cannot talk to, my lack of progress in pretty much everything compared to upper-middle-class writers of ordinary craft and solid capital. whatever happened to the days of the bum genius? i am in serious need of a 21st century beat movement.

but the saddest thing I guess is how my friends have interpreted their recognition of my recent housing//financial//emotional woes as proof of character weakness, and transferred that recognition to something more specific and personal. my competence as a writer. because, you know, if i were smart 

I guess one learns who one’s true friends are through such ordeals. The sad thing is it was all of them.

I said tabula rasa, but I didn’t mean ex nihilo…I still have needs! Ugh.

I find myself fantasizing encounters with people I’ve hardly known, and maybe met once, as if my subconscious doesn’t even know what to do with my body anymore. In another time and place it would be funny, but I’m subletting my room to a couple, a happy, young couple in their late teens. I will be on the couch, working on the cold streets nine hours a day, five days a week.

Hopefully, something will change for the better, someday, somehow, eventually…



someday, when this ordeal quits you,

you will again be loved for what you will have been,

instead of who you could be becoming.

A story doesn’t have to give itself away. Ever. A story preserves and concentrates its strength and affect, and is capable of releasing its power even after a long time. I’m paraphrasing Walter Benjamin here.

Perhaps this is what I learned last year: the significance of perhapsness, of what can not not be.

in my own, delirious terms i had thought it was just the subjunctive case, cultural shock, but now I know it is actually a distinct, unactualized thought-pattern; addiction, religion.

My friend(s) believe(s) that it’s not a natural talent that will save me, but my drive to succeed in my dreams despite lack of talent.

But the truth is what I’ve really done is become really good at deferring creative impulse, to appear as one, being-stable, in effect cloaking myself from myself, in order to remain unrecognized by everyone else–why am I so afraid of being recognized? Is it in anticipation of Hegel’s Divine Day? The terror ensuing at the possibility that this place of Fear and Trembling–this infinite compossibility of a shared and perfect cogency is both aware of and judging me?

Who could punish me?