a little bit of love which I think is fine
this is one i made a long time ago
in a sense reality is no different today than it was seven years ago when i was writing around the clock; i’m 35 now, have not succeeded financially or commercially at all, but discipline-wise i may be right on time; fame and success did not need to befall me, would not have helped; being left alone was good for me, fame and ego emptied out, now they’re meaningless and i am so bored by the scene, i prefer conversations or being left alone
“It can turn people into products.”
I don’t think people are solutions to other people’s problems; this whole drama of “coupling” and “finding someone” and “being single” ~ being yourself and with yourself is really the important thing (am I saying “stop dating, stop having sex, stop looking to others for a listener”? No, do what gives you pleasure, do what you want, listen to your body, wonder who you want to be tomorrow ~ ah, continuity! Ah, how I denied real life a seat at the table, which would only serve to muddle up my philosophizing, keeping the water of life clear so I can speak about the true nature of things! Ha! Maybe I should fictionalize this, dial my personality up to 11, make him an asshole…no, that doesn’t sound like writing I would like to do; I will simply do what comes naturally (see how I justify my existence to a draft Medium post from three years ago, rather than go scroll and click and reach for some woman to listen to me; women are too sacred to bother them with being my listener
the blinking cursor is home to me ~ possibility is where I live: opening up; I don’t need a lover, I am love and everyone is love; perhaps the game of who’s with who is childish, social network meaning addiction, the nodes, status;
*
14. It's not "about" any one person
the truth is every woman is the whole species; H.L. Mencken was onto something when he said “love is the illusion that one woman differs from another”; everyone is the same self, separateness is not a true story; but this may only be true for those who read, for whom the reading voice (which all writers write in) is the one true universal voice, the voice of God perhaps, or just the “I” — it is vanilla in that sense
reread and skimmed 5/23 11:34am (54 pages)
Erin Rose, what a beautiful name
it used to be so eager to say something, now i am happy in my stillness, patience, letting “it” come to me, letting things unfold, not rushing anything, making no plans, letting time occupy my body again, letting the years pile up slowly now that their progression has ceased to enflame me, by which I mean I have no expectations or hopes for things getting better
maybe a perfect name
yes her name is perfect
now i encompass everyone’s love; it is impersonal
i also have no one to argue with about this, having grown to prefer silence. it could be that i became myself on my own, through silence
flailing in a void big enough for two
ah, this used to be about my hunger ~ now i could not even in good faith dust off the pictures of old lovers, painting myself cool (i mostly look the same; did i pivot to inner beauty? I am making art with no end in sight, autobiography, stream of consciousness (aha! there! I can reinvent myself! The truth is I trust myself and don’t need to obey fear or the supposed need to make money; I disobey it quietly, inwardly, with my full consent, and I live to fight for the right to live without making a living unless it comes naturally out of my gut
the center for intuitive living, that could be a thing to go found
i am not concerned with dating or sex, it seems to come in surprise moments;
bottom left:
everything is fine even with the laundry list of problems; one is only human
this is not a pretentious book
*
“I love you. I feel as though we were never strangers, you and I, not even for a moment.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche, a letter to Mathilde Trampedach c. April 1876
I’m anticipating problems at the coexistence of smartphones and marriage: freedom with security—and if it works for us, does it solve the problem? We are not alone. I reject happiness while life is difficult for others—I’d like to free them from work they don’t want to do. I don’t want a life like my parents’.
*
the angels fight over your photograph
who do you give your best to
at which hours
well, who’s asking? Facts are subject to who’s asking; facts don’t always scale, everything is deniable, the past may not even be real; eventually judges and provers run out of energy—and i’ve lost another reader, but i write for one who has few expectations, who just wants to cruise around for a while, float on the lazy river ~ but it may be that what i write cannot be read; i write for how it makes me feel to open up and let the natural voice flow; so, what do my posts and my days become? It is a pleasure to sink down into ease and occupy my time even writing about how I am writing; it is self-soothing, and by doing it, it means I can do something else next. Is it worrisome that I’m not working for money? I bet anyone working for money wishes they could be elsewhere
maybe I don’t write about love anymore; I will curate some good stuff in the absence of my own interesting thinking on the subject
*
“Can I love someone……..and still think/fly?”
Can I love someone........and still think/fly?
that will be the question
how to have a work and personal life
and balancing the checkbook
raising the kids, whether ours or others
where does my personal life intersect with community? I think that’s the valid next question now that I have identified my life’s work and surrender to it repeatedly every day ~ where to file what I’ve done remains the open question no one is asking; it is a relief to be unimportant
life just gets loathsomely simply
~
Imagination is enough
There are relationships to be forged
Love finds a way
The players change
The cast grows up
Redemption for broken and empty childhood, both in homemaking and in entrepreneurship: the integrated woman I desire as my partner in crime.
Laying down that period with brutality and drama.
Hurricane
need I talk about an affair I had in my twenties? like childhood sexual abuse, everyone’s had some, it isn’t … well, the woman in question has been … hmm … luckily no one reads me anymore so i can get away with rambling in muffled fashion about it; art of course remains a place to go to your own edge of what you are unwilling to say, a grievance and complexly alloyed affection you will not part with or acknowledge; ah, language getting blurry now, memory and will failing, here the spaceship has hit a strange, loopy velocity; an aesthetics of confusion — oh, i will never be as loud as i used to; if the apparent solution is to GET LOUD about no one reading your writing … ha; longing for an other; i think i’ve quenched it, i found writing and music, i could combine them! i do TikTok and SoundCloud and YouTube and Smule, link in bio; my lover is the reader who hasn’t found me yet, ha ha; this is absolutely my same old unhinged bipolar-schizophrenic wandering-flying mind
now, whatever I say I can walk away from, and return to the fresh, unstained white of silence, and begin afresh without expecting anything from the past — is this divine and original? I am still in obscurity; maybe it’s time for this fever of darkness and separateness to break? I wonder what it’s gonna take; unfortunately for others in my life, I am the one who would have to solve my problem, and I have become particularly incapable of anything but following my internal voice; maybe this was what “endurance” was all along
court embarrassment harder is the only advice for creatives: somehow get people’s attention; hmm, just tear layers faster and faster, be completely human, and eventually people will like that about you—your bravery; for it is not what you make but who you become ~ we can’t be thrilled about yesterday’s work anymore; yesterday is not a subject of fascination anymore.
*
I wrote my way out
But what she’s writing and creating and advancing matters a lot too if it’s interesting, if it’s related.
We are rogues away from our past.
Renegades.
It needs existential emphasis.
A woman who knows how to destroy men.
A woman who knows the game, a game I don’t. A player who’s sick of competing; a woman for whom there is no competition.
Of course I’m ahead of anything I can tell anyone.
“Be then my slave, and know what it means to be delivered into the hands of a woman.”
― Leopold von Sacher-Masoch
In some ways, a bruise is the inverse of photography, or any kind of art making. Art preserves; bruises fade. “Suffering is interesting but so is getting better”
Revisiting the crime scene wondering again what happened; when I have time for myself, I think
Was that what it was?
“I craved the dependency, the adoration, the satisfaction, the security, but sometimes I felt claustrophobic. We were addicted to the amount of love the relationship supplied … Things between us started to break down, but neither of us could make the break.”
to want to stay interesting and close to the flesh, the smell of her skin, the taste of her mouth—you have pictures; you can recreate the experience you went through in your mind, and in your life you can sing, dance, feel, and share something with others; you can share the feeling, and words...the past isn’t coming back but the present is enough
an author still nostalgic for the belief that starving could render angst articulate
~
inarticulable, beautiful truth is WHATEVER, we’ve been here before, now do your work, get rich, get free, have more sex, spend more time alone, do more work, shut the fuck up about the truth and go forth enhancing, blocking, deleting, ignoring, destroying, inserting, showing up, being real, being happy, be happy, be happy, be happy
We’re either the webmaster of other people’s articles or we’re the ones worth writing and talking about - the explained are more interesting than the explainers...but the explainers are alive
she was referred to as the “Daughter of Passion”
one of the church’s fastest canonizations
Can’t talk about love without talking about pain and loss
Anymore
“A wound marks the threshold between interior and exterior; it marks where a body has been penetrated”
In her essay “Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain,” Leslie Jamison writes of having an ambivalent relationship to female pain—the twinned desires of wanting to dwell in the wound, to make art about it, from it, while also not wanting to be perceived as a woman who lingers in her own suffering.
writing about my exes becomes about the future, because everything is about the future or must be made about the future because the past is not real
I’m master of this junk and junkyards in general
as long as these Notes remain familiar and haven’t been tossed
when I can’t toss them and can’t advance them, I admire them
sometimes in the night when time is mine
~
“A man attaches himself to woman -- not to enjoy her, but to enjoy himself.”
― Simone de Beauvoir
~
~
“Women fall in love when they get to know you. Men are just the opposite. When they finally know you they're ready to leave.”
— James Salter
I don’t need anyone
“The only friends I have are the dead who have bequeathed their writings to me — I have no others. And I’d always found it hard to have any relationship with another person — I wouldn’t think of using such an unappetizing word as friendship, a word which is misused by everybody. And even early in my life there were times when I had no one — I at least knew that I had no one, though others were always asserting that I did have someone. They said, You do have someone, whereas I knew for certain that I not only had no one, but — what was perhaps the crucial and most annihilating thought — needed no one. I imagined I needed no one, and this is what I still imagine to this day. I needed no one, and so I had no one. But naturally we do need someone, otherwise we inevitably become what I have become: tiresome, unbearable, sick — impossible, in the profoundest sense of the word.”
― Thomas Bernhard, Concrete
it is a pleasure to not be on the dating apps; the response I want from my playful exuberance and sharing is…maybe just from me…again, this is essential understanding which may also be part of my life’s work:
“the one he practiced on, the one he could use to get all of the cruelness out of his system, before reforming himself into a Prince Charming”
will think of what else to say about beauty; i think woman is a beautiful shape
the longing for merging with a shape creates the shape, but the shape was there independent of my longing; the metaphysics of our coexistence; only reality can sate memory
