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richard hell's apartment (via)
Carrie Fountain, from Burn Lake; “Burn Lake 4”
Alexandra Duprez, 2021
instagram.com/p/DKbyW2qM-c9
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Attraction and Repulsion. Modern views of electricity. 1892.
Internet Archive
reading a good poem makes a poem of your own start bubbling in your chest. like woah someone just turned the heat of the stove on high
it's just that i'm always worried i'm doing the wrong thing even when there's not a wrong thing to be doing. in the grocery aisle i'm doing the wrong thing. stopping for a moment to retie my shoelaces i am doing the wrong thing.
it is the first time i've visited this friend at her house; i'm doing the wrong thing already, what if i have the wrong address, what if she has special rules i don't know about, what if my presence here was more of a politeness and not a true request. it is the first time i've been to this restaurant, and surely yes i've been to many of these but what if i'm doing the wrong thing in this one. and even if i've been to this gym a million times what if this time the rules have changed somehow (or i've been doing it wrong all along and it was pure luck that nobody noticed) and what if this time i'm doing it very wrong.
they're taking orders for lunch at work, what if i order the wrong thing somehow, or what if - what if i am not even supposed to order anything - is this a test? my friends ask if i want to see a movie but what if i suggest a movie that they won't like and that's certainly doing the wrong thing. yes im certifiably happy and she's amazing and i love being a lesbian but if i bring her on a date where everything isn't blisteringly perfect (the weather is a bit chilly, finding parking was harder than i thought, the event started 3 minutes late) isn't that doing the wrong thing? i know i can't control everything obviously but i should have planned better; this was my fault. and of course i know i'm only human but - a lack of omnipotent foresight really is doing the wrong thing now.
am i doing the wrong thing writing about this? i'm doing the wrong thing, aren't i, i'm so sorry, i always seem to be doing that somehow.
patterns left by woodworms on driftwood
you don't need death to die
it isn't that i can't do it alone - but sometimes i feel it more, you know? i come back to an empty house. i have no one to text hey the flight got delayed, just letting you know i'll be a few hours late.
most of the time this is okay, and i bask in the quiet. i make myself a new and fancy recipe. i bake treats for my dog. i take environmentally-shameful-length showers. i often like being alone. i like to sit and have the world hold me in a palm like a mercury spill.
but then the small things. i kind of want to see one of the touring broadway shows. or a particular movie. i just want to tangle my legs into someone else's while we eat popcorn and talk about our favorite types of tea or something. it's not that i can't handle any of this by myself - i do, i am happy doing so - but i sometimes cut the orange in half and wish i could peel it for a second person.
i am cheerfully and chipperly informed that all things can be fun and exciting by yourself. i am reminded that loving myself should be the first and foremost goal. i am jokingly informed that if i just hold out, my wife will appear in the clouds as if i wished for her - but that i shouldn't drive myself crazy by looking. i ground myself in my incredible friends and support. i do it all the "right" way.
it's just - i had a long day today. and i wish i had someone's hand to hold about it.
Rachel Gillig, The Knight and the Moth
Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies
you have so much trouble finishing things. thank-you notes or homework or video games. you get mostly done - 70 to 90 percent - and then you stutter to some kind of halt about it. so yes, you've seen most of that show you've been watching. yes, you've mostly finished the work on your desk. the laundry is clean - but it's not put away yet. you know rationally that you it would maybe take you another hour or two, maximum. it would be so much easier, so much better for you. you'd finally get it off of your chest.
still. you don't want the night to end. you linger in the conversation. sometimes you pipe endless silly questions into a conversation, trying to stretch the warmth of memory, of frienship. you hold your breath. you keep watching the horizon long after the sun has set.
once it's over, it's over. some small bird in your heart begging: not yet! not yet!
i love my therapist but i hate being in therapy. 10 minutes before my appointment, i'm in a meeting with my boss - we discuss my artistic choices; my boss recommends i artistically choose less. 10 minutes after therapy, i wash my hair and think about everything that was said, and then i have to switch it off, like a lamp, and go back to work again.
i was on a walk the other day and someone had the perfect combination of his cologne and whatever-else. it was almost exactly his scent. i fucking hate that. after all these years, i remember that? i tell my therapist - i feel like a fucking wolf. try telling a middle-aged blonde lady. oh i scented him on the air. i'm 30, and i'm having a panic attack over something that would be a plotline in the omegaverse.
what they don't tell you about mental illness is that if you are lucky enough to survive it into adulthood; it becomes a weird slice of your life. because you do, eventually, have to build a life. i realized in a panic somewhere around 22 - oh. i don't know what i'm fucking doing, because i always assumed i'd just go ahead and die. i didn't die, and i'm grateful for that, and i'm very happy about that choice. but it does mean that i am an adult in an apartment, living with my conditions side-by-side like. oh, that's my roommate, adhd. ignore the glass, bytheway, that's ocd.
so you pick your stupid life up by the scruff of the neck and you're, like glad for it (so much laughter and light and friends you would have never thought possible, when you were in the worst of it). but it feels so strange to be dancing around these odd little microcosms, these patchwork moments of your symptoms. if you have a panic attack at night, you still need to wake up and walk the dog in the morning. if your depression is making everything boring, well, you don't have any sick days left, and a job's not really supposed to be that exciting anyway. your ocd tears out each individual leg hair, and then, an hour later, you sigh, patch up the bloody bits, and go get dinner with friends. and the life is kitten-quiet, mewling and pathetic, but it's also like - it's yours, so you're fond of it.
and it's like - you're real. so you still enjoy pushing the shopping cart really fast and then riding on the back of it down an empty aisle. and you're not, like, so sick anymore that when you accidentally drop a mug you burst into tears (except for the days you do that. which are bad). and no, you're not allowed around certain items anymore. oops! but you've learned to be good about brushing your teeth most days of the week. and you sometimes in the middle of the day you have a little freak-out about how fucking unfair it all is, how fucking hard, how other people can just do this without having to fucking hurt the whole time. and then you sigh and force yourself to sit down and fucking journal about it so you can tell the nice middle-aged blonde woman yeah i had a hard day but i practiced grounding. you still sometimes want to burst out of your own skin, but you force yourself to eat kind-of healthy and to take your vitamins. you let yourself chop off all your hair in the sink in a dramatic poetry of control and relief - and you also have developed good hobbies that help you move your body more frequently. you feel helplessly behind, lost in the shuffle - but you also practice gratitude, taking stock of what you have garnered. because you're trying. even if you're never gonna be normal, you have something... close enough.
and the little kitten of your life, this mangy, starlit tigercub, this thing you expected to rot so young: in your arms, it turns itself over, belly-up. exposing this new soft part, all the organs and guts. like it's saying i trust you now. you won't give me up.
Clouded , London Pond #5 - Isabella Werkhoven, 2017-18.
Dutch, b. 1969 -
Acryl en olieverf op linnen , 105 x 145 cm .
Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, "Extracting the Stone of Madness", Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972