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Yoshihiro Tatsuki, Untitled 5, 1970s-early 1980s

Artist: Ito Shinsui Title: Mosquito Net, from the First Series of Modern Beauties Date: 1929 Medium: Color woodblock print; oban Credit Line: Bequest of Henry C. Schwab

so i feel like women having chronic anemia, hypothyroidism, and related gynecological disorders is widespread and continually undertreated, dismissed by doctors. Especially in women who have ever had any kind of psychiatric or neurological diagnosis (or speculation of diagnosis because honestly most doctors do not diagnose anything, they guess rapidly and the supposedly careful diagnosticians are too often running scams).

Recently I finally, being less schizophrenic enough to have the sense to try this, insisted on trying heme iron pills and ND thyroid pills after getting the runaround about the possibility for decades. Less than a month later, most of the worst constant symptoms I had which were attributed to the anti-nmdar encephalitis and schizophrenia etc etc are resolving. It isn’t the maniacal misplaced hope of improvement I used to rush into at any sign of possible lucidity. I can feel my body is alive again, my blood is oxygenated. And how many times do so many women “get checked for anemia and thyroid insufficiency and labs come back in the normal range?”

#Obviously i have to be extremely careful about not overloading the iron or thyroid and in keeping tea/coffee/calcium/vitamin c interactions #or potentiation sorted. But if the idea before was catatonia is an acceptable unexpected guest i will take this risk.#If the alternative would be what vyvanse or wellbutrin slapped over an untreated underlying cause #when those meds tend to damage the organs and deplete all kinds of things.

I am hardly too interested in the above excerpts, more so now only in the rest of the book, which was published well after the song Goodbye Horses was released (to my dismay, I was hoping it preceded the song but then think what a dumb little wish for the shallow confirmation of trivia and speculation).

I should think more about actual horses, horsiness, and not as everything they can and do stand in for as metaphor?

Three times now, professional actual public writers and philosopher types, legitimately scholarly, more successful and conventional sorts who were only mildly crazy told me they had fantasies of becoming like Nietzsche in Turin. One moved to Turin, had a stipend to stay there for a season of what looked like constant instagram curation. Another told me it was a sexual fantasy for him almost, the public breakdown mythologized? As if Nietzsche or Turin had anything to do with what they wanted to say or do. Only someone completely gone into brain disease can act that scene. I have been that. I have done it. But when all of that transpires, no one sees me as Nietzsche. They see me (if they notice me at all or aren’t looking away in projected shame) as the horse — and they say whip her (maybe say him or it if they have some ulterior motive) harder! In the moment I don’t pretend Nietzsche would hug my neck or tell anyone to stop whipping. He famously said that thing about “when you go to women… don’t forget the whip” (which scholars have hedged about but are cowards, dissembling). His staged pose with Paul Ree and Lou, whip in her hand, was a transfer of blame, an accusation. This is the woman who would not surrender to me! Not the acknowledgment of her sovereignty, power or will. He was pretending to be a horse in that photo? Or an ox? Why did he choose lilacs as the flower to garnish the whip? Those scholars who fantasized about reenacting Nietzsche in Turin would do better improvising new photo tableaus like that one maybe, fully clothed emotionally masochist anti-pornography of lost loves.

i think midwestern usa people are uniquely the dullest people on earth. this landlocked void of cretinism and corn is where the soul goes to die.

no, the uniqueness of dullness is too grand a claim truly. the English are better at that. midwestern niceness or kindness standards, the complete ugliness of the colloquial drawl and flat accents, stunted colorless vocabulary. an entire region of deformed castrated pigs in a military funded livestock experiment some ignorant grunt forgot to shut down because it was so boring he prayed to Jesus Saves to carry him away on a tornado to heaven where the witches can’t go. The scary witches which is “mean” and therefore insufficiently bovine. The middle west, where the swinish folk are a hardworking friendly bacteria colonizing the can’t-bother-to-minotaur bull carcass anus of America’s horned tapeworm but not even the grace of transformative decay intervenes in the totalized nothingness parasite. Even, especially, in the cities and suburbs. An eternally reoccurring blandening, failed entropy. If God gathered up both wheat and chaff in feigned promise of leveling but chopped off, force-deleted any difference or beauty until the flesh petrified and seeded crops of pure despair dressed up as happiness, rows of the corniest corn unfit to be tossed in the trough. Unfit to be burned but afraid of all fire.

k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9

“𝔴𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔫 𝔯𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢𝔰” 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔟𝔶 𝔍𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔓𝔬𝔡𝔴𝔦𝔩

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lamesterdam

A serious question to the people who don't collect stuff, who don't hold onto their movie tickets, who don't hold ON, who aren't attached to their childhood fairytale collections collecting dust on their very adult bookshelves, who can donate the green button down summer dress with white flowers from that one dinner with that one boy we don't talk to anymore, people who aren't piled in (see: locked down) by their physical memories...how do you guys do it? Seeking immediate release.