I am ten years old visiting my grandmother in Manhattan, wandering the Natural History Museum with my mother and my paternal grandmother's boyfriend Marvin. I am 21 years old and I am wandering the Natural History Museum with my mother, both my grandmother and Marvin are dead by now. I am grossed out to nausea by the diagram of a mosquito at both ages. I am scared of my mother dying at both ages. I am 21 my mother tells me that the reason she wanted to go to the museum while visiting me is because this will probably be her last time in New York. This statement can be attributed to both her advancing age as well as her divorce from my father sapping both of them of funds to visit me in my new home. It was nice enough of her to visit me the two times she did. We linger in the crystal room and I wonder if diamonds die when they are brought out of the ground, refined, cut, and polished, or was that process signifying when they are born.
When I was real little through to my adolescence, my mind antagonized me by overflowing with imagination. Anytime my parents were away for more than maybe 8 hours at a time my mind would play vivid scenarios of them being tortured and killed until I went back home. Friends knew not to invite me to sleepovers due to me sniveling hysterically about how I knew my parents were going to get murdered after 9 PM. This was even an issue by the time I was 15 years old. One would think it was because I thought I could prevent their untimely deaths by rushing to save them heroically, but instead it was merely a cowardly desire to be murdered with them, so I wouldn't have to be alone and placed into some Oliver Twist – esque orphanage. This phase ended in high school as I found new people who I believed, in the event of my parent's passing, would try to care about me at least a little bit. Living is all about collecting data. Anyways,
I am 10 years old and crying profusely in my bed in Nebraska because I am sure that there are demons in my room trying to corrupt me. I am 18 years old and crying profusely in my bed in Nebraska because my parents are telling me that a demon is corrupting me and making me transgender. I am 21 years old and crying profusely in my bed in Nebraska because my mother yelled at me that I was too weak. She tells me to not let a man take advantage of me like my father took advantage of her. My father tells me to go back to school because once you are out too long you can't really go back easily. I am starting to remember why I did not visit them for 2 years. A fox runs through the backyard while I'm smoking. I'm smoking solely for the novelty of smoking outside my childhood home.
The most frustrating thing about a panic attack or any kind of dramatic reaction, specifically in regards to it being caused by external scenarios rather than an internal hysteria, is that everyone tells you what you need to do different. They say “have you tried medications” or “you are doing it to yourself” when in fact this specifically is happening due to being put under stressors that you are not truly equipped to handle. I am asking for a life raft and you are asking me why I don't have an oar. I am asking for ketchup on my burger and you are telling me to get a job at Heinz. I would love to work at Heinz but this burger is getting cold and I don't interview well on an empty stomach.
I am reading Plato cause I feel behind everyone. Everyone I talk to feels so much smarter than me in New York and statistically its probably true. But nothing has to be necessarily true forever. I've always felt like I had to catch up to everyone. This spurs me to work hard to reach their level, and then without me noticing suddenly surpass some of my peers. This is followed by entering a new group of peers, who perform on a higher level and the fun begins all over again. One could imagine that this is related to the pain I feel when someone I know gets success. This jealous pain then is doubled by how embarrassing it is. I don't even want to hear someone call another person pretty. Infiniteloveallovermeallthetimeneverending. Someone out there needs to rewire my brain so it knows that love is not finite and that just because someone gets love doesn't mean I get less. The part that sucks is that “Someone out there” has to be me.
Something I love doing in Nebraska that I don't love doing anywhere else is baking. My mother has a stand mixer and all sorts of baking dishes and extra ingredients and an oven that works well and plenty of room to roll out doughs. My apartment has none of these things. I think I can finally say I can cook a pie that tastes good and holds its shape and might looks a little fucked up but has a flaky crust and filling with a good consistancy. This was a blackberry/strawberry pie. The night before I made this pie I went to a warehouse rave with my friend Peter. Peter is a nice fellow who likes sending me messages about art. Old friends growing a beard and long hair between the last time you saw them is a great thing because then you can really feel that time has past instead of just acting the part of someone who knows that time has past.
I am not a great writer. I have no great ideas or metaphors to give you all I can do is relay events and give some thoughts on them. I would love to then develop these ideas into further abstract or universal beauty but maybe I can get away with having the reader do it for me. If I put these journal entries, songs, and photos, all on one web page, maybe it will all pretend to be better than it is. If I do everything maybe no one will notice that it's actually nothing. As soon as I'm gone for a month I forget what my mother's face looks like entirely.
I am 21 years old visiting Nebraska and one hour a day is spent holding my mother's hand while she cries and one hour a day driving around with my father aimlessly. I read Plato for an hour. I try to watch a new movie. I see an old friend, or have an old friend cancel on seeing me. I close my eyes and imagine being held by God for as long as I can until I lose it and then I try to imagine it again...
I'm less whiny in person!
some other stuff to share
