this is one of the oldest things i have available to post. i painted it when i was a teenager. i have a lot of unspeakably hideous paintings from the period when i tried like hell to paint and sucked so bad i wanted to die. i still wonder how it would’ve went if i’d tried oil paint though. my mother, who used to paint with oil paints, refused to let me paint with oil paints because i guess it’s vaguely dangerous or something i don’t know but i’ve done a hell of a lot worse shit to myself than use oil paint so maybe i should take up oil painting. i want to do oil painting on big pieces of wood. i want to have a small studio with big windows and a skylight and i want to string christmas lights all around the ceiling and down to the floor at every corner where the walls meet and then all along the perimeter of the floor, like a box of twinkling light, and i want there to be tons of giant pillows to sit on and and a hot plate for heating up a kettle so there can always be tea and i want a small blue or green glass bottle with a very small bouquet of fresh flowers sitting on my desk and some sort of masterful organizational system that is not so rigid it can’t be maintained but not so loose and haphazard that i spend most of my time digging around for things and i want to have a record player and those great, old speakers that come up to your hips and it will always smell like lavender and patchouli.
i drew this hair but the face i drew to go with it looked like shit so i photoshopped it onto this wonderful horse, which i found via google. i actually attempted to find out who drew it but that’s a lost fucking cause ost of the tie, especially with anatomical sorts of drawings. this, like everything i’ve been posting, is old, by the way, lest you get the wrong impression here and think i’ve actually begun to create things again because i very much have not. i managed to write yesterday but i was adding onto something i found digging around and i liked it but it wasn’t quite finished and after adding into it for a few hours and rereading it i noticed a distinct change in my voice, namely an absence of that lyrical sort of quality the shit i write tends to have. it was just very…flat. dull. i don’t know.sldkfjsldkfjdlkfjasdlkvjaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah
i keep meaning to delete that random line of text because i don’t think it fits or adds anything but i like this otherwise because it is a photoshopped photo but looks to me like an ink drawing kind of. this is very old, taken in some tiny little tucked into the mountains town in new hampshire. when we lived in new england we had a tendency to take a lot of drives just to be in the car with the music blaring and i took photos and played DJ and we visited at least a hundred of those quaint postage stamp sized towns that are folded into the hysterically cold and vertically complicated earth.
i took this from the passenger seat of a car one night in the financial district in downtown boston. i have always been fascinated with the glimpses you get at night through uncovered windows of people in lit rooms.
photo / self
whitney houston // i wanna dance with somebody
in the meantime, here is one of the songs i listen to at least ten times in a row every few days and will never ever get sick of, nor will i ever fail to argue to the death that this is a perfect fucking song, period. it’s not a guilty pleasure song. it’s not good for a pop song. it’s just. fucking. perfect.
I seriously listen to the same shit over and over and over and over and it’s making me crazy. I don’t think I’ve listened to more than five new albums in the last three years. On the rare occasion that I hear people talking about a new band, I listen to them and want to kill myself.
Jai, if you see this and are up to it, will you list off some people / groups for me because you listen to the best music ever.
so-treu, music soulmate, ditto.
This doesn’t mean I’m not open to suggestions from anyone who sees this though.
I was thinking of making a blog where I listen to a certain number of new-to-me albums a week and write about them. I need to get back to writing and I need to get back to listening to music that isn’t the same five Nicki Minaj songs over and over so I thought maybe it would be a good idea. The only thing is I don’t know if anyone would want to read it. I also want to get back to making mixes and posting them because I still listen to those seven or so mixes that I made and I still even occasionally get a note from someone who downloaded one or some or all of them just to tell me that they love them, which is pretty fucking awesome. So maybe I could have some sort of thing where like once a week I make a mix that is all shit I loved dearly before I started the blog so I can joyfully relish the feeling of sharing music I love with you also. I had an idea for a mix that would be divided into two parts like an album and one “side” would be called shaky dog and the other would be called rocket man. This idea came to me the other day when I was stoned and listened to Shakey Dog by Ghostface right after listening to Rocket Man by Elton John and realized that the ability to blend those two together needs to be shared. I also still need to upload a mix where there is a transition from Deftones to Buddy Holly to MIA that I swear totally, totally works.
But all that is later thoughts. right now I just want to listen to something besides the same things I listen to all the time so help. HELP. HEEEEEEELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Oh and onesmartblackboy you owe me a mix don’t think I forgot about it because I absolutely did NOT. In fact, now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure you’ve said you’d make me a mix on more than one occasion only to totally, totally NOT. Not cool, dude. Not. Cool.
Okay now help me. (Please.)
Oh oh wait also: I’m mainly looking for really, really good individual songs right now. Tell me your favorite songs. They don’t have to be new or newish either. Just tell me your favorite songs. Any genre, any sort of sound, any mood, any anything. Just tell me the songs that make you cry and make you dance and make you certain that music save lives. Yes? Please?
one way to generate genuine joy:
order a pizza at 11pm, come to the door with old school nicki minaj blaring and as you’re apologizing for not being able to find the remote to turn it down is the exact moment he is hit in the face with a near-visible wall of weed smoke,
thanking him for walking you through the process of signing a receipt by remembering to give him back his pen and at the same time realizimg that it’s not like you brought $2 to the door just to be like “haha look at me i got mad cash” but actually because you intended to give it to him as a show of gratitude for bringing you food
Suddenly I am crying like a child, not just in the red-faced and ugly blubbering, snot pouring from the nose down into the mouth, over the chin, down onto their own clothes and the clothes of anyone comforting them, but also like a child in that way children have of starting to calm down only to end up crying as if whatever set them off has happened all over again just at the memory of it, that deep, visceral way children have of remembering certain sorts of pain, the sort of pain that reveals some heretofore unknown brutality of human life, psychological, physical, metaphysical, in a way that they are completely incapable of getting over.
for brightlightsloudnoises, who actually loves this little creature as much as i do. this is a self-portrait in my opinion. a much more honest self-portrait than any of the puffy-faced too much eyemakeup and shiny red lips pictures i take where my features are blotted out by bright lights and a careful tilting of the head
more reruns because i have nothing new to offer you:
this was done with micron pens and staedtler markers and took many, many hours. i don’t know what it is but i think it looks like the inside of my head if the inside of my head were more colorful rather than just black and red ash and smoke and flame etc etc etc
something else i’ve posted a lot, something old. she has afro puffs, in tribute to lady of rage, who i saw on i think soul train? i can’t remember and google isn’t helping but i saw her perform afro puffs on tv when i was 12 or so and i thought she was just the most awesome ever and lady of rage is the best name. ever.
i know i’ve posted this a million times and i’ll probably post it a million more. it is just a photo of a window in my old apartment, or rather a recently vacated apartment at the very old house divided up into strange little apartments that i once lived in. whenever someone moved out, i’d go investigate because every apartment was completely different than the others and i’m not especially respectful of boundaries when it comes to going where i don’t belong
apocalyptic neon static sunrise, provincetown
every winter things get even worse than whatever mindblowing level of awful they already were and suddenly i can’t get out of bed and i am just the most useless friend / relative / lover / partner / whathaveyou on the planet. i am supposed to go back home for a few weeks but i only have a few days to sort out the details or i’m going to be stuck here and the last time i was stuck here i tried to starve myself to death so that’s probably something i should avoid. suddenly having the option to go home every few months is so strange. there’s so much complicated shit involved. my sister needs 300$ or rather she needed it three days ago but i’ve been sleeping poorly around the clock yet without any feeling upon waking of restfulness so i think she thinks i’m avoiding her. i think i kind of am also, because i don’t want to turn into my mother. she never provided money but she was always getting entangled in drama that she didn’t have to get entangled in. which is what led to this girl being so deeply enmeshed in my life that i can’t really think of a better word for her than sister. we called each other cousin growing up but really she’s my sister. she just is. and if she’s drowning then i should be trying to save her, right? i mean i can’t even save myself but does that really matter? i don’t know how to be family. i don’t know how to do family. i don’t know what family feels like or looks like. family for me was a mirage. family was smoke and mirrors and through the smoke all that seems clear is that nothing is what it appears to be and no one is who they say they are and trust is how little girls end up broken all apart.
i keep going into pharmacies to pick up my drugs that don’t really work anymore but i keep taking them because what else am i supposed to do? get better? how does that even work? so lately i’ve been going into pharmacies and i have this horrible habit of wandering around for an hour or more filling a basket with shit i absolutely don’t need like fifteen shades of nailpolish and kits to do my own acrylics which is stupid for multiple reasons, one being that i never wear acrylic nails and it’s really not worth the five or ten bucks you save doing it yourself when it takes twice as long, they aren’t as strong, and sometimes they just look a mess no matter how long you fuck around with them. why am i talking about acrylic fingernails. and i buy makeup too even though i almost never ever wear makeup. i also steal shit. i’ve been a little klepto since i was a kid. my sister was also a klepto but she was always getting caught, i think because she wanted to, because any attention was good attention in her mind, even if the attention she was getting was an hour long lecture from a cop in some backroom of a walmart. no one ever even knew i stole shit. it started with diet pills when i was eight years old. i knew i couldn’t afford them with my zero dollars and i knew i couldn’t convince anyone to buy them for me so i stole them. and when you are incredibly fucking poor and realize how easy it is to steal shit, you tend to keep going. i once worked the graveyard at a grocery store and eventually every single thing in a home that could be stolen from a supermarket (one of those fancy rich people neighborhood supermarkets that also has a bunch of other crap besides food) was stolen from a supermarket. plus i stole money straight from the register because i managed to get my hands on an override key and just did fake returns three or four times a week on stupid pricey shit like we had a locked case with mid-to-high end perfume in it so just one of those was good for like sixty to eighty bucks and it just went like that for a long time. my mom was off acting like a child running around with this evil woman who ran a wolf rescue organization but really just funneled the money into her own stupid life and she had fucking wolves eating vegetarian dog food just because she was vegan and imposing your belief system on carnivorous animals who you’ve got locked in shoddy cages that animal control keeps complaining about is totally sane. they all ended up dying from distemper because she refused to vaccinate them. that’s a whole other long depressing fucked up story from my life. but the point is my mother was almost never home and she has what i like to call sunnydale syndrome because i used to be a big buffy dork and even though i don’t watch it anymore i still maintain that sunnydale syndrome is a very real thing. like…sometimes people would complain about the unrealisticness of her mother not realizing something was up and no one in the entire town realizing there were demons and vampires and shit just running around but that was something i always thought was kinda brilliant about that show — the way it highlighted the blinders people put on, and the sheer magnitude of shit they are able to NOT see because they don’t want to see it. like if your daughter is working as a cashier at a grocery store and yet somehow your home is full of gourmet food and name brand everything and she’s also somehow managed to save up over five hundred dollars in cash in a tin can while also paying the bills you’re not paying because you’re not fucking working…you have to have just unspeakable skill at not seeing what is right in front of you to think nothing fucked up is going on there. i finally told her about it a year or so ago after one of our many stints of me not speaking to her ended and i wanted to just shatter all of her dumbfuck illusions about who i am, who i ever was, etc. she was, of course, flabbergasted. because that is how she lives her life.
i’ve been doing reckless things, continuously. i’ve been missing drugs badly. hypodermic needles swim through my dreams. sometimes i get one in my hands and grasp the orange cap between my teeth, hear that snap of the seal breaking as i yank the syringe free. sometimes i even get to cook it up, stick the slanted tip of the hollow needle into the tiny ball of cotton and draw it up, watch the cotton turn white again as it’s sucked dry. on even rarer occasions, i actually find a vein, press the plunger down, but then i feel nothing, just nothing, and i can never decide which is worse — the dreams where i shoot it and nothing happens or the ones where i chase my old drug dealer through labyrinthine hotels and parking garages full of flames and tidal waves, always seeing the back of his head disappear around a corner, or i’m in an antiseptic white room and i have the needle, the spoon, lighter, q-tip to rip bits of cotton from but that magical little baggie of powder has disappeared and i’m screaming and tearing this imaginary world apart trying to find it just find it just find it before i wake up near tears panting and digging my fingernails into my palm just wanting, wanting.
i am sleeping with a guy who seems fairly high up in a chain of people growing really, really good weed and the last time i slept over i left before he woke up and when i saw this giant mason jar full of pot that he’d left out on the kitchen counter, i opened it and grabbed a handful, probably a quarter, and i had absolutely no line of bullshit prepared to spew from my mouth if that loud metal on glass sound of the lid being unscrewed then screwed back on were to wake him. nevermind the possibility that he keeps track of the weight and would notice eventually that there was way more missing than he and i smoked before we fucked. i don’t know why i do these things. my partner refers to things like this as ballsy but, much as i’d like to think of myself as ballsy, the truth is i’m just incredibly reckless and prone to acts of self-endangerment. i don’t just not take care of myself, i actively pursue self-destruction. lately i do this via sluttyness, mostly, although even climbing into cars of craigslist hookups at 4 in the morning doesn’t seem dangerous enough some days. plus i just have no patience for bad sex. it’s amazing how many men are just really really bad at sex. especially knowing how to be nice to the various wondrous parts of a vulva. i slept with this one guy who went on and on about how much he loves giving head, how he could give head for hours, blah blah blah, and he gets down there and just kinda slobbers between my legs for a minute or so while jabbing me in the cunt with his fingers and he just kept up the violent„ untrimmed nails jabbing, leaning in to slobber some more every now and then and i’m just laying there wanting it to be over.
the thing is…i have spent as much time on my back (or my knees, or splayed out in the backseat of a car) just wanting it to be over as i intend to spend for the rest of my life. actually that’s not true, sadly, because you can never be sure someone is going to be good in bed and i have yet to work up the nerve to attempt to stop someone once things have started if it’s unpleasant or outright fucking awful because PTSD and because horrible early sexual experiences and because rape culture and because i don’t know just…it’s all a big nightmare mess of shit really. and the thing is…i am so very unfond of having someone’s naked, hungry body oozing on top of me with their eyes burning holes through my skin as it is, which is what sex is to me most of the time. the guy with the weed is the first really good lover i’ve had in my entire life and i really think it may have something to do with him being in his 40s. because the guys in their twenties that i’ve fucked are pretty much universally just bad. i am making a gross generalization i know but i don’t really care. i’m sure there are plenty of guys in their forties who are terrible in bed though. i’d hate to give the impression that i don’t believe that is true. i am also difficult to please. between my issues around sex based on shit that happened to me earlier in my life and the immense amount of opiates in my system at any given time as well as a high dose of an antidepressant that makes it very very difficult to orgasm…it’s really just depressing as hell. this guy is basically perfect for me though, sexually, because he likes to give head for over an hour which means i actually have something that bears a passing resemblance to an orgasm (or ten) and he has this magnificent cock. i love his cock so much i actually wish he occasionally would give me less head and more cock, which says a lot because i’ve been starved for good head for the bulk of my sexual life. i don’t know why i am talking about this. i never intended to have graphic descriptions of my sexual exploits on my blog. i don’t have anything against blogs with graphic descriptions of sexual exploits but if i am going to write about sex i’d rather write about it better and not enmeshed in long meandering entries about my stunted development as both an adult and a human being that i can’t imagine anyone actually taking the time to read because just…oh my god. i’m so tired of myself. i’m so tired of myself and my problems and the endless bullshit that just keeps going and going. i don’t know.
i like this guy though. he seems kinda sad and he’s very closed off but kind and the other day when i slept over for the first time he kept waking up and moving closer to me or pulling me closer to him but without clutching at me in the vice grip way that people always have of trying to hold one another and which triggers anxiety in me that turns very quickly to fullblown panic if i can’t get free quick enough and extricating yourself from someone’s attempt at an affectionate embrace doesn’t tend to go over well and there’s no easy way to say “look, i grew up so poor i almost never had a bed and had to share a mattress on the floor with my mother who had no concept of boundaries because she thought of me as an extension of herself, like a pet but better, and i’m fairly certain the genesis of my lunatic insomnia is due in no small part to the night after night after night i spent clutched tight against her body, wedged in the crook of her arm, often spending the entire night trying to maneuver my face away from her open mouth expelling carbon dioxide into my face all night so that i was literally struggling to breathe. being held in your sleep just loses all semblance of affection or reflection of desire, or tenderness, or love after years (yeeeeaaaars) of that shit, ok?” so i always end up hurting feelings. even my partner, who knows all about this shit, still gets his feelings hurt when i crawl out from under his arm every time he tries to hold me. convincing him that i seriously had to have my own bed was a nightmare that took like a year of repeatedly telling him no that doesn’t mean i don’t love you anymore and no that doesn’t mean i’m inching toward leaving you, it just means i can’t deal with another human being in my space while i am trying to sleep.
i am supposed to be cleaning my apartment. i took some speed just so i could be awake enough to clean and instead i’m writing the world’s longest and most pointless post about my stupid fucking life. i should go clean. i want to run away. i want to wake up an entirely different person. i’m so tired of being so fucked up. and i’m so tired of the sad hopeful delusions my partner has that someday i will be all better. it’s so exhausting constantly trying to get someone to understand that sometimes life is just not fair and sometimes people are just sick in the way that doesn’t get better. sometimes things are incurable. sometimes the best you can hope for is to manage the madness and the sickness, the pain, the endless disasters. and winter. every single year that we are alive together winter will come and smash glass bottles into my face. every year winter will seep liquid pain into the marrow of my bones and turn the volume of insanity up to brain damaging levels and just continuing to breathe will become an epic feat. that’s just how it goes. that week i was alone and damn near killed myself was the first week it was really cold here, and it rained all week on top of it. it took me a ridiculously long time to put two and two together on that one. winter is just not my jam. it is not my jelly, it is not my marmalade. it is my choking on dry toast. it is my hangnail that you rip off with you teeth even though you know you’re just going to make your finger bleed and ache for days. it is my splinter in the cornea, it is the voice in my head saying, just lie down for a moment in the snow. it’s so soft and home is so far. just let’s lie down here for a little while, just let’s rest. the road is so long and your bones are so tired. it’s not really that cold.