Everything is a blur. It all seems so unreal, but not frightening. What is the word? I stayed up until 6 am, after Jeff gave me an amazing massage that felt like waves in the ocean rinsing away all of the bad energy and tension. It was a full-body massage, and as he moved onto each new section of my body it felt like it was being cleaned. All of the quirks and inconsistencies in my muscles flattened out and I really feel like... I don't know. Just so much closer to... I don't know, I just really don't exist and it's somewhat strange. It's like I just don't fucking care. Indifferent. I know I do, but the volume has been turned down, all except for the droning of this computer and the cricket right outside my window. I rearranged my room so that the energy flows throughout it more evenly. I closed the portal. It was bringing such bad energy into this room, but I'll probably just end up opening it again when I project. My eye sockets are searing.
We sat in some parking lot the other night, and I touched on a new layer of spirituality. I saw his life source. His moon. And it was pallid periwinkle fading into bleach white. Jagged around the edges. I could see the inconsistencies in it, just as he could feel in the massage. There were a lot of tiny ones that needed smoothed out, but 2 major ones that I could tell would take a lot of work to heal. Two holes in his soul. I'm not kidding. 3 others that were noticably different from the texture of his moon, and the tiny spaces. Those 3 didn't really worry me though. There was a line going straight through the middle not quite to the end. A line parallel to it for only a second in the center of the moon.
I've had 2 dreams in the past few days that seem to stick out in memory. In one, I could see someone's soul, and it was someone I know in life. It was an old man, and we combined-- spiritually, that is. In the other dream, I has a bunch of animals: a snake, a tiny yet fullgrown cat and dog, 2 weirdo fish, and a bird. All of the animals were dying, I remember that. They were all really sick, ecspecially the fish, so I called up my friend Dannie Davis to ask if he wanted them because I knew he liked snakes. The next scene, I was in a car and there was a crowd of people that were angry about my proposition to Dannie, for some reason.
In my next astral projection there will be a chair. I just looked over and there is a chair in my room, in the corner and that corner looks like it might be penetrable through projection. I drew pictures with white charcoal on black watercolor paper of projection, and in one there just happens to be a green stickly chair. The figure is bent over seeming to be focusing or crying and there is another figure ascending out of her. Spins. The alligator spins illustrated, I think, are necessary to my cause.
22 September 2006
18 September 2006
caffiene withdrawal
I went back to Fort Wayne for a few days, and it didn't feel like home, and now South Bend doesn't feel like home, but that doesn't mean that I wanted to stay there, because it didn't feel like home either. Home is where the heart is, right? Where is my heart? Well, I could say that it's with the people I love, but they're scattered all over the country. I could say that it's inside me, but I'd just be fucking fooling myself really, because I know that my heart is scattered all over the country just like everyone else that I love, just like I am mentally and emotionally and spiritually. Spiritually, I'm already gone. That's to say, I'm not here. But I'm not in Providence yet either, I'm kind of just on my way there. Like in the way that, physically, matt is on his way to Arizona (prison). I'm not sure what attracts me to that city. Is it Michael? Do I miss starving, maybe? Maybe I just feel like I didn't get to experience it completely, for what it was worth. Maybe it is the ghosts of HP Lovecraft and Poe lurking about that really attract me to the place. Maybe it is the fact that Jack Kerouac was born not too far away, that I could ride the T to new york city and boston every weekend if I had the money and the urge to. It really is all of these things. Maybe it's just that it isn't here. I don't know why I feel like I have to justify it to myself. I'm not wishing anymore. I've done all I can, I've taken the steps. I have a couple of stupid things left, and now it is all in someone else's hands.
If this was the last day of my life, what would I tell people? What would I say to them. For starters, I'd want to tell michael that the whole reason behind the red letter was just that I want one more chance. I need it, because I really don't feel like it's over. I feel like there is something still there. I'd want to tell him that he doesn't have to try so hard to impress upon people the idea that he is intelligent, because he is. I'd want to tell Carly that if she would just stop trying to be original and unique, that she might be, that she is when she isn't trying. When she just is who she is, without trying, those are the times that she really makes me feel like I could just cry forever because she really is beautiful. I would tell Sarah that it is okay. That it is going to be okay. That life makes itself okay, but if she really wants to be happy, she going to have to not accept okay as enough. She's going to have to face that fear of rejection......
I faced my fear of rejection. It does seem so childish. This basic human fear. It is the root to all of the lacks that we have as we grow up, that I had growing up. Lack of self-confidence, lack of self esteem, lack of grip on reality, lack of self identity. That's what the red letter was. I wrote it, and I knew that he'd say, "Jess......." and he would tell me that it was never going to happen. He'd reject me, but it didn't matter, because he knew that I knew. But I don't think that's it. I might have a fetish for rejection. Maybe I just don't want to hear the truth, if it means to hear some things about myself that are actually good.
No I'm not that fucked up.
.....But really, I'd want to tell her that I love her, but I haven't always. That she isn't my best friend and she hasn't been for a very long time. I'm not learning from her anymore, just like I'm not learning from Angie. They're both teaching me how "very bad men are", but not really. More like... how very bad turning into your parents, into white trash, can be. I think the phrase originated in the South and moved to the Midwest. I'd want to tell Thomas... what? What would I want to say? I've already said it. I don't really have anything to say to Sarah. Carly... yes I have something to say, but it isn't important. Thomas... I might have something to say if he were here. Michael, I don't really have anything to say until I see him again, because anything that I say is meaningless at this point. It all could very easily be based off of my idolatry of the man, my idealizations, and not on the actual person.
I don't really have anything to say to the world right now, today. Except that I have a headache, I'm cold, and I really just want to go hang out with Jeff, I want a connection, but I should draw. I'm not going to. I'm sick of drawing, I'm not giving it up, I'm just waiting for there to be... that real feeling like I can create.... to pick up the pen again.
If this was the last day of my life, what would I tell people? What would I say to them. For starters, I'd want to tell michael that the whole reason behind the red letter was just that I want one more chance. I need it, because I really don't feel like it's over. I feel like there is something still there. I'd want to tell him that he doesn't have to try so hard to impress upon people the idea that he is intelligent, because he is. I'd want to tell Carly that if she would just stop trying to be original and unique, that she might be, that she is when she isn't trying. When she just is who she is, without trying, those are the times that she really makes me feel like I could just cry forever because she really is beautiful. I would tell Sarah that it is okay. That it is going to be okay. That life makes itself okay, but if she really wants to be happy, she going to have to not accept okay as enough. She's going to have to face that fear of rejection......
I faced my fear of rejection. It does seem so childish. This basic human fear. It is the root to all of the lacks that we have as we grow up, that I had growing up. Lack of self-confidence, lack of self esteem, lack of grip on reality, lack of self identity. That's what the red letter was. I wrote it, and I knew that he'd say, "Jess......." and he would tell me that it was never going to happen. He'd reject me, but it didn't matter, because he knew that I knew. But I don't think that's it. I might have a fetish for rejection. Maybe I just don't want to hear the truth, if it means to hear some things about myself that are actually good.
No I'm not that fucked up.
.....But really, I'd want to tell her that I love her, but I haven't always. That she isn't my best friend and she hasn't been for a very long time. I'm not learning from her anymore, just like I'm not learning from Angie. They're both teaching me how "very bad men are", but not really. More like... how very bad turning into your parents, into white trash, can be. I think the phrase originated in the South and moved to the Midwest. I'd want to tell Thomas... what? What would I want to say? I've already said it. I don't really have anything to say to Sarah. Carly... yes I have something to say, but it isn't important. Thomas... I might have something to say if he were here. Michael, I don't really have anything to say until I see him again, because anything that I say is meaningless at this point. It all could very easily be based off of my idolatry of the man, my idealizations, and not on the actual person.
I don't really have anything to say to the world right now, today. Except that I have a headache, I'm cold, and I really just want to go hang out with Jeff, I want a connection, but I should draw. I'm not going to. I'm sick of drawing, I'm not giving it up, I'm just waiting for there to be... that real feeling like I can create.... to pick up the pen again.
12 September 2006
Still
this could possibly take forever to write, since I jammed my finger in the door today.
I feel like things might work out for once in my life. From the beginning of my spiritual journey, the question that really started it all was, If we have free will, then how does god know what is going to happen? Well, I came across an answer to that question through hoping for it. God created us, and she knows us better than we know ourselves, so he knows through every fork in the road which path we are going to take. We all die. We go into eternal sleep, where the dream just doesn't end. Death is just a continuance of our dreams, so how bad could it be? It is the inevitable end to this life... so how can that be so bad? Everything will work out, because we'll all die and we won't have to wake up and face hell for another day. Another... days, time don't exist in dreams. Whenever I project, it sometimes feels like hours and hours. Technology doesn't exist, and that is why the furniture, computers, and art in my room doesn't exist.
When I read a good writer's writing, it is so conversational that it feels like they're just talking to me, telling a story. It feels like they're just talking to theirself. I do this at night. I talk to god, to myself, and this speaking turned inwards turned into an image is really what the truth is that I've been wondering about. The Truth. I realize that with every drawing, every doodle of my hand, every smear of pastel, I really am just talking to myself, and talking to god at the same time. God is inside of me. I'm not god, don't get me wrong. But he created me and just like I seem to show up in all of my paintings, I'm sure I reflect him somehow. Her, it. Whatever.
Autumn brings with it for me, not just Aenima and the cool moisture frizzing my hair, but also the cool warm humidity of California Dreamin'. Robitussin-flavored cigarettes, a mixture of permanent ink and tar, in Cleveland, Ohio with the feeling of absolution. The feeling of moving a hundred-twenty miles per hour while opening doors by pushing a button and also static, unchanging spaces on the train. Divorce in Utah followed by the greatest of squiggly kisses in the rain. It's hearing the leaves crunch under my shoes, feeling like Popsicle tripping on DXM, skipping school hoping to leave, leaving. Smoking a joint out the window of the hotel room across the country from the place where I bought the pot and smoked the same green stomachy plant with my pet, stumbling off of the Citilink bus, and waiting for the Greyhound while riding the trolly to North Beach (like the beats?) and conning the RIPTA driver into taking us downtown, where I'd update my journal at the library, where I'd update my journal in that stuffy e-bay room on Suttenfield, while I update my journal in the lower Haight and right here...right now, in the Basement.
In your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me.
I feel like things might work out for once in my life. From the beginning of my spiritual journey, the question that really started it all was, If we have free will, then how does god know what is going to happen? Well, I came across an answer to that question through hoping for it. God created us, and she knows us better than we know ourselves, so he knows through every fork in the road which path we are going to take. We all die. We go into eternal sleep, where the dream just doesn't end. Death is just a continuance of our dreams, so how bad could it be? It is the inevitable end to this life... so how can that be so bad? Everything will work out, because we'll all die and we won't have to wake up and face hell for another day. Another... days, time don't exist in dreams. Whenever I project, it sometimes feels like hours and hours. Technology doesn't exist, and that is why the furniture, computers, and art in my room doesn't exist.
When I read a good writer's writing, it is so conversational that it feels like they're just talking to me, telling a story. It feels like they're just talking to theirself. I do this at night. I talk to god, to myself, and this speaking turned inwards turned into an image is really what the truth is that I've been wondering about. The Truth. I realize that with every drawing, every doodle of my hand, every smear of pastel, I really am just talking to myself, and talking to god at the same time. God is inside of me. I'm not god, don't get me wrong. But he created me and just like I seem to show up in all of my paintings, I'm sure I reflect him somehow. Her, it. Whatever.
Autumn brings with it for me, not just Aenima and the cool moisture frizzing my hair, but also the cool warm humidity of California Dreamin'. Robitussin-flavored cigarettes, a mixture of permanent ink and tar, in Cleveland, Ohio with the feeling of absolution. The feeling of moving a hundred-twenty miles per hour while opening doors by pushing a button and also static, unchanging spaces on the train. Divorce in Utah followed by the greatest of squiggly kisses in the rain. It's hearing the leaves crunch under my shoes, feeling like Popsicle tripping on DXM, skipping school hoping to leave, leaving. Smoking a joint out the window of the hotel room across the country from the place where I bought the pot and smoked the same green stomachy plant with my pet, stumbling off of the Citilink bus, and waiting for the Greyhound while riding the trolly to North Beach (like the beats?) and conning the RIPTA driver into taking us downtown, where I'd update my journal at the library, where I'd update my journal in that stuffy e-bay room on Suttenfield, while I update my journal in the lower Haight and right here...right now, in the Basement.
In your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me.
08 September 2006
mechanics
I can feel all of my dreams and all of my goals, fantasies, and drive imploding . I can feel the lightning and sparks of electricity from above, from around, shocking me like an endless seizure and I wonder when I'm going to wake up from it...... snap..... out of it..... and have that feeling like I've been crushed by a Dumpster truck. None of this is mystical. I lost my job today. My cat ran away about 2 weeks ago, matt left. I'm taking these things for what they are. What do I do? I mean, obviously if my finances don't come together because of this, I can't go to Providence. I can't stay here. If I do, I'll turn into an alcoholic, or worse yet.... my parents. If I don't have a partner, it's not like I can go travelling. Would I want to? no. I'm not 17 years old anymore. I'm just going to keep hoping that my finances come together, that I can get a counselor reccomendation, that a dorm clears itself up, that these things all happen. Only time will tell.
In the course of 72 hours, I've realized that I can see. I have eyes. I can see what is really there, and what is really going on. I am who I was then, fitter happier. I'm not in doubt of who I am as a person. I doubt whether that person can function in society. Whether society will accept her for who she is. I won't change. I won't let my eyes become gray and dulled, nor my pencil, from the lies that this Hell seems so eager to force into them. I can see how much 'fitter happier' than I was then, at 5 years old, but it is really only a matter of introspection and exploitation. The more I find about myself and the world, the easier it is to exploit their weaknesses. As a society, I realize how very little people know about one another. How little art there really is. How very little leeway there is for real, genuine obscurity.
The more I find out about my true self, the more I can exploit these corruptions- fitter happier-
I already know that I'm never going to fit in anywhere. There are a few people I feel comfortable with, and vice versa, but people as a whole do not understand. They don't get my adversion to a car, a cell phone, take a shit, eat your dinner, television. Tele-vision is really just a distraction from intro- and extro-vision. I can't read someone's ora that is on tv. I can't feel the living breathing essence of that person, so if They just decided to replace people with robots, most people wouldn't know anyways, but I would.
No, Pat, our chemistry doesn't work out. I'm sorry I'm not mundane and numb to the fucking core, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm a lot nicer to people than you are. Here is your change. You didn't even smile at that guy. If you're going to be a fake piece of shit salesman, selling your soul, then you could at least do a good job of it.
I just learned how to take off the mask, I'm not putting it back on. I know there has to be some place, some person, in this world that will accept me for what I am-- not how well I can cover it up. Everyday is Halloween. Keep moving.
In the course of 72 hours, I've realized that I can see. I have eyes. I can see what is really there, and what is really going on. I am who I was then, fitter happier. I'm not in doubt of who I am as a person. I doubt whether that person can function in society. Whether society will accept her for who she is. I won't change. I won't let my eyes become gray and dulled, nor my pencil, from the lies that this Hell seems so eager to force into them. I can see how much 'fitter happier' than I was then, at 5 years old, but it is really only a matter of introspection and exploitation. The more I find about myself and the world, the easier it is to exploit their weaknesses. As a society, I realize how very little people know about one another. How little art there really is. How very little leeway there is for real, genuine obscurity.
The more I find out about my true self, the more I can exploit these corruptions- fitter happier-
I already know that I'm never going to fit in anywhere. There are a few people I feel comfortable with, and vice versa, but people as a whole do not understand. They don't get my adversion to a car, a cell phone, take a shit, eat your dinner, television. Tele-vision is really just a distraction from intro- and extro-vision. I can't read someone's ora that is on tv. I can't feel the living breathing essence of that person, so if They just decided to replace people with robots, most people wouldn't know anyways, but I would.
No, Pat, our chemistry doesn't work out. I'm sorry I'm not mundane and numb to the fucking core, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm a lot nicer to people than you are. Here is your change. You didn't even smile at that guy. If you're going to be a fake piece of shit salesman, selling your soul, then you could at least do a good job of it.
I just learned how to take off the mask, I'm not putting it back on. I know there has to be some place, some person, in this world that will accept me for what I am-- not how well I can cover it up. Everyday is Halloween. Keep moving.
05 September 2006
goddamn it, joshua
fuckers. this is going to be a real fucking struggle. to not change my mind stick to my guns.
tramps leave me alone
tramps leave me alone
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