2011 Manuscripts: August

Location: The Salty Sea to Sea to See Again

I’m I’m stutter stutter you binary onetwo type bullshit. My body is lethargic, drowning like mad in this concrete jungle. I shudder to know my first thoughts are PMS. Does it exist? Well yes my female body is preparing to beat eggs out. I’ll make a bunt velvet cake with my bloody cunt. I feel a harshness looming looming looming up inside of me. A trueness. But I am very distrustful after this Spain trip and Lanelle and Games People Play and Myself and my Demon.

Is there truth, universal? Or will I find my own patented version?

If it is on an individual basis then why the fuck should I judge anyone for their actions or thoughts or mode of motions? And vice versa. Ah but I see a mass adoption of “truth” by passive flocks of beings, catholic school blocks inside many heads, like baptism bowls in the dark.

Spain was uncomfortable. I stepped wide grinning into a mouth of hungry consumption. Never satisfied, is that my type? No fuck that, fuck types. I’M just an insecure gangly confused youngun. Haven’t even hit 20 human made lengths called years.

I don’t like any of these measurements. TIME, SPACE. I am distrustful. My eyes are more wide. Don’t measure them, however.

Spain. Cancellation. Catala. Y Portugal. I am afraid to look at the pictures. I am afraid to look at her face. I don’t know what is right or wrong. My WHOLE BEING IS A TADPOLE FETUS, SWIRLING AROUND IN A SWIMMING WOMB UPON A DISMAL POND.

I am changing so much and so rapidly that I could potentially fit anywhere. If I felt the compulsion. Problem is, I get back from a location I assumed I’d find fulfillment in, and I feel NOTHING. No compulsion for anything. Except art. Which may have been some blassi brainwashing, clandestino.

Art. Yes, I want to create. But there is conflict there. I doubt myself. And I do not feel the heavy motion of my genius. The sultry brusque voice yelling at me and hurling grapefruits in the name of art.  I am decidedly undecided and not even that. CONFUSED. Fuck you Kerouac.

Spain. Dammit. My mind is a frenzied staircase of marbles. Bounce!

Spain. Masochism. Masoooccchhiiisssmmmm. Jizm. A prison.

My father. My lover. Myself. mY MOTHER TOO. Do we all operate in this back slashin saunter step. ?

I can barely process anything now. My pinkie toe is bleeding cos I’m picking at it in pain and stress. Anxiety from what? Having no home? Trusting no one and disgust of the human race which I am. No mummy and daddy, I’m not ashamed of being weird or queer or strange, I’m ashamed I share your blood, your epidermis, your genus and species! I’m discontent with my fellow kin. Collective kin.

Why must we play games? Why must our hearts also be concrete and the skin a cold stone labyrinth. Even the phantom would be proud of this torture chamber.

 

And on top of that we beat up ourselves. An added irony is our motion to destroy ourselves. Perhaps because the concrete living is too painful and we are too lazy to transform the pain, much less the conditions.

A lot of it is fake I see. It’s like a large swab of saliva cracking through my eve’s apple. Unpleasant like rotten heavy fruits, made heavy by their stones and life’s bruises.

Day in, day out. It’s a methodical habit.

Will I develop a habit? Haven’t I already? Is my life a habit? Is that human…human consistency. Is life just a series of habits…slightly varied, and then death.

I hope death is cooler.

Marbles dancing in my masquerade mind.