I’m finishing an assemblage piece for the art show part of this event, which will be at Babycastles (137 W. 14th St, NY NY) this weekend. Glad to be participating in something that benefits both the Garner and Graham families.
I just began a new medication, Trileptal. It seems to be for epileptics, but has also been prescribed to bipolars. I’m neither of those. But this new doctor, he says Klonopin isn’t good to be taking for long periods of time and I’m way overdue for a change. I’ve already had an imposed drug holiday thanks to some bureaucratic fuckups on behalf on NYC Medicaid. I’m a fresh, sparkling renewed system to pour chemicals into and see what they do! He says this will help with irritability, the kind I feel for no reason sometimes, not the causal kind. I wouldn’t want to lose my anger at situations or people that warrant it, drop a boundary, let a remark slide that was purposely made to test the waters.
If you can make it to the end you can hear how our gurgly cat Fanta purrs. She’s a runt and a rescue. And a badass.
The men in this city are possessed of a sort of mania today. It stirs them in varied ways. I’ve been gifted a very nice copy of the Bagavad-Gita from a stranger, nearly grabbed in the tit by another stranger in the middle of the crosswalk, and as I grabbed his fingers to twist them, we were both nearly run down by an angry third stranger on a Citibike. Of course the Citibiker was a yuppie in his corporate monkey suit, running a red light and not in the bike lane, who yelled angrily at the people in the crosswalk. I hear they like to call it their “affluenza” or something. Still, I just think they’re entitled pea-brained assholes.
The Bagavad-Gita should be good to read though. The guy who handed it to me from his backpack assured me it was a no strings attached gift, as he only read the Bible now. He’d been curious about my phurpa and I talked to him a bit. I gathered that like me, he wasn’t fully plugged into the same level as most of the world. Which may explain why he was the nicest of the strangers I encountered.
There was a book release party recently, and Lydia Lunch was one of the people doing a reading, and one of her lines jumped onto my shoulder and into my ear.
“The sociopath abducted the schizophrenic out from under the psychopath”
For a long time this could have been a one sentence summary of my life. Not only in romantic relationships. This kind of toxicity bubbles and festers in friendships, families, among co-workers or housemates, though most quick references on these topics focus on just partners or family members. It wasn’t everyone in my life either, but all you need is one or two predator types in your sphere at any given time to turn it into an abattoir.
But the thing is, schizos who survive their attackers and themselves learn their enemies. Learn their tactics. Learn the head games, the gaslighting, the wedging, triangulation. Shorthand names for complex mental gymnastics. I get it too, you, the empathically-challenged, that this is what you know. This may be how you survived at some point, before you became the predators. Or maybe there’s no big backstory, pain and discomfort are your rig, your swig, your cotton candy. It’s a waste of time to expect too much of you, I know. There are things about the human condition you’re not able to comprehend. You won’t get the supply you want so easily from me anymore, and that probably pisses you off. I don’t know what to tell you. Even when you could, you seemed pissed off, even as you relished every drop of anguish.
But seriously predators, trying to trick me into questioning my own experiences? At this point, after what I’ve been dragged through in the past? It demeans us both.
Here’s this full album, it’s really good.
I really don’t give a fuck about trigger warnings.
And it’s kind of funny because I get triggered by specific things very easily. I don’t just have triggers; I have tautly pulled gossamer hairtriggers. Yet when I stumble on a trigger warning online, I give it the same cursory glance I give the surgeon general warning on a pack of cigarettes before scrolling forward.
Because what triggers me is seldom online, and certainly not in the kinds of articles put up by the kinds of people who think about things like “trigger warnings” or “safe space” in the first place. It tends to be more in real life interactions that my security can be yanked out from under me. That someone’s callous words or actions can melt away their “human being” mask, leaving me seeing a predator underneath. A predator in-the-making maybe. I will make myself insufferable to these people, and I will nurse a grudge more kindly than I will nurse most wounds. Because remember, when a trigger gets pulled, a pistol fires.
Others though, it seems, have Very Strong Opinions on trigger warnings. I’ve heard them called offensive, patronizing, PC gone awry, condescending, suppressive…when I read such things, I can’t help but wonder, “what’s triggering those people?” I’m genuinely curious, because I just see them as largely useless. As irrelevant as this baby that got rolled out during my teenage years:
Oh wait, that wasn’t entirely useless. It let you know which albums had the good stuff. ;)
Image based on the butoh exercise we did yesterday. I’m going to turn it into a color painting. But it needs…beetles.
Tonight’s exercises involved cracking stone walls and insects crawling inside your body. I usually only feel like that’s happening when I’m on the verge of an “episode.” Now I’m deliberately entertaining the idea. The instructor says part of this artform is working with that which disturbs you. I don’t know if decaying flesh and inner-organ insects are gonna get me there though. New project: Yuppie Dudebro Gentrification Butoh.
NOW I’m disturbed.
When we got home I saw an email that the outdoor art event at Le Petit Versailles this weekend is cancelled because it’s going to be rainy. I guess that’s what happens when I use “upcoming art show” to justify spending $45 on art supplies at Blick. I’m preparing! I can make it back selling small works!! Except now I’m out of a place to sell them. For now.
I’m sort of calm about it though because I was getting to the point of feeling overwhelmed with things going on. But I hope they can reschedule it.
In the course of writing this now I’m unsettled because the topic of necrotic livers came up. Talking of people who are ill and who have been deceased. I guess organs and decay can disturb me after all. Just not in my own body removed from that. My own body, the vessel for last-ditch healthy harvesting, relatively speaking.
A late night hideout for ice cream trucks:
I was going to write “gentrification” on the bedbug, but Seth said to go with “landlord”. Since this is a sign to be carried over the Brooklyn Bridge, he’s right. It graphically makes sense to go with the shorter word.
The Tenant’s March will happen on Thursday. https://www.facebook.com/events/1427067027598490/
Apart from working on protest signs, tonight was the first night of the butoh workshop I signed up for. Now I know how to dance to drone. Now I know that putrefaction can be a lot more physically taxing than you’d think. Three hours of expanding into dissolution, becoming part of the worlds that surround us. Three hours of letting this guide an almost dreamlike state and motion of rotting from the inside, rotting outward, rotting and vomiting in spirit, sustaining flux with ankles and legs that were suddenly stronger than I’d realized.
This happened at the Cave, a space I remembered from the mid to late 90’s inhabited by a number of Japanese artists with varying degrees of fluency in English. I’d performed there in grrl-garage-punk chaos with Mz. Pakman. I’d performed there impromptu as the millennium rolled over, frying on acid, snarling, growling and banging on a giant harpsichord installed into the floor for New Year’s Eve. It’s a communication that transcended any language barrier.
Now I’m going there to learn and be serious. And I love it.
More “Living In La La Land” on Tapastic.
Humid. Human salt rubbing into the scars, scabs and bites that mar my arms and shoulders. This is how I came up with a bedbug as the ultimate symbol of housing-security pestilence, and thus, representative of landlords and gentrifiers. I was put on the spot today when a group of us were painting signs for the affordable housing march Thursday.
The studio space a local community center had donated was not ventilated and the heat sweltered even more there, puckering cardboard and paper. I eventually left around 6 PM sweating and smelling like I’d spent the day in a gym. The man sitting next to me on the subway seemed to notice as well. He didn’t say anything. But at my stop when I stood up to leave he turned and lowered his face. Not over me. Over the sweat V-print left behind on the plastic seat, where my minidress thighs and ass had pressed.
Summer arriving in New York City. The perverts emerge like cicadas.
Lick it up, why don’t you pendejo.
I created “Platform Edge” for an art magazine that seems to be in publishing limbo, with the directions to do “something funny with cute punk girls, nothing too political”.
Not sure if retaliatory c&b torture against a peeping tom is entirely apolitical, but if not, I propose a cage match to the death on whether it’s “empowering” or “problematic”.
I’m gearing up for what will simultaneously be the Art Week from Heaven/Hell. Sign painting, prepping for two art events over the next two weekends, checking out a new experimental night we may play at and also the three night Butoh workshop I signed up for happens this week. Still taking care of Abue through it all. This is why they say there’s no rest for the wicked. Because we do all this stuff.
I have no explanation behind this. And hell, I’m the one who drew it.
This room has been electrified in the past 24 hours. Last night something pricked and gnawed at my skull and I in a haze I called it a “ghost” that had come up to bite me. Eric held me through this. He takes this sort of thing more calmly than most anyone I’ve come across. Tonight it’s a dispersed calm haze throughout the room, and I am contented with it this way.
Eric with found flowers. Late last night, on a filthy subway staircase. Thick stems still sticky with sap, likely yanked up from one of the beds in the small city park nearby. Reminder that for all the human race is capable of in art, literature, science, medicine…it also has the tendency to see things that are beautiful and vulnerable, and destabilize, damage, and discard them.
We took the two flowers on our ride home and I put them in a jar of water. By morning the petals were firm and waxy…there’s still life in them. My father taught me once how to do plant stem cuttings. I wonder if they can be salvaged? I wonder what kind of flower they even are?