1013

Oh, Regina of the Three Letters.  Such secrets!  Pastels and pinups!  Ahh.  These are all clues see and suddenly I’m reminded of a surreptitious bucket of water.  Synthetics acting as a second skin, not much has changed in a decade and a half.  Ring the doorbell three consecutive times, pancakes afterward.  Then never heard from again.  Shame it took me so long to realize, my fault of course. 

The ancestry of the freemasons and this odd feeling in my chest.  Alien abductions.  Sleeping pills the other night.  Need to invest in the days of the mob, I hope there was no tampering involved.  Priestess confessor.  Listening to Tamia over dinner and wine.  I just wanna drink absinthe, read Barry Gifford novels, eat Trix cereal (with soy milk, cause cows are for calves) and listen to Screamin’ Jay Hawkins.  I’m the ugliest of clichés, treasure me!  Oh, I need to get that weird little rockabilly Neil Young record and crank it on a drunken and sweaty Saturday night.  I love the color pink. 

I’m reading from a book of alchemy. No, that’s not right, I was watching someone read from a book of alchemy.  Ah, ancient symbols and hidden meanings, power and magic.  In the dual identities you yourself become a symbol.  Sweets and alchemy.  Omg which denier is perfect for summer, glamour, they are killing me.  I love M. Emmett Walsh’s performance in Blood Simple.  Or do i?  the more I learn the less I want to know.  Of course, I can see the trajectory of that film on to the beautifully lensed Psycho III.  Certain symbols may subtly affect men’s minds.  The need of dual identities, which one is more real?  More vital?  I can’t abide by those positive platitudes.  Confused with the long river of existence.  Consumed.  Those first 60 pages like better.  Found an old card.  Can’t revisit now.  Why wasn’t I able to finish before?  I’m a big fan of the works of Clive Barker. 

What really happened to Maria Orsic?  There are certain roads one should not venture down.  We can only learn so much and live.  Maybe I can dance the tango one day.  I have an addiction to titanium.  I have an addiction to carbon fiber.  His entrails were still steaming when they were slung over his shoulder.  Will no one help the widow’s son?  I feel myself grow steadily more nauseous as I’m given this grim tour.  Please don’t make me connect the points of all the places we’ve visited.  I don’t want to see the awful shape it makes.  I love the Prince album 1999.  It got me through some iffy times.  Please pray for me.  need to see all of Sofia’s work.  Rachel weeping for her children.  I must become something antithetical to myself to get through this day.  further fracturing of identity, extinguishing myself, developing an antipersonality, slipping into a new skin.  Heathen on the way to work.  3 texts going down the stairs.  Don’t stay in a sad place…always making me cry. 

Fulcanelli, those texts.  Don’t forget the most important book.  books have powerful.  So many frightening texts.  Strange numbness from my collarbone, up through my neck and to my jaw.  I love how Maria Conchita Alonso looks in her introductory scene in the otherwise terrible film The Running Man.  RIP Denny.  Everything still holds up.  Great work.  The song Bad Fish really takes me back.  I like that song.  I’m listening to it now but in a bad context.  Now it’s so many years ago and so much hasn’t happened yet.  What is the fourth dimension?  I love hosiery.  Braids.  Identity further stripped away.  And suddenly I have a strong urge to draw her dressed in purple and surrounded by architecture.  I wonder what symbols and lifeforce are secretly encased in the architecture around me?    

The saddest, most pathetic thing of all is that we try to desperately to make that connection.  That we can only feel truly complete when we have validation from another fucked up person.  how sad.  How utterly pathetic.  Wow, what awful things we are. bitching and moaning and crying and begin inadequate and needing another inadequate thing to make us feel better.  Let us teach our children that they are not enough and that they must find someone equally needy and worthless and then suddenly poof they are a great and worthy person.  what a disgusting thing we are.  a stain upon this planet. 

I’m sitting in my car reading a book with an orange cover.  Or am I ?  the more I learn the less I want to know.  It’s mostly orange.  The back cover is fully orange.  Breakfast staple.  Not what you think.  Not orange.  I really do enjoy jazz.  8 hours opioids but that’s not the key.  Still the best.  Strip away the flashy exteriors and we’re just fearful simpering things.  gosh we’re even afraid of being alone.  If we don’t have someone who will pity fuck us and listen to our incessant bitching we just crumble to pieces.  Of course it is highly amusing that we are not actually worthy of any sort of physical or emotional support.  But we can’t help but crave.  What is the fourth dimension?  I was reading some comic books earlier.  At some point today I was thinking about Venusians.  Shit, didn’t even realize…monsters….  One of my favorites.  I’m a melting clown suit.  I love the darkness that permeates the one hot minute album, the depressions, the sketchy nature of it all.  That comment is for you! 

I am constructing something essential.  I need this.  And I think it goes to that O series from back that I wrote.  And a costume ball maybe.  Or maybe more metaphysical.  Really excited by that clip from the Snyder cut of Justice League.  Love Trevor Jones’ From Hell score.  Yes, what I’m constructing…I’ve never felt safe anywhere.  Who is there?  this is all illusory.  I don’t feel good anywhere 

I’m probably listening to Chris Gaines right now.  Few artists have been as inspirational and influential to me as Gaines.