3/26/26 - Poison Tree

It's driving me crazy, but I've become accustomed to the feeling of it. I'm closing my eyes and thinking of boring shit. I don't want to think about this kind of stuff anymore. It's a really childish and underdeveloped thing to care about. I don't wanna hear about what I deserve. I concern myself with being kind to others.

I can't. I can't let myself get comfortable again. That's when it happens. It happens when I let my guard down.

It won't happen again.

I recently found myself in a dreadful situation earlier in the month, y'know? I couldn't get comfortable around a nice person, and I feel like I let them down. They liked me at the time, but I was just so terrified of making him uncomfortable that I think I came off as dispassionate and sterile. 

I kept getting up in the night to calm myself down from panicking. I felt safe around them, but I didn't feel safe with myself. I was kinda put in a scenario where I should have loosened up. I didn't. I kept asking, are you okay? Are you uncomfortable? That's all I could do. I couldn't stomach anything that was in my mind, I just wanted to make sure I didn't do anything wrong.

Maybe I didn't, but I didn't do the right things, either. The only thing I could do was hold them and reassure myself that everything was okay. What a selfish mindset to have. Whether they feel that I wronged them or not, I know that I have failed myself.

I guess it's a good thing, that I got my desired outcome of nothing. I didn't want anything to happen because I was terrified. I could kiss them, but I felt like a disgusting freak whenever I tried. The last time I did I was so unnerved, after they drove away from dropping me off, I had a panic attack in my apartment. I didn't tell them about this stuff at the time, y'know.

He's a good friend, and they expressed concern recently at my more troubling spam posts and stuff. I gave them the respect of honesty and told them what I was going on, y'know.

It just doesn't get easier. It becomes familiar. Every time I see somebody try to "talk to me" and make a move, my head is just full of my memories of giving into it. I just have to talk and talk and talk and keep banter going so I don't think about it.

I've mentioned that I've been listening to and reading a lot of Patti Smith's work. Beating a dead horse at this point.

The point being, it helps to know that it doesn't go away. I keep saying this because it's still there.

It's the only thing that helps me through the grief of it.

"It" being my ex partner assaulting me, obviously. Not worth elaborating on.

Maybe it's better to not try to grow past it. Maybe it's better if I don't try love again. These are maladaptive musings, incorrect in their assertions of incapability. That's not the right takeaway.

It is instead the revelation that feels the truest. What would I know?

On the weekends I see my parents' new dog, and in his eyes I see innocence. His eyes remind me of my baby pictures. In his eyes is a stasis of water. In his eyes, I see a feeling I miss more than anything else in the world.

A feeling I choose not to elucidate. I will not be known in this way, not again. I feel that my more fundamental, animistic spark is gone. That is the most I could say about that.

I am animated now by a sense of spite, of bitterness. I am less myself than I'd like to be.

Any time I see my friends, I hope only that I do not see in them what I see within me. For if they lose their spark, like I feel I have, it shall be known to me that the providence of the universe has all but gone away. And the pit shall widen beyond the scope of my eyes.

I must protect their humanity. Their anima. This is the poorly adjusted complex my psyche dreamed up for my life.

A lot of big words and bullshit.

Let me talk about something interesting.

Here's my list of people and things I'm looking into reading, watching, and listening to. I'm looking to change myself, again.

I've been writing more songs, and I hope these things can shape a change in approach for me.

Lene Lovitch

Sixto Rodriguez

House of Leaves

Brain Power'd

Theorem

I think I'll talk about some better things.

Maybe not better, just different. I hear from the girls fairly often, so I know their kids are okay. Thats the only thing that gives me comfort.

Zahr has been feeling upset. She wants to heat my voice and see my face. I don't know what to say. I hope I can find time to talk to her when she is awake. I never have the time.

I have an internet friend who has been busy with some medical problems and other stuff. I hope they're okay.

We had to cancel a protest today, in the org.

A woman who is interested in me added me to her close friends and I've been getting flashed every other day or so. Idk how to feel about it.

Maybe it's what I deserve. I have a headache right now.

I can hear the arpeggiator of that song in my head now. It runs up and down the walls of my heart. The most dreadful feeling I've heard in a song. Even more than the sounds of death within the noise of machines.

I dream of being allowed to starve. I find my heart wanting to die again. It'll pass, just like it always does.

Being depressed is unserious. It's nothing to worry about.

I can feel the stone being turned away, is the thing. I know things are going to change. I only hope I'm still me by the time I see it.

I'm not an entrepreneur or a business person or any of those things. I don't give a shit about that crap. I'm a human being. I'm an artist. I don't live for the sake of money, its supposed to exist to help me.

So many of the greats I've come to admire, they died. Or they were killed.

I can make it, and I can see the end, too. I'll see both.

I have to see both.

3/19/26 - Bull In The Heather

Betting on the bull in the heather

Manal is fine. Remas is fine. Zahr is fine. Life is fine.

How does anyone manage to be anything but livid, incensed, and froth with anger every workday?

It feels like lying.

It is lying. Everything is lying.

The world isn't full of life in my eyes.

It's a sort of narcissism to indulge that feeling.

I do not trust laypeople. And I believe I need to learn how to do it in spite of the trite observations.

Most American moderates agree with Trump on certain things, y’know.

Because there's a little Hitler in all of us, I guess.

I don't think its unique or profound to wax on about how much you don't like your coworkers. So I won't.

I woke up thinking about STATIONTOSTATION again. There's a flavor I'm acclimated towards that's creeping its way into my day-to-day once again. It's all so... dry, it feels like.

Y’know, cause I'm hooked on Sonic Youth again. It's been a while since I indulged in some of the sublime cynic texture. I do very much admire elements of Kim Gordon's m/o. She's not a pessimist as much as she stands above the water.

I'm very much trapped in it.

I don't want to hear from me for a while. I'm just looking for the next opportunity, the next gig.

It's not that I feel I'm anything less than incredible. No, I'm still stuck up.

I see the world, and I see an atmosphere of mediocrity, of dispirited ambivalence. I'm pro color. And we're in a really black and white world.

Archimedes is still such a protestant. They'd never understand what I mean by that. This disciple, bless him, buy they didn't know Protestants don't do priesthood until 2023. Nah, this guy is a Baptist though.

I didn't think they ever wanted to hear from me, so imagine my shock that they were [open to hanging out in the future].

I still think that they're fucking with me. They have to be.

There's no other way. Eunuchs don't intermingle with socialite townies. He's hiding something.

That's the paranoia talking again.

I want to tell you

My head is filled with things to say

When you're here

All those words, they seem to slip away

When I get near you

The games begin to drag me down

It's all right

I'll make you maybe next time around

But if I seem to act unkind

It's only me, it's not my mind

That is confusing things

I want to tell you

I feel hung up, but I don't know why

I don't mind

I could wait forever, I've got time

Sometimes I wish I knew you well

Then I could speak my mind and tell you

Maybe you'd understand

John Lennon is all of you.

That bastard would be lying to me. There's not gonna be anything to talk about.

My brain is trying to convince me to hate Archimedes. I think I'm gonna ignore it.

I didn't want to talk to Alley Cat for similar reasons. I'm about ready to give up on memories.

He didn't do anything wrong. I was definitely not the right person.

We're waiting on a good word from Angel Eyes. I'm worried about them. I think they're in danger.

I'm gonna post another chapter of Galahad. I'll see you soon.

3/14/26 - St James Infirmary

I smoked one cigarette at the club and I feel horrible this wasnt as fun as the one at Big Pink.

I think I won't be smoking anymore. That was the second cig this year, the third of my entire lifetime, and to be honest it sucks major ass.

Press Kit draft done, speech draft done, new cover and new takes recorded, helped a new friend, drank tea and relaxed.

The song I covered was St James Infirmary. A blues standard, taking particular inspiration from the take of Cab Calloway. Specifically, the one for Fleischer.

I felt that I needed to have a piece of culture in the project, yknow. To bridge tradition and transgression.

3/9/26 - They Say It's Spring

I guess there's a certain fashion where I know it's spring, because I feel really depressed now that the sun is out, and I can feel myself being perceived more closely.

I thought maybe I'd start this one with some plain speak before I settle into a more comfortable gait of reflective rumination.

I only have a mind for literary prose, so I'm trying to change that. I can't articulate myself in a language more real, in manners more familiar and colloquial. My brain is poisoned by pontifications and poetry, and as the sickness starts to settle in for another season, I start to feel the claw of fatalism sink it's talons deeper into my brain.

I wish I could think like a real person. I think Tiffany Pollard is the most beautiful woman on Earth. Why can't I be more like her?

I guess I've learned some ugly things about myself through the phyrric blessings of the Lord. God gave me what I thought I wanted, and I realized how little I truly know.

I gave a rousing speech to a congregation of captive comrades and was congratulated, lauded, and admired... and it made me feel sick. I don't know what to feel about it. I think I'm not used to being openly admired and praised by my peers. I'm used to being ignored, so... it felt like a setup. These talented and bright (and let me just say gorgeous) people coming up to me to tell me they think I'm smart and kind and stuff... I've never been socially embraced like this before in my life, and it's making me cry. I never realized how alien I've felt my entire life until I was accepted by others for using my gifts. That has just... never happened to me before.

It was so moving that I became terrified. I was truthful in telling my new friends that I had to go home to do some laundry, but after getting done with taking it out the bags I found myself overwhelmed.

I had to sit down for a bit before I went back into the world... but I hadn't realized how much time had passed. I remember they asked me if I could go to the coffeehouse across the street, and I told them, "I'll see if I can after I'm done with these errands."

Now that wasn't a dishonest answer, but I just feel like... should I have just put my clothes in the car aside for a bit, and seize this chance to fight my fears?

In my mind I thought I might be doing the wrong thing, to put off bringing my twins clothes home so long. I got back to my apartment and I saw they did the dishes I said I'd do but took too long on, and I felt horrible. I called them to apologize and they seemed confused... because I didn't do anything wrong.

I think I've spoken about this before, right, but I've had people tell me they think I have an anxiety disorder or some kind of OCD, but frankly I've not liked to self diagnose or medicalize issues of my personhood that can be changed through communication and a change of circumstances.

This feeling of fear, in being confronted with the unfamiliar scenario of praise, is something I feel sometimes when I hang out with some of my most dear friends every week. 

They invite me to their house, and I get to socialize and unwind, sometimes we watch TV and get food, and I tell them about my day. With them I get to be my full self, right? I can be silly! I show them all my impressions and voices I can do, sometimes I can show them my dance moves, and I can listen to all their jokes and stories. And I never tell them how much it means to me to have friends who will text me first! Do you what that's like? They ask me if I want to hang out, and every time I get that text I feel so overwhelmed that I almost want to throw up because... frankly, I have never had that before. It's very beautiful that an entire household of people love my presence enough to want to have me over often like that, like...

I don't want to be melodramatic, so I'll abridge some details of my childhood. I don't wanna bitch and moan about people who probably don't even think about me anymore. That's disrespectful to them, they moved on, I should too.

I'll just leave it at this reality where I'd gotten used to being nobody's favorite. Nobody thinks about me when I'm not there, y'know?

In the last few years since coming out I've finally become my real self, and it's like suddenly people think I'm special and that I'm a person worth remembering, and like... I've not adjusted to that. I've known that I'm great and I'm talented and brilliant and special for my whole life, but I got used to believing that nobody is ever gonna care about me. So to know that's not true feels like a warm ray of providence from the Lord.

And that golden light in a sea of darkness only draws attention the the void that has surrounded me for so many years. Like suddenly it clicks for me just how lonely and isolated and suicidal I've been for my entire life. When I was a little kid I didn't mask, and I was ostracized for that. When I was a teenager I did mask a fair amount, and while it helped me make a good smattering of casual friendships, I only developed deeper bonds with a very small few people, because frankly? While I was in the closet? I did not trust or feel that I would be safe revealing my most vulnerable self to anybody.

College was especially difficult because the first two years were Covid, so there's was basically nothing for me on campus until I was already a Junior. I was lucky to meet some wonderful characters that I still love today, like Spider-Man and Gel Pen (that's what we're calling her).

As a Junior I started branching out and making some friends in classes here and there, but the only sustained friendships I have from college are mostly from my Public Health classes. That includes pretty much just Molar Matriarch (she does dentistry).

I'm getting tired... this therapy session has been helpful in many ways.

I think... I will try to participate as much as I can as an activist... and I'll be at actions... and if they like me, that's a treat. But the work will come first. I want to help people...  I need to. It's my purpose in life.

3/5/26 - Like A Tattoo

I look out into a far enough distance, and I can feel it.

The blood doesn't pool into my veins the right kinda way. I can feel it.

I would have hoped to feel different about it today, but I don't. I need to pretend. I need to lie.

She hates me... why do people put on these charades? I just wish they liked me enough to end it for good. I wish she respected me enough to give me a reason.

I understood the decision, even if it didn't make any sense. She's a person. Respect even in the face of emptiness.

I drive back to my apartment with the same feeling every night. I'm fighting against God and nature. I do not believe the Earth mother wants a beautiful life for me. I believe I was crafted to toil and languish. And every day I strain against her designs, she lifts the flail for another lash.

Let me say what we already know to be true.

A loveless life is not a life at all.

Like a scar of age

And with my failure I accept that I will never be ready for love. And I will never be healed.

I must choose life anyways. I must choose to defend the promise of love, even if I can never have it. I can never become selfish, I can never become hateful.

My love is all I have. With it I create a pressure for the core of my being. With it I create kindness. And with it I remain precious, even as I chip and scratch away into sediment.

For this promise, I will never come to know the pleasure of a Roman Holiday.

In my days and nights I do nothing but *click*. To the next song, to the next station. To let a feeling linger is like a spiritual crucifixion. I guess I let the final nail be my struggle against Gaea. Figures.

The surfing is another manifestation of the same thesis I made so long ago. The vulture comes home once again, what a blessing. On those waves lies the carrion I desire. I can be only what the child within me would have always wished to become.

What could I possibly be? I could only be a pirate.

When he found that rigour was not expected from his people (for he often practised it to appease them), then he would give strangers to understand that it was pure inclination that induced him to a good treatment of them, and not any love or partiality to their persons; "For", says he, "there is none of you but will hang me, I know, whenever you can clinch me within your power."

While I would like to emulate the example of Samuel Bellamy... I find myself drawn towards the image of Captain Roberts.

For this, in my mind, is the truest path for one who lives without love.

Why be hero?

3/4/26 - Drinking Age

Advisory

This blog entry contains discussion of depression, suicide, and other difficult material. If uninterested, please refrain from reading.

The first word I'll write my diary entry around is "coagulation"

I often write about this concept of vampire billionaires sucking the blood from the world and using it all to make a throne of blood. The idea was that the longer we wait to stop them, the more their throne coagulates and solidifies.

I feel like we missed the first signs of hardening and now we're scrambling to make do with the time we've got. So few mean to actually use any "bleach" to stop them.

You can tell that this isn't how I usually write these. Yeah.

5-6-7-0-9

Back pain is killing me these days... I'll stop whingeing.

I'll tell you what's changed. I don't see a way out of the labors. I'm not really looking to stop the vulture from getting his meal. I'm choosing to be more... easygoing, I guess.

To say less, to be less. Tout dou, tout dou, tout doucement...

The next word to consider is "Jazz."

Blossom Dearie settled my nerves again. And what moves my ruminations more effectively than Dizzie Gillespie? A Night In Tunisia, I could never thank Mr. Burkett enough.

I still believe Jazz is a daunting endeavor. It's a terrifying medium.

I'm getting too esoteric. Jazz music, to me, is a lot more important and significant than the word "Jazz" could mean to encapsulate. Jazz is, in my mind, a kind of psychological state of being. It's like a social expertise of leisure.

I'm sorry... a smart kind of relaxation. I'm not trying to be funny here. I'm trying time teach myself to be less literary, more diaristic.

Again...

Less wordy, more real. I'm not editing or erasing this, you must know. I'm genuinely self editorializing as the words are put on the screen. No AI.

Jazz is too real. Right now I'm listening to Charles Mingus and getting all kinds of depressed.

That's not a joke or anything. What I do is "Jazz." Miles didn't like that word. I'm a lightweight on Jazz. And I want to unlearn my love for it.

You might be asking, why? Why would you ever want that? You said you loved Jazz?

Yes, yes... I can tell you the reason.

I want to understood by other people. I want to be seen. It's just vanity stuff. Very trite and self interested.

I mean, it's really airheaded and pretentious. I guess I just came to realize that the people that catch my eye don't seem to care for what makes me who I am. Two different people I met on the apps seemed not to like me that much. So I need to be less like myself. More like them.

It's the wrong mindset. It is not the correct lesson to learn, and it's not even close to being accurate on what went wrong or what I need to change. But I'm just so tired. I'm so tired.

I'm so tired that I'm basically allowing myself to give in to a mindset and thinking that I know is incorrect and harmful.

It's a kind of tired that makes me feel like I'm already dead.

I think part of the problem is I don't make an effort to mask. My life is really frustrating and difficult, and I'm happy about a lot of things, but I don't feel a need to sugarcoat that fact. I think being raped changed my perspective on reality.

I became a sort of person that doesn't value the necessary faces we should be wearing. I'm learning to put mine back on.

It's not ever going to be chic to be truly vulnerable. 

In my eyes, willingly sharing my music with somebody I trust is meant to be an act of love and respect. But I don't think it carries any weight. I don't sound like love. My music doesn't touch people, not in any meaningful way. So I think I'll stop doing that.

It's just another day of depression. It's nothing new. It's nothing real.

There it is. That felt more personable. I made it stupid, and it worked better.

I don't think I like this. I prefer the esoteric stuff. It feels more honest.

The sky is a blank sheet of grey. The air is cold. And I'm psychologically dying.

I just can't believe I thought I was doing well. I really thought I could have something nice...

Cronkite told me not to take everything personally... yeah, he's right. But it just makes it worse. Because it could mean there was nothing I could do. I was a fluke. It shouldn't have ever happened.

I guess it's entirely possible there's a sort of age regression at play with the depression. But I'd have to accept that this is what every day was for me, when I was younger. I don't remember what it's like to not be depressed.

I would leave me, too.

I know my sister sees me as lesser than. I won't engage with my feelings, not in the apartment. They don't treat me very kindly unless they want something from me. I don't think they're a bad person. I think they're normal. So it's not worth mentioning.

My parents are nicer to me because they miss me.

I used to kindly text my friends and do small talk on the phone when I felt depressed like this. It helped until I started thinking... I don't think they want to hear from me anymore. I'll never know.

I've just been doing normal words, and I'm doing pretty good. This is working, I think.

I'm going to take a nap. And I'll forget all of this when I wake up.

The New Invaders

Everything feels like a product because everything is a product. People are merchandise. Personality is marketing. Nobody is human anymore. You're lucky if you can take advantage of the slavery. Some get lucky to just be an accessory. A Dixie. The Confederate States of America. There are Confederates in every nation in the world. It's got nothing to do with Hitler. Fascism persists because it's fun. People love to kill. People love to see heads explode. It's not chic to be a person. We have to kill you eventually. Maybe it will be fun when it's you.

We'd only be so lucky to have our history. Watergate and Equifax, Panama Papers and Mueller Reports. Epstein files, whatever. It's always been available to us the facts of the matter. What good is information in a society that doesn't read? You start to understand the cynicism, the vulgar conceit of the Leninists. You can't wait for everyone to make it happen. The burden of the community minded, the proletariat, good hearted ones especially, is they will always agonize over it. So much that they might never do it. Millions of youth are rising up, are banding together, are taking arms. But because this is a human struggle, not a mechanistic subroutine, it can't be dictated in a manner suitable to the capitalist interweb.

Millions of leaderless collaborators. How do you write a puff piece on that?

The old world carries a closer memory of change. Cultures persist from regime to regime, century to century. The people of Palestine can envision a world without Israel, because it already once existed. They have existed before Israel, and they can exist after. The imperial courts in the days of old in many nations, like Japan, Iran, or Nigeria have all fallen by the wayside... and yet the people's of these nations still exist.

The United States does not have a touchstone to imagine itself through, as a culture that can endure the fall of one regime. The United States is a colonial project, and the favored classes of this nation have forgotten their place as usurpers. Pretenders, yes.

I remember Foucalt wrote of a similar reality that shook me. We just don't have that psycho. To be able to put everything towards the needs of the cause. That's unfamiliar to us. We kill plenty of people, usually other strugglers. Usually underclass, usually colored people. Every now and again one of our kids loses it, y'know. It becomes too much. The system works again, and they kill each other. True Americans, Red Blooded Confederates, have never killed for the right cause. The founding fathers were confederates. Napoleon was a confederate. I'll choose to be meatheaded with my terminology. Why not? The best gringos, the ones you like. Dr King, John Brown, Malcom. Nikki, James, Angela. Not just political leaders, even our entertainers. I'm a big fan of Jack Kirby, right?

Americans are at their best when they harness a simplicity, a sort of meteoric race. Everybody sit at this counter and don't move. Throw a shield at Hitler's face. Tell the slavers to die. Kill them!

You know, that's why I think it just has to be a collusion of minds. We can all communicate what is important to us. We can't get each other to move at the same time, so maybe let's all start burning and shooting at the same guys, and we'll figure it out later. Lets get hamfisted. I'm endorsing the wrong mindset. That seems more American. I have a conceit that is founded in the same stuff Kant said like a billion years before me. That "a priori."

A certain part of what we know is the same. Maybe tap into that sort of anima, as I would say. Let's just clarify the targets first, and we can all find our own ways to murder. Organize our minds, and take advantage of our strengths as monsters. Gringos! Because we all know the culture war conceits are fake, right? We will not hurt each other. It's money that rules this country, right? Find that first. Substantive harm, not identity. Don't be so colonial.

The Natives already figured it out, and we're just clawing our way back to their aptitude.

Something is always missed. Some of my friends in Gaza appreciate my expedience in communication, my desire to publicize and serve the interests of a million people at once. Others find it concerning. "Take care of yourself, my friend." Believe me, I'm trying. I've a shooting pain in my back. I have to buy new needles today. I have to take out a loan for a new car. I have to save up for some iron. Rent will be coming up, that's more than half the check gone. So how will I find the time for just violence? What would the Qassam Bridgadiers encourage? I wish I could have met them.

How do you mobilize a culture of meatheads? You get louder. Americans like characters, not people. Become the Fishman, pick up a shield, slap on a Domino mask. And just start punching. Be stupid for the right reasons. Organize to make a full brain out of single cells. Let me get this iron and I'll have words with you all.