inhaled a once whole soul, interpolated within a wet watercolor wormhole, exhaled as orbital fuck trash crept refracted through honeycomb prisms of interplanetary patrol. drug me dreamy, let me swim the swelling seas of your sunflower sensory deprivation aquarium, enveloping the earth a wandering wonderland chrysanthemum, all flowers mine, scented in perfume breaths of lemon puff pours, smitten teenage breaths, yours, seoul cafe creamy, vanilla purrs, pray to believe in prayer and back again in an interstellar eternity hers, cursive spit spelled the way we were before, wide awake in mourning, i'll find warmth from the floor.
i used to be a little boy, lips so neon pretty they could cast cataclysm an orchestral road to joy, drowned my fingers in the seascape of your girlish honey hair held hostage crept coy, loved by souls i surrendered too few, hung from the ropes of the hollywood red line always late rescue, seizures swept swollen kept a heartbeat hue, sung my heartless hopes from leconte avenue. westwood west coast rendezvous, i leaped to heaven for my last love wept her last pledge: "spring will find you."
fuck. almost 5AM before i ever knew it. i've poured myself in writing and writing and writhing and writing the last handful of days in anywhere. my words reworked in here make up literary liberty. i met marla this morning time, my first therapist, and she colored me blush by sincerely assuring me that she knows i'm "too smart," "too creative," "and way too articulate" not matter to the world when i'm ready. i told her i'm doing my best to work for it. get there . i've been busily reassembling my whole being since i cleaned my veins by winter's end on my whole own to be everything that megan promised i would be. i keep one of her handwritten cards red sea split on my glass bedroom desk; the one that tells me that i need to find my way, a career, be something, and i make sure to read it each early morning no matter how much it hurts. i swallow 50mg of hydroxyzine, 800mg of gabapentin, mah big cup (big cups harness not included) of organic decaf coffee, 200mg of tagamet, 30mg of methadone, and work through ill haze to work words all day under rainy greys.
my medicine keeps me alive and breathing the way i want. okay 'til i'm not. it wasn't so long a monday night ago that i collapsed on the living room floor but talked my mom into not taking me to the hospital which is mostly why i've been seeing doctors, seemingly always spending an afternoon @ santa clara valley medical, and i'll see a new neurologist in a couple weeks for a checkup and usual brain wave tests. i'm on it. i'm good. i'm gonna stay around. i accept everything. this year, i'm gonna fly to albany, new york to see rena at her house and it'll be the last baptism before i begin a new life (again) in LA in or around burbank. there's nothing for me in the bay area anymore and never will be again. i don't belong here.
next week or maybe the one after, my sister is going to drive me to a cosmetic surgeon in san francisco to get a consulation about fixing my razorblade scarred and gouged up arms. the last one i saw recommended fraxel laser treatments over the next two years but i never followed up on it. my mom told me to get it done as she has control over the money now. everything. it's all so fucked up and yet life changing good has come from it. i just want to be away from here and never come back. momo will come with me even though i promised her that she'll see her mommy someday soon and lament how we both miss her so much. that's everyday living now: religiously reading the words of always and forever last loves they maybe don't mean anymore, swallowing my pills so my skeletal tissue stays still, breathlessly kissing my pretty peach kitty sore, but none of it ever hurt so much before.
forgive my cliches, it's after 5am and fuck.
march 2010, a trembling handful of days in my brave new life in the bay to be smitten and save(d). my old life, my sure life, i wish i knew it to never end. my old life, my pure life, i wish i loved last the first time again. oof. memories.
i found this photo by happenstance, ariana took it, and i hadn't seen it before. i remember (most of) that night out when i just arrived in the bay area to be with someone and be with her. things were good and should've been better had i been better, i've ripped myself apart to reassemble my being to not just learn from my mistakes, but to grow from them so they won't ever happen. even if it's way too late. even if i don't want to be with anyone romantically again. i just want to do good and make everyone proud of me. maybe it's weird to some people i posted it on my social media but i was excited having luckily found a vestige of an era that was very special to me. it's not for anyone or anything else, it's for me, and i'm only ever trudging a parade march for a little more warmth.
feel up, fuck, and flay the audience whole by the reprise and warm their spinal fluid to a boil. that vanilla scented sensation in the throat (remember electric 2008 wonderment) put them on your time. actress' time. the camera's time. reveal. crescendo. end. they want to watch it again. technical goal: elevate the previous scenes and story to be desirable puzzle pieces to be watched again. the score too important and the requiem illuminated petrol to swallow their souls. let's get ravey, baby.</p>
(exterior - day) joshua tree national park establishing shots(?). sunrise, plateau overlook, LSD standstill emboldening a calm (color saturation in post) as if the audience knows the taste of an opiate high in their own throats, and make an interstellar aesthetic leap to next (interior - night). explore. traverse. transdimensional. come home. at the very end: don't.
elements of "i. want. outrage." original screenplay visuals adopted (maddy sees her own body make crucifixion pose, head tilted upward, stumbling backward as if inhumanly possessed, et al.) for "maddy dreams" interlude as connective tissue between acts II and III. establishing shots worked into roulette concept on their own (cut-up literature) to be symbolized as an infinite whole. work through maddy's arc. flesh her out. it's up to me. my fiction is flesh and belongs to my very being. nurture and nourish. future and flourish. only i can save her now.
chara 2 (alexa) keywords: oxycontins in the car, 16 years old, broken social scene, varsity, johnny's 事務所, evangelion posters, UK 2-step, lain, sold to be become a patagonian voladora, upstate NY accent, budgies in bedroom, mildly bleed out the hues of solid darker colors in her shots (an inherent will to reach any another), west coast catholic cathedral (see scene: "maddy dances"). she'll be lost off-screen and away. it'll hurt. make it hurt.
kikupup is signaling me with her kittyheart searchlight that it's that time to fall asleeps so i can wake early and enjoy the most of the day without my sister in the house for the weekendish (yay).
asus emailed me in the early morning a day before that they will offer me a replacement laptop as they cannot do so nor have replacement parts for the model i sent them, and upon looking it up i realized the one they offered is a better gaming laptop with better specs. as my laptop was fucking amazing w/ HD display, 8gb onboard memory, HDD space (1TB), and nvidia 950m 2gb card, i can only be a little excited and hopeful they will ship out the new model very soon. they said up to 2-3 days at the most, plus they're in milpitas, but i hope it's tomorrow + i won't have to wait long when they do mail it out. that's welcomed news, right? will update and let you know. i need my space and i've made a forever ever vow to never bring my laptop anywhere to anyone. this is the second time i've fucked up what i had by bringing it elsewhere and it won't happen anymore. this last time, i just wanted to bring it because my friend in pacific heights couldn't exactly open .fdx files on her rig and i was excited to make my way to her neighborhood. a time before that, i actually broke it at james' house a couple years ago when i was with sua, but i completely and entirely blacked out and have zero memory of anything that happened that night. thank the fucking liquid monster benzo from the internet + vodka + ××××× that sua gave me and we were doing together. i have no memory of that night at all but i know i woke up with a broken laptop. fuck me. lesson learned! i also woke up freaked out because sua was gone, my debit card was taken, a few hundred dollars on it withdrawn, and james realized that his car was gone and it was eventually returned by her and james' roommate all fucked up because they got in an accident on the way. i don't want to remember any more of that day. just, fuck me.
i received a letter in the mail that informs me that i'm good to go to see a referred neurologist near here that i posted on instagram there's also a video i took on my mobile of momo and marley engorging on their special kitty food as they strictly eat twice per day. hungry hungry babbies. anyway, with my medical history, it's a given that i'll have to repeat the unpleasant experience of EEG/CT/MRI clockwork orange play, but i'd feel better if it was taken care of sooner than later as both my parents will express their "worry" for me as if i'm somehow creating a problem for them?... that's how either of them put it. typical, i guess. i have zero support anywhere. everyone else only knows me as a meek valley boy heartquake or drunken party toy to take. my family knows me as easy to beat up swollen and left to my bruises in isolation sullen.
wish me be pure for the next day and after to be told there exists a cure. for her. for me. a lonely disease that these doctors can't treat. i wasn't feeling much inspiration but it's likely owed to not feeling much of anything more than usual, so i don't want to try and pour and more. i haven't indulged a cigarette since i began reassembling words together in here so i must take care of that, do a couple sets of crunches, pour myself a last cup of hot milk peach tea, make my way to the living room to kiss momo a time or two, and drift to sleep cradling kikupuff as she's curled on me. kitty therapy. shout out to calcal.
militaria watercolor fashion / catalina sinner // low earth orbit /// the committee of sleep /// | retrocognition \ girlfriend in a coma \\ the religion of crime \\\ algorithmic existence |
IJAK first establishing shot: faraway lens direction toward desolate scenery (industrial park - day) → continues until a single figure is frantically running across the screen from end to end. title. soundtrack salvo (CC/LB/FZ aesthetic). overgrown swedish military jacket worn by maddy w/ dadaist modification on sleeves/lower half to directly imply she is seemingly under a 'protector' and maintains a relationship with an older somebody. will be referenced once by spoken dialogue on P16. further development and cues need more work.
explore budget/logistical possibilities of camera lenses that could play with actors' flesh tones and reflection/absorption of lighting. need them on-hand to be switched out easily and inexpensively as possible throughout production. make effort to avoid post-pro effects of any sort but introduce a visual idea of signaling the health of charas' "souls" by audience observation. work this idea further.
chara 6: mckinnon type hacker accessed agency network claiming evidence secret space fleet, solar warden, et al.
keywords: sex in space, miike frantic camera movement, lens adjustments, distinguished semi-tonal changes in soundtrack notes/key ONLY as he's on screen, interior sets (BG) within chara 6's home subtly but firmly include corridors/doors/rooms within shot(s) that lead nowhere and couldn't physically make sense, and awkward jump-cuts may be worth exploring as much as idea is displeasing. there needs to be another way to accomplish the same feat. it needs to be new.
hands-on rigging and modification of camera/lense/lighting needs to be a foundation aspect of photography and shared as an idea by DP. pray to believe in prayer and back again that someone special will be found to help and collaborate.
kikubear is kneading me to sleepies and that's fate's way of pestering me to do so. goodnight and looking forward to continuing tomorrow until i'm reunited with my laptop to work proper in final draft. playing in here is primitive but pure.
late night monday, arteries ruptured by the verve's reverb violins strung and copper hung by wired lunar orbits of voices viciously spun in the shallow skies above oceania sung, i went in for the kill on my any day funeral bouquet of prescription pills to keep dimly hued my will to live, and kept writing and writing in an astral projection of cruel mania in my blemished evermore crawl in prayer enough of my body will be left to forgive.
" i went to see a screening of jared leto's masterpiece sci-fi film "mr. nobody" before being lectured by a stalker of some creepy sort the very next day that i'm sure is still sulking on this very page i wish they would fuck off forever. the irony is not lost, is it?... fuck. anyway. despite all my--- (promised to be pissed off so much lol. cause i so called it to be, what do you want? i want change iha. wretzky. bass. drums. evrerythng. you know what i wanted. james laurence. everythng n-party as far as late2011. when know i know this kid. let me know this kid. bill he but bill he means nothing h menas everything he'll teenage james. set to drain. secret destroyers. he'll out to to the flames. to me. for a piece. fuck the noise."
there's my soul being bared and it means absolutely nothing and everything while smashing pumpkins records were probably being spun on spotify as the purer parts of my being possessed my body i thought i saw walk away... i just thought it may be worth throwing on here to illustrate a little of what i'm working with as far as ruining my own everyday living by a higher autoerotic asphyxiation of my brain matter, merrily skulking the strangulation point between life and come sweet death♪ and being the very best artist i could hypnotize myself to be. wringing my flesh and fluid. modest little me and it still means so little and so much more.
weirdness put aside, i've been wistful for my latchkey kid days when i briefly lived in this house as a kid in seventh grade, more often than not in trouble by my stricter mom when she would arrive home before i would, as i would squeeze all the time i could from the arcade across the street from the school. there used to be a little TV against this corner wall, N64, PSX, sega saturn, music CDs, sheet music, video game jewel cases, import discs specially put aside, anime VHS tapes stacks on stacks on black, and here i am again til here knows when in a life i seemingly circle. sometimes i can't get over life but it isn't all bad. i just think it's funny that i'm sucked cyclical in existential crises over thought knots and hide the breaths taken from my body from everyone and everything else as if i need to get away with living long enough to show i'm worth it. i've never been. i've never felt like i am, at least. that's another story but i'm always telling it in one way or another in allegory purgatory. here. hell. welcome to mima's room.
i put up an instagram account by accident as angela told me she was pressing pause on facebook but active everywhere else, we exchanged our everything information, and there i am since i finally cared to get a new and decent LG mobile. next thing i know, i'm posting morning time photos of sleepy momo as i slurp my decaf coffee and pup's day out @ santa clara valley medical center flaunting (ha) another patient bracelet. they have me roam around the building floors from here to there to back again for all sorts of tests, a lot of waiting, but it all gets done within a single day at least. refilled my hydroxyzine script for the next three months. all that's left is to play the waiting game for a letter of referral and approval for a new neurologist as my new (and third) PCP and get in on another year's EEG, CT/MRI, and draw an x-ray dream of my fluorescent anti-strobe temporal lobe. anyway, yeah. i have an insta account now. selfies not included. it's up to others to photograph me. steal my soul. take me. capture me. keep me. share me. reject me. x'd like manson.
it feels like LA, it feels like the bay, but mostly it feels like any lonely day. southern california kid caught fluttering where the sea salts sputter as they spray, once upon an adventure for love and oxygen i'll stay, and i'll learn the will to shatter the chrysalis casket and finally fly away. it feels like chicago, it feels paris, it feels the way they used to say, but mostly it feels like i'll never know another way. it feels like the palisades, it feels like union city, it feels like pleasanton, it feels like her, it's one san francisco skyline blur, then it's a feminine new york purr, sleepily sung by ayu as if my boyish throat was hung in hard liquor, no way to say whisperer, but mostly it feels like my repertoire.
there's my artistic contribution of the night as my other laptop isn't being fixed but being replaced entirely - so i don't have my usual writing space to work. it seeps out like wet dream ejaculate. i haven't had any gravity seas to swim for weeks while i mourn and mourn for pure-hearted james and need it most, so i actually made use of the logitech notebook i originally scrawled my first treatments and script outlines by my girlish cursive way, all the way two years back, in this very house, after i finally knew true rebirth and baptism of being. everything is so full circle and fucked up. my true creative form is unleashed upon learning liberty from the drag of drugs but i need the pills to live. i wish more of that me was let free for the world let see when i was with megan. she could've had more to be proud but she was so enthusiastic to tell so much of my talents, who i am, and so much sore to everyone we met and more. it's the everlasting thing... vintage 90's depression, anxiety, agoraphobia, epilepsy and my will to make everyone else proud versus shutting out the sky from my bedroom cloud, kingdom of heaven sliced for the purgatory crowd, and there's only so much life left i'm allowed.
my best friend in the whirled world in smitten kittenish swirled but i'm only ever reasoning with the end of the world. i'm alone and holding nothing. i let her know the most intimate of everything and hear nothing back. just the most beautiful words every so imagined ever. i have no support network. not in this house. if i have one, it's the kitties, feline therapy, my momo most special held by anemic blood cell vessels,
oh yeah, i also went to a screening of ghost in the shell (JP w/ eng subs) @ shattuck in berkeley but i didn't see kristen. not that i was looking, i was a bit late because traffic on the 880, and i slipped out without expecting much fanfare in usual post-screening depression. i mostly wanted to get back in my hatchback, nobody next to me this time, and only after circling from the orbital point where telegraph meets shattuck. where my life was really lived in true love. i strolld alone. our comic book shop. our restaurant. our breakfast spot. our routine. our subway station. our life. our love. our kitty kept trilled to the door. i had it. we had it. we lost it. she is young, she was young, but i wish she could've known what i had to hurt to finally know. she'll learn. i know she will because she's bright if she'd let herself be and not drown in drugs. that's life, kitten puff, and we have to learn to live it sometime. maybe i'm a genius, an artist, a poet, but maybe i'm nothing and the devil wrote it. maybe i was sold as a kid and better for it, this way i'll know the quintessences of life to suckle and sew it, and then i'll play my part as the sad singer for the flush of searchlight flash for art.
i just wish i was loved. i'll let you know what changes when i get around to it or the rest of the world finds me.
ruined. wrecked. fucked. up. dis.con. nect. i can't have enough of anything gracefully abandoned inside me by residual individuals i dreamed or dreamed me up from the bleed as tangible to know the world long enough to know this never-familiar sensation again. it's spelled and scrawled the seeming same on any paper trail but the stroll is sprawled and spread to a thought cacophony knoll celebrated by arsonists that set ablaze my soul unto the real world my face is knotted in a veil and cigarette scents i shared with them are alone left to inhale. fuck me. not many others would comprehend unless they've known the carnal sin of buying emotional matter from other human beings only to have them lost. gone. forever. beyond all begging. all control. thoughts strung on pieces of ivory shards that go nowhere. jigsaw nothings in five dimensions but worn in lucid dreams brought to you by life extension㏇. i'm stripped, sewn, pieced, inside out, dripping, red, and i'm worn across the throat as a hostage of a malevolent deity of all the drugs i've sought some solace and shelter to be penned and pricked by lovers in the company of beloveds with flesh bled and blot. i wish i could be taken as an echo to nowhere, nobody heard, sucked up to take the place of someone like him to save all who loved them from this feeling i know. the one that's been killing me all the more and more that i blacked out and fucked out til 2014 was finding its end. when i even began spitting and sputtering little cryptic hints of see-through tints to my last love whom i promised to save her from what i used to be and knew, and here we are now to a pale flesh embodiment of me having lost and loved from there to back again, missing him, missing everyone, missing so much when life was everything to me when connected to and through one more from me.
sua. megan. the sickened me, the one who counts the clouds that are broken on any day for another sad thing to say, has wondered in the worst of every private prayer i could find you again somehow upon us losing someone so special. if only between the raindrops of any moment and no more. none of it really makes any sense. not him. not james. not the budding friend, loved momo like us, the first of anyone beyond our family within our oakland apartment to know her, who would let us use his car to make a round trip to the hood to do whatever we used to do, and as far as i asked and knew only a handful of days before i know - he was alright. he was clean. he was good even if he began feeling ill over the weekend. i asked because i'm currently being (mildly) treated to even prevent me from the off-chance of wanting a reckoning from dope in the present time i'm up and down during trauma and general therapy (leaves me fucked up often), and james and i would hit each other up for anything all the time. he would bring up his podcast, his ideas to do a youtube show, asking me if i would be up to helping write it with or for him, and i know i was always always always positive to lend my help and being for him for anything in the whole wide world. he was purest. i say that and mean it in all sincerity. i don't know any 'how' or 'why' we could lose him. i wish i could be lost the way i've wanted to live in my better bitten beats with no one noticing instead... the way he was loved was engraved and meant so much to so many whereas my everydays are worth so little. that's the way it feels. the common thread sung and strung through the metronomic membrane of any remembered lost love or beloved. if i could save them by giving up my life to mean nothing, i would in any heartbeat, and maybe i made that promise to live the life i've taken up in this present day existence. rather the sort like myself is cruelly destined to witness the ends of the earth. it feels that way. it'll be left to someone like me to feel so little compared to everyone else upon the world's end having known how hurtful it is to live each day by day in sunshine so harmonized and spent knowing the very last of so many so sincerely loved upon lovers littering by lips an amends to so intense. everything. perfect. the end of the world will be brought tomorrow and i'll have known it since i was a little kid and you only ever knew so little. sua. megan. i wish i knew more of who you are before it happens. i love you and always will. i want to know you're okay and if you're not okay upon knowing what happened to someone so good. it hurts me so it could only hurt you more having known him another way in the big blue world. i wish i could offer something to you somehow. in this reality. before it ends or becomes something else if it already hasn't again. i'll love you from there to back again because i promised when we said it from the beginning.
i wrote this days ago but pilled out on a roulette of medicine minting my bloodstream. i've been wrecked and left wondering where rena could be?... i need you right now and i know you may need me too. if i could tune the vibrations that stitch the colors against the quantum canvas, i would be packed and sitting solemnly on an airplane to albany to see you in the house i've dreamed a million dreams. there's so much spattering from this whirlwind of grey matter propelling my soul through corridors of everyday sadder. so lost. there's so much money but i don't have it in me to leave just yet even if my exit from the bay area is a fact waiting to be fulfilled. i just know that satellites touch down on the earth from the stars when they're ready and until then i'm in orbit.
i won't be over james being gone. although there's no familiarity in living when your friends and loves become the departed, even if it's scrawled the very same way on paper, i do know that it'll be atomic winter for a little too long until chlorophyll becomes and buds again. nothing will be the way it was before without him. i've lost a little too much for one life and wish i could suffer under seashore strangulation to give them back to the world where they deserve to be warm. loved. wanted. i love you so much, james. it never should have been you and i wish you could know just how missed you really are by so many special people. you would've been so stoked to see how much you meant.
little left to live but a valley boy wept and slept in violet velvets snuck in citrus fruit flesh flavors of a popular record to flush out the year's end in a city vinyl slush, the scorsese cinematic way an ecstasy pill would handsomely crush my berry brain matter pray as prey (虐待！) and january on the west coast always hurts and always will as the ever after of everything, a seasonal selling of blood for all the drugs now gone, and i feel like crying (we are on the ground beneath ya).
and there goes hoodie hidden me high on somas and floral bouquets of benzos on the golden gate coast where i used to wish for all the heroism in the world to leap as a suicidal fairytale prince from my favorite storybook, and love goes on as my soul sprays its veins within a paler body than you've probably ever fucked. even still, depression + agoraphobia weaves my reputation as a rare face to be found with firefly needles to the city pop vinyls left to loop as my sing street soundtrack, and my dreams are abandoned to meander to ruin like the needles to my body sewn once upon a time by prescription prozac. anti-depressants killed someone i loved and never again forever for any of it. that's life. drugs, therapists, sunglasses at shows, depression, and barely living the way lars von trier put it: "basically, I'm afraid of everything in life, except filmmaking." he misses meetings, can't work, and admits to basically being worthless while depression takes him as every lover and love knows and knew me. also a forever ever drug addict as they say we are once we're letting our loves shoot dope in our veins. yet his art survives. he survives. he's etched.
put in real wor(l)ds: i'll barely ever show up to whatever to be filmed but you can count on me to spill whatever on my lonely (brand-new) laptop brought elsewhere and ruin. a $60+ UPS shipment back to asus later (yesterday when i'm legit sick) and i'm here again on sua's silly stickered (slow) storybook for however many days watching ghibli flicks and 90's TV anime. that's what i get for making my way to so and so's kinda impressive place in the city to show off rewrites and get drunk on whatever while editing something more worthwhile than what my own words. no matter what they say. i'm out-of-commission, dopesick kinda moment, and yet i'm back to work on a treatment idea i sketched out in six sentences over a year and a half ago when i purposely relapsed to know a feeling closer to megan again. i dreamed a dream better than any other in so long and have so much more than before. so many sugared sticky ideas. it's something. nothing. everything. it's up to me and that's a freedom i need now. only i can truly save myself from myself for myself.
soon upon a someday better sooner, i'll be seizing my escape from here and stay stuck on swallowing my dizzying pills to keep my brain matter from seizing into itself . earlier this morning, i made my way to see one of my other therapists i see every few weeks, blaring kendrick lamar out of spotify from my hatchback as i drive like an asshole, and found a little shelter in the sunshine breaths in some solace for who i am for all the wrong and right reasons: how i look, how i'm dressed, my hairstyle, but most significantly a smothering sensation that i may be worth something after all. if only for today. i'm a true believer in patterns over coincidences and found that for the little i'll wing my way among the big blue world, there will be others who will count on me for the sort of things i'm pursuing on my own, such as filmmaking, writing and rewriting, theater, but more often than not, i'll be asked if i could be shown or show up to this or that to help put in my creative direction. i mean if i'm being politely asked by way more souls than ever expected to help direct their own art projects under every prettied parasol, for the very little i'm ever known to be around, it may just mean i have something worthwhile in my very being. i've earned my reputation many times over for being rare to see anywhere unless invited and incessantly asked and i can safely say that here if nowhere else. it's flattering beyond the anxiousness that befalls me each and every time when picked to participate to strut a modestly fashionable appearance to somewhere in some way hiding under my high-priced hoodie sunken under a state of permission to tell strangers on a set or stage or shoot what they should do and how they should do it. ワンダーワード、言葉の奇跡 o(｀・ω・´)○ ﾔｰ！！
i've spent more time in san francisco by myself than ever before (shhh...) but it probably won't be a thing anymore. i've already let a handful of new special others and acquaintances know that i'm preoccupied with issues far from my control but will be around online or whatever to help, consult, review, direct, and give advice if they need it. even then, my reputation for shyness is earned many times over and i'm not one to be excited to show up in my usual red-and-black adidas zip-up masked in my all-hours dior sunglasses to wade the waters of the san francisco cold for the sole purpose of pretending i'm special. i play an artist as an artist where i don't belong which would be the whole wide bay area. i'm used to being nobody and by pure and sure coincidence, i'm seeing that mr. nobody screening @ the roxie in a little bit from now (shhh...). if and when i ever put a 'going' or 'interested' for whatever event in the city, i'm bothered about being accompanied when i posted clear and quiet i'm content to be alone as always, and i have to kinda sorta lie and leave it vague... but take the fucking hint. i told rena a little bit about one situation with someone and she perfectly put it during her morning marathon replying to everything i typed to her in skype: "but the thing with that girl/couple seems weird. kindness is always welcome but i can't help but be skeptical she wants some sister wife bullshit with you as their missing link. you know, butter you up real nice and take care of you so the husband can fulfill his homoerotic fantasies safely, or whatever the fuck." nailed it. i'm not someone's twink fantasy and that's exactly what i was being softened up to be only because i am who i am with my fragrant physical, emotional, personality, and sexual attributes. nope, this dick ain't free ♪ ゛(´д｀*)゛～♪～♪ ﾌﾝﾌﾝ no, really, as i left to tell to rena, i've probably elaborated my virginal vow of sexless mourning to love and fuck no one else who never held my heart before i fell frail for my last lolita. i'm lost but i belong (for now). if i believed in anything beyond my whole broken being to be pure: I COULD FUCK. CALI. FORNIA.
in too many ways that wouldn't matter as it never did before. i am all dressed up unassumingly in a sexpot revenge knit, T.U.K b/w platform sneakers, louis vuitton skinny jeans from vestiaire collective, and my pale flesh left to love, live, and leave in longing disguised in cigarette smoke and my melodic valley vowels sung and sewn so shyly strung. i'm there with nobody as nobody to see a screening of mr. nobody. it's about that time during san francisco rush hour but the film screening doesn't show until 9PM. there are little hours left to lament living in softened gushes felt in my crotch as if molly was in my life licking the insides of my lips again, to live and explore on my own as if i was a virginal youth in hollywood once more, but i'm spending the meantime marveling at robert eggers' screenplay for the vvitch which was one of the finest films i adored so much the year before (that awful year of everything). there are very few films that genuinely frightened me in a familiar licorice flavor of any given nightmare i'm forced to recall and it was surely one of those; the screenplay he wrote is a meaningful inspiration in the way it's written, formatted, and simply poured of confident ideas and expression. i can't help but feel i can do so much more with my own work upon reading more and more of it having learned to really dig the film itself (that he directed as a first-timer!). i genuinely mean it and my work in final draft shows it. he is everything i wish i could be, honestly, although i doubt i have it in me to lead a production and direct a screenplay of my own. it would take a collaborative spirit and gifted sense of confidence from admirable figures in the industry and art to reassure me that i could let live my lavish burden of perfectionism and creative pitch i'd force on everyone under me. the rest of everybody knows the unforgiving way i go about needing everything the way it needs to be and take pride in carefully sucking my own lips while watching the camera lens before interrupting to reshoot. nothing new. that's how you work. they have to do it one more time, forever, until they get it the right way, and it takes of abstract thinking and faking confidence like any fuck to truly convey to others the way it needs to appear - but more importantly - what it evokes to others. that's a little more tricky but i got it. i've always had it in one way or another.
gonna take off from now to treat myself to a floral milk tea from a particular parlor on valencia before parking my car near the roxie. i'll be back before i know it like nothing happened and let nobody else know i ran away to the city where i could've been found but eluded all of them on my own. i'm only alive for my best beloveds like rena and forever lost loves ever after. i won't be going home with anyone else and i never plan to sleep next to anyone else ever again. that's the vow i took to love and know nothing more. that's the sort of purity i've sought and kept as redemption for my soul as if in recreation. if it took resisting a perfect little dark-haired princess in glasses at a secret drug party at the san francisco museum of modern art, i would keep my boy parts covered and my soul smothered and remember who kept me company in my animal crossing village when i was a bay area runaway, teenage sad boy on the internet, or lonely rave kid left lost to be found. i remember love and who i was when i found it. off i go now, wish me luck, and i'll find where i belong on the net when i come back by dancing between the raindrops. i'm clingin' to love through one last vein. on a famous avenue you'll find me with a cigarette placed between my lips, lifting my slithering shirts to reveal my skinny hips, and i'll be loved again when the planets collide and know one last breath from one more lunar eclipse.
i'll see you in another life in the city when we're both cats o(^・x・^)o ﾓﾓ ﾐｬｧ♪
(´Д｀；)/ヽｧ・・・ there's a screening of the jared leto film mr. nobody @ the roxie in san francisco that i'm gonna attend and tell nobody else about it because i have nobody to accompany me anyway. i'm still regretful that i had nobody who would want to see desaparecidos play a reunion show @ the independent in san francisco last yearish after i had found a way without drugs and just before sua had arrived with her brother having given her a ride to let me take care of momo. all i wanted was to get shitfaced, strip shirtless and wet in sweat as i usually do most every show, and reminisce in nostalgic loops when i was in 10th grade (when their record had come out) the way i dreamed: i would be more grown up, still boyish, still never learned how to be cool, and yet i wouldn't be afraid of being me in all my pale skinny flesh to be swallowed by willing eyes. so i swing, so i sway, and to my dreams i cling.
speaking of that, as much time and soft talking i spend to kiku in this house, i recalled how overwhelmingly grateful i still feel that sua had sought to let me care for momo, our little kitty we love so much after rescuing her from the oakland streets so scratched up and starved, and hadn't given her away to someone else after she was unable to house her upon our shared apartment being forever gone. it colorfully reminded me that sua could recognize how much momo means to me, recollect love that i felt for another, remember love itself as she knew it, and it let me want to believe that she still loves me. i only bring it up because my beloved boy, mark, had found me again through social media after a long while of not really talking to each other. he was like "what?!?!?!" when i told her i'm not actually with sua anymore and explained everything - mostly the fact i don't know anything more than when it happened, how apparently i wasn't worth much of anything to even be told by the love of my life and myself being hers for so long that she wouldn't talk to me anymore, and drew upon that cyclical frenzy where the more i want to remember or believe she loves me, the more it slits my flesh in slut love shapes to know she still abandoned me to have nothing knowing how it would affect me. he still spoke and assured me of what he knew as universal truths just for such a situation, casually but confident, and actually he would be one of the only souls who could make me feel better in his own words since he's someone who gravitates love, fuck, and affection in all its scents and would know how any of it works. he's one of my forever loves in my life i could count on my left-hand fingers of sin along with rena, sua, jessica, julie, and himself. i have nothing left in me to have another one to ever love as my right-hand fingers are reserved for purity and godliness i'm not allowed to have any more.
anyway, sua, if you someday or somehow read this: i sincerely am grateful for you (and ryan!) for making your guys' way to let me have momo to care rather than give her away. i want to believe it was because you knew how much she meant to me; that she was my little girl kitty, my baby, and that she is a warm-blooded embodiment of our love and life together we found in each other just like we found her - beaten, left for nothing, but saved by love at a chance. thank you from all of my heart for making sure she would always have a place in our family, but especially knowing i would put my utmost effort in knowing she would be cared and loved by myself. she is coming to be with me again soon, so you know, and i will have her again; i've kept a photo of her on my facebook profile, one where she is sleepy but has her eyes opened to the camera lens, curled up on her kitty pillow (with her plump kitty tummy) in front of one of our third-floor apartment windows left slightly open to let her breathe in the city air, and i tell any others am able she is there to remind me of the days we could hear her hop on the floor, gallop to the front door as we opened it, and trill all her merry way to us each and every instance. momo is our baby who would flaunt the pink ribbons you would dress around her neck, as if she was showing off the way you prettied her as her mommy to her little girl, and we only put pink collars and pink harnesses on her when we would let her venture in the outdoor space behind our building. our little baby and i'll have her with me soon. i know i'll only ever talk to her about you and how much her mommy misses her and will find her soon. i will never let her go again, always keep her wherever i wing my way, and only a few hours earlier i wondered aloud if we would ever be a family again. it could be perfect.
there has been talk that when much more is figured out regarding our family, it's looking pretty likely that my dad will sell his house where i've begun living again (where we ALL have...) and a realtor had visited less than a week ago and elaborated how it will likely go for about $1.4 million when all is said and done i know, right?... this place. location location location. anyway, my mom let it be casually said that enough of that money would be put toward my sister and i being given some spoiled support and a start to our lives where we want to be as our inheritance which we would have split together. now that everything is changing due to turmoil in a flavor of terror i would prefer not to describe in funeral scents or ripped ribboned presents, it's looking more and more like when all is said and done: i'll begin anew with a studio apartment in the valley, away from here forever and ever, to make my own life from scratch pursuing the sort of things i want to wish the best and survive as fashionable a fuck i can dress. far away from here where i was led to be destroyed but lived upon knowing true love i wouldn't ever want to let go. i just wish sua could see how much i've grown up and bettered my body, my soul, myself, my everything. before she knows goodbye from me forever. i just wish we could know if we had anything left in us or somewhere along the line if only in thought. i know she wouldn't know having never been stranded to feel the heartbreak i've had to live as life would tell me to let go, but i want to believe in somedays she would learn and know the sort of neon hurt it colors one to glow. maybe she'll know what real love feels like and that she was way too young and inexperienced to know she had it from someone who learned along the way all it was but felt it in her from the first days she visited and i never wanted her to leave as we held each other at the LA train station.
change is gonna come but i don't want to believe after all i've had to live and keep quiet to myself i'll have to start again with nothing. i want to rebuild what i had and we had us so pure.
upon almost two years ago when i sought to clean my veins out by winter's end (lived to brag about it), forgotten the first time by my true love, and i found that the words to lua magnetized to me in all the right ways: true romance, storybook tragedy, and eventual abandonment in life or death - whichever comes first - and those were always the right things as i've known them. cleaned out my first aid kit and saw it empty as always. just a note: dress up. all is full of love.
speaking of cryptic tragedy as only i could stick my tongue in epileptic tics, the morning before i last i was walked into another internet conspiracy theory having to do with the so-called "mandela effect." i didn't pay much mind to it the first few times over the years but this had to do with a 90's film starring sinbad (the comedian), as a genie, that i wholly remember and recall - yet it never existed?... no, no no... i remember this one and clearly recall that it had to do with two kids, a brother and sister (which i would remember as i have a little sister) finding a genie played by sinbad, and by the time that shaq's genie "kazaam" movie had come into existence, it was readily dismissed as a knock-off movie that nobody would care to see. i'm not confusing the two at all because i've always known them as separate films. now i've learned that sinbad's genie movie never existed?... essentially, the "mandela effect" has no definite meaning except to vaguely allude to the phenomenon of a lot of assorted people specifically recalling something that never existed as some sort of false memory as if it's a symptom of alternate timelines and/or dimensions converging into each other at some specific point in time. however, it doesn't make sense because i remember this movie that apparently has no evidence of its existence. it's fucked up. i asked a handful of people near or at my age and even rena specifically remembers this movie with a casual 'yeah' when i randomly asked her. she appropriately freaked out upon disbelieving me, at first, when i told her 'yeah apparently never existed and there is no evidence of it.' fuck, even my mom remembers this movie! i asked her too. i asked anyone who would've been halfway paying attention in the early-to-mid 90's...
gives rise to this quasi-romantic idea that i've kept and expressed in figurative imagination, only connecting with other souls the same as i, precisely because we're abandoned and left over from another parallel realities or timelines having fallen with them through the cracks. i held onto a vivid dream about something similar when i was a teenager, just before meeting rena, and i even remember the precise day and night for no reason at all. it was an emotionally imposing dream where this particular reality/dimension/timeline would be coming to an expected but unexplained end, yet there was a route of escape for everyone to take by finding themselves into these egg pods amidst a wet valley. most would be holding each other and made whimpered promises to find each other again upon calibrating their rebirth in the same place, period, and time as each other. to find each other again. to be friends. to be lovers. to continue who they were and what they had together as the same souls but different people from different parents and different lives. it's an idea and dream that could never leave me and only now have i ever put to words, as i've always sort of known my whole life since dreaming such a dream, there is a story to be told that would be relatable to most any soul who ever felt lost, never thinking they fit in the jigsaw puzzle that makes up reality so colored or smothered by atomic greys, and wanting to believe they were from somewhere else that exists - if only they could remember. i may have ruined much of my life in forever shame by self-medicating on heroin, perverse sex, and a neverending story of sadness, but i always found time to be well-read, learned, and devoting my soul to the structure of anything and everything that mattered to me at the time. the simplicity of story, quantum reality, classical literature, multiverse theory, linguistics, and anything ever worth putting thought where it wouldn't belong according to most other people. there is something in this idea. something valuable. i've already poured fragments and knifed shards in a notepad file where all my thought crimes are kept to be wept, and where dreams are made to be used and wasted. no ransom to be paid, song unsung or wine to be tasted. not here, teenage dirtbags. not anymore.