[ flagrant ]

waterford crystal candleholder and spoiled cat

invalid friend chuck presented a waterford crystal candle holder to me as a birthday present last week.

note that we have known each other since an international summer of 1990, my birthday does not fall during the month of september, and no one will ever be allowed to know me well enough to confirm. invalid friend chuck and i have lived together. the year his aneurysm put him on disability, i paid his bills. when my anorexia thrived to the point of wanting to call it a psychosis, he took on the responsibility of paying my debts.

once, in self defense, i cracked open his head with a kuboton. we often fight in foreign hotels, but nights spent at the oriental in bangkok seem to inspire bloody behavior. invalid friend chuck has a history of draining his savings account to rest under the minimun balance requirement just to travel and interfere when i vacation with another man. he loves me. i boast about one day moving across the country without telling him. he says, "i know you would."

the cat enjoys the crystal present and has been using it as a water dish.

barry tentatively directed me through the lot-- ending at the fender of a used saturn. this was a well worn, high mileage vehicle, but the cheap plastic interior promoted an idea that i should pass out on the spot. why not? why not pass out on a used car lot and thwart dealing with an approaching salesmen?

'well, you can't always get what you want,' i figured barry must have thought this somewhere over the course of the last few days. here i was -- a virtual stranger -- a friend of one of his co-workers, and out of the blue, i offered to buy him a car.

barry was nothing but appreciative, and presented very economical selections. the only problem i saw with these inexpensive vehicles, is how their less-than-average reliability ratings would not prove to be cost effective over the long term. barry was stuck in a financial bind due to no fault of his own-- why help him out, but in the process, accidentally dig the hole deeper?

- a saturn!?
- i have no appreciation for the saturn corporation
- barry liked the design of their passenger automobiles
- he has a relative who has had good luck with the saturn line
- barry's relative is a repeat buyer

- a used saturn!?
i could never have lived alone with my thoughts if opting to buy barry a used car. the entire point of getting involved was to catalyze this man's success. acknowledging my intention, and then acting on it, compromise was the call of the day. i bought him a new 2003 saturn coupe.

this was possibly five times over the amount of vehicle he thought was available to him. i hope he gets something more than transportation out of this transaction.

we looked into the annual insurance premiums and its fuel economy prior to the purchase. these costs are equivalent to his previous payments. could you imagine if in buying a new car, we had accidentally chosen higher monthly insurance payments and fuel costs? the psychology of the price paid at the gas pump matters a lot, regardless of long term savings.

barry doesn't know me from anyone, and, of course, that bothered him. i didn't tell him my last name or give a definitive answer on my residence. perhaps i am too much of an idealist here, or am possibly arrogant, but will this gift inspire hope? will it facilitate a new faith and outlook on life?

perhaps the gift will excite the idea that 'being bailed out of tragedy' is possible? what if it inspires lottery dreams?

either way, give until it hurts. i feel good, but am terrifyingly concerned about unexpected bills, and am also worried that i may have just allowed my own self the potential to become financially broken.

on the bookshelf:
- virtue rewarded

you can just call
i will pretend not to care
you'll pretend all
and i'll pretend you called...
- sondre lerche

tomorrow will find me buying a car for a stranger. barry is one of chuck's coworkers, has a disability, and his transportation was recently ruined by another person.

the financial troubles for his family (between now and the time he is reimbursed) will be tremendous. even though i don't know anything else about this man, i know the multiple forms of public transportation necessary for him to get to work are impractical. perhaps, impossible.

my financial situation certainly isn't padded enough to do this, but i will find a way.

how much will a replacement car cost? perhaps $5000? there is something wrong with my own car, but i cannot fathom a mechanic diagnosing the problem.

"other people are producing more than me right now-- they should be the ones to 'have.' my needs can wait."

unless i begin investing in myself, a state of permanent disability will remain. i know not to involve myself and afford this car purchase, but illness is compelled to do it. "it'll be a used car," i tell myself. "worth no more than $7000." currently i have sunk low enough to make 'regular out of the house employment' seem impossible. i am a waste-- so why not give to someone better?

what if the strides taken toward health actually stick? a strange vein of the anorexia serves as a life force, and this 'attitude' has been giving physical possessions away-- purging, perhaps? if blinking and finding all of my material items gone-- good. the riddle is why illness still allows the excess of electricity and computer? how do i go about removing my name from the books it was written in? i should have nothing, be nothing, and need nothing except for an access to running water.

there is no point in feeding that which will not mend. what to do except consider crawling under the bed? cancel this. cancel that. cancel everything and then cancel the death certificate with an embossed stamp.

i recently ended a long water fast with several chewable gummy vitamins, half a piece of sugar-free gum, and a nice shuddering cup of apple cider vinegar. after changing into clothes which have hung in fear for years, this evening still found the word fat written in trident on strategic areas of my body. it's funny how those indelible ink sharpie markers occasionally smell like greasy sausage and cheese pizza. in trident? yes, written with prongs.

[later:]
fruity vitamins and vinegar cannot be considered foods, they say, but i only referred to the end of fasting-- where was it written down that i ate? vitamins not only have *calories* but *substance* and therefore *did* break the anorexic fast. it is imperative to note that people who ingest electrolyte solution or calorie-free drinks while stating they are fasting are fraudulent. these frauds make cases of primary anorexia nervosa feel superior in discipline. essentially, seeing someone cheat ignites my passion even more. one would never combine the word fast with the ingestion of coffee, diet coke, or gum unless relaxed in conviction. in order to further anorexia along, i must be rigid. accepting electrolyte drinks for bodily balance and to stave off the black outs and whitelight? how lazy. how half assed. what's the point? why continue loading up on liquids, essentially teaching oneself to feel full? why not investigate the sensation of starvation if that's what one wants? why continue to fear it?

definitions:
- fasting equals zero ingestion.
- ingesting a minuscule amount of calories is called restriction.

hello fate? it is excruciating to live without pain. this is hell.

AND so, an insanely-painted technicolor depression put distraction to work and pulled images from a corrupt coloring book.

"this so cool," the ambitious outsider says, picking up drying art paper.
i claim, "s'not!"

consider: access restricted to an earth toned palette?

suddenly, oddly, thoughts are consumed with an unexpected strike of death, rather than my own allegiance to investigation.

do not do that because the chance of dying is profound. do not make me do this, either-- dontcha see the probability for expiration is greater than that? do not go there because death certainly beckons en route. cars? are you out of your mind? disaster strikes easily if commanding the 90 mph freeway.

consider: living an entire life without accepting that 'life is risk.'

it actually feels to be the cloudy day after enduring a car accident, and this is the most amazing present.

one spends the majority of life learning to endure physical pain, and then in dying, is treated to numbness.

+ typing
+ fingers
+ brain
+ eyes

this 'devouring of my own brain to survive' problem: alert level 10.

a recent e-mail received from motherfigure confirms my suspicion. she no longer considers costa rica an enjoyable trip destination, and has instead decided on traveling to new zealand. she has even gone far enough to change her vacation dates at work.

random fact: i visited new zealand alone, one year ago today.

if my family had been this flexible during my time with them, i would not be so stringent and asinine with life's little details. motherfigure decided to radically change plans, and then acted on it. i'm impressed.

problem: am "i" paying for "our" vacation? the airfare to auckland is holding steady at a rock bottom bargain, but i've nothing else to moan about.

my depression lusts best for dim solitude and a bleak december in the czech republic. new zealand? how easy, friendly, and familiar. requiring nothing more than a fireplace, acceptable lantern, and blanket purchased upon arrival in prague, there would be no need for electricity. something inside desires the hypothermia madness, or even the dauntless st. petersburg rather than thermal spas and glowworm tours in the summer of the southern hemisphere. healthier and unfazed, how might i expand enough to relish in the unambitious nothing-to-it? why excuse myself from new zealand to save for winter? it will again leave me bored and dissatisfied. visiting with my mother in familiar places is the difficult task.

since my little intimate family believes i am on the verge of getting abducted by the owners of the two white vehicles that circle my morning path, the other night i readjusted my encyclopedia brown spectacles, grabbed my stun baton, and took chuck for a walk.
it is cheaper than moving.

i want to move to the mercurial skies
where alma matters
and alert 70 year-olds ride bikes.
where i don't get sunburnt in the three minutes it takes to retrieve the mail.

i almost drowned here in los angeles today.
now my chest hurts and my voice is shrill from coughing up sun all afternoon.

i need to get in the shower, get dressed, and then drive down to the silverlake area of los angeles for the dennis driscoll show.
[this is not happening.]
sitting here at the desk now, only wearing half of my clothes because i tried to start the shower an hour ago.
[the water has been running all of this time.]
i am not getting there.
[i partially care.]
there are so many reasons keeping me slimily sheltered in my house.
[don't make me go outside today.]
i cannot have the concept of body approached today.
[water on my skin, i will feel it.]
[towel on my skin, i will feel it.]
[see it.]
no matter what physical size, it will never be correct.
[avoid it at all times.]
i don't want to get dressed with outside clothes.
i wear a triple extra large long-sleeved black shirt most every single day in my life with a pair of shorts because pants touch somewhere no matter how loose.
[the concept of pants is over-the-top today.]
what was the point of supposedly dying of anorexia all of these years?
[why wear pants if no one is going to see my femur?]
if it should be that i do not have a noticeable femur, then i need to wear shorts to humiliate myself to get back to the physical shape i never should have left.
[i don't know.]
[i just don't look any longer.]
i always see what i want to see.
it's always fine.
so rarely do i go outside, i assume my only wearable pants are thrown on the floor of my closet, mashed down from the cat sleeping on them for the last month or two.
what if they don't fit since i am getting well, whatever that means, but better has yet to have anything to do with the size of my clothes.
this entire showering + adequate clothes scenario takes at least three hours and that is usually ample time to convince myself i am not allowed out there.
outside?
not me.

weird. when i used to insult people or try to stand up for myself, i would basically shake inside for the rest of the day. ha! i cannot continue to swat at people when they pinch me and now prefer to bite.

people are used to my illness, therefore they repeat old sentences automatically without realistically looking at the improved situation and they do this out of fear. in the past, idiotic statements made me worse and now people choose to read off of a familiar script. (this is happening in regard to everyone in my life and is making me feel ignored.)

something has changed. supposedly i just insulted someone to their face (by only stating the truth) but am now manic, having actually turned on sound. it has been months since the stereo was introduced on purpose... listening to crappy hysterical music.

a few months ago a switch was thrown and suddenly flagrant counted. flagrant matters. i counted up until two weeks ago when i was slothing around at an oceanfront house in malibu, bitching about the concept of life... moaning about the populated private beach, and discovered that one of the next door neighbor's homes could be bought for 2.6 million dollars down and then only a little more than $65,000 a month for 30 years. right there, i no longer counted. i never will. ever.

do i care? of course not. one thing one of my weirdo blogstalkers helped to reinforce is that not everyone can be up to par and some people are disposable. it is okay because it is their comfortable place and they will be right there where you left them if you ever needed to score a great big metallic rush of i'm doing so much better. now if one blogstalker only knew i am so close and more apt to stab him first.

i have so many problems now:

-whenever i send spiteful and hacked-up phlegm-filled e-mail replies i have a tendency to be a walking gigglestick for the rest of the afternoon.

-lately when i am spoken to in a public place, i specifically reply with the complete opposite of what it is expected from me or something completely off the wall to test their patience. i am having a lot of fun.

-do i want vintage red leather interior or custom suede?

you want me to blog, i'll blog.
it won't be pretty.

pulsating water steaming showers of circular motions and hands above my head closed eyes and wet lips white water sharply stings my tongue and salmon blue bubbles melt down all of my bodies draining the thoughts of chapped hands standing at her cold tap.

froot loop fog- watercolor on newsprint

somebody please stop me from painting pictures of the depressed froot loop fog. those allergic circles are actually cherry eyes rather than vibrant cereal bits- as if to say smack me blind to never mind. the froot loopy and happy paper distraction functions as children and vibrancy and euphoria and other people's trained dogs running in a park... not like cats that curl up on wet paints and then decide to flip flop around on the tile floor.

happiness is certainly not like a recent situation, where after checking into a hotel room, i found it completely filled with i hope you feel better helium balloons (which is not mood altering in a positive direction, fun, interesting, or amusing as hundreds of get well soon balloons stuffed into a room is the action of a sick, sick mind). let's be real here. a hotel guest is outfitted with a merely a wastebasket under the television table and one in the bathroom- after popping all, where is one to dispose of the mylar trash? there will be no orange balloons in my life no matter what might be held inside.

froot loop fog- watercolor on newsprint

"paint a series of these," my imaginary friend said.
how many?
"i don't know. twenty, twenty five," he decided.

things are difficult lately, as though all of the air has turned to unflavored gelatin and i need to utilize every muscle to tread through it and yet only advance small distances. i feel strangely suspended in dried rubber cement, or perhaps tethered and floating under calm waters.

i wish...
[rule: never wish, do.]
...to start biting people for sport.

perhaps i will find myself renting in prague again for six miserable weeks in winter. perhaps i could learn how to effectively ingest alcohol, only to see how the effect manipulates creativity or construction. perhaps i could instead investigate moving to oregon or to a timid and sleepy town on the west coast. perhaps i will inform my soul mate that we are getting married but that doesn't necessarily mean living together or seeing each other very often. perhaps we could conspire to the connection but then filter our fears of biological responses by bashfully putting it off every year. consider the invisible wire rather than a silver choke chain. perhaps i will buy a gun, web cam, background or back drop art, advertising, and then kill myself online. perhaps i will rescind the lease on a property overseas and sleep by myself in the most comfortable chair owned. perhaps i will wane on a rug in front of the best fireplace on earth. perhaps i will someday refuse to worry about foreign taxes. perhaps i will merely remain and fall back into my brain or die from strange lacerations. perhaps an overworked lymphatic system is exciting inflammation and marble-sized lumps. perhaps these lymph nodes, which are located in very inconvenient places, are a defensive yet tender metaphor for the season.

one week plus a few hours. now i remember that i can never remember how to get out of certain cycles. water cycles. i saw an old friend in my mind who is actually quite young and he said to me what's wrong? something is wrong. something ethereal is going on. i didn't answer. i could have but i pretended to be gagged by alexithymia again. he is used to it. after much prodding, i drove to the enormous store for a lightbulb that worked in three ways and two guys each said one word to my thighs in unison. i didn't answer, but i understood. detouring around the small appliance aisle to avoid thinking terrible thoughts involving steamy irons, i wandered down the seasonal merchandising section where gigantic furry spider halloween toys were on display. now i am still thinking about spitting irons and how they were used on a friend of mine when his mother had a psychotic episode and since i could not shake that painful twisting in my back and chest that came from those initial thoughts in the store, i decided that i should splatter my car with the sound of a spurting death because i had not washed it in several months.

the last few days of lonely existence have only been filled with white hotel quality linens, dirty watercolor paints, and one matronly flight attendant who scowled at my mentally ill wardrobe. [i suppose the coat worn on the flight was too big, and in combination with tennis shoes i didn't look quite as schmick as possible but... she was one of northwest airlines notorious "witches of gatwick" flight attendants. i may have looked fine.]

it was requested i make an appearance at two different jobs on sunday, immediately after the long flight, but since their schedules overlapped, they were both blown off. no one will every complain- and how does it get like this? how is it that corporations become scared of offending? it's so stupid. in a day or two, a courier will deliver an apology box of corporate gifts. apology?! i did not show up and they will apologize to me. i have said it a lot, and don't know how else to put it, but i feel sick. i feel "too much" or "too big."

the depression is bad today in a vein which cannot be articulated. this is what happens when you return to the world after isolation, and then again eliminate people, food, and socialization. i never knew the meaning of loneliness until experiencing people. there is nothing to say now and no one to bitch about. there is nothing left except temperature, sound, and chronic discomfort. everything is wrong. apathy. everything is flat.

[back home in southern california]

forget it, there is always time to commit suicide tomorrow.

i do not remember the art of the mix and because of it, am spending time working on cd cover art inserts rather than arranging the actual music. [i received a tsar cd from tony pierce and must find a way to return the favor immediately.] music matters, but there are too many decisions, innuendos, passions, lighthearted jabs, distractions, not to mention the telepathic messages which come when selecting the included tracks. all those issues of "i just like this song and don't take it wrong" and "read into the lyrics of this one but skip over it most times you play the disc" and then... the placement issue. good lord. decisions decisions if i could start, i could finish!

maintain thirst?
give in to a horrible want?
if not deciding on music, decide on life or health...
i am still water fasting and am stuck in the groove.
how to shake anorexia?
i mean: how to want to shake out of it?

the other day a different blogger who promotes himself as very unattractive, a definite plus, asked if he could send me a tape. what is that? i am older than you, the first car i bought had a cd player. [figure that.] the car i drive now has a cd and a tape player. [figure that.] a car with a compact disc changer, xm satellite radio, new order stickers mounted inside the glove box, and little star wars character toys under the passenger seat- but it is that cassette eject button which boggles the passenger. a tape? such novelty, oh yes. it came as standard equipment.

let me test the limits today and subscribe to agoraphobia.
i bet nothing happens.
i bet i am invisible and no one cares.
my airline ordeal and all of its stresses post is gone.
i am going to live for me.
i am going to do what i want.
i am going to find someone and cook for them and live my life only licking the spoon.

...and then she died. the end.

[blogging from supersecret location- london, uk]

...on the verge of departure... must now endure a long haul airline flight from london to los angeles... then drive directly to an appearance at disney's california adventure park for a television-related job... ohh, how to enjoy standing around overdone celebrities who have had $50,000 worth of dental work... i feel sick... with a nervous attitude that won't quit... and a body which has learned to enjoy its borrowed bed.

i am too lethargic to move and my pen is in the black bag on the bed far away, five steps, no way. trying today to understand the people who write to me swearing they understand, but then they go on to tell me about their struggle not to eat... i am failing to comprehend because what i got ain't got nothing to do with levi's or ice cream flavors. amateurs. how could it? in the strange situation that it does, the problem was the chain of events that led up to the decision. it is about becoming inconsequential when you have a huge personality and too much of everything in every sense of direction or emotion. what i have that is big is bigger than big and my smallness is huge. i relish the extremes so when i go way out there, you can assume i'll be back to normal on the way back to the other side. clothing sizes? i think that is an issue for people who still have sizes to try to fit into. who cares what the scale says when you've already been to your number and can be back before you need to use it again? manipulating the results of blood chemical levels, to be less than the previous blood test result, and manipulating the pulse is old plus when am i going to a doctor anyhow? hmm. it is good having rid most of the ridiculous reasoning.

anxiety: what if i die here and how is anyone going to know?
consider: dying in general.
consider: how romantic is this? alone and painting.
consider: how unromantic is this? alone and painting cartoons!
consider: finding a new name for it even though it is a thin word.

random fact: i have never been on a ferris wheel, dammit.
random fact: or to jellyfish lake in palau.

have you broken the web again? fine by me just as long as i don't catch you eating toasted fluffernutella and banana sandwiches at the foot of my bed again. the misuse of marshmallow shall not be tolerated.

how to create vibrancy without illness? how to love not being outfitted with enough neuroses to paint? to welcome the material approval, a personal disapproval must be accepted. paint how it is. when illustrating how illness views the subject, the approach computes, but when pacing the steps in the wrong direction, the art is alright.

it is wrong, They say, whoever They are, to verbalize the obsession with body parts. when distorting any physical form with paint, accolades abound.

AND the praise...!
AND how great this art is...!
AND if you have too much art cluttering your home send the sheets to me!
AND my address is...!
AND i saw your work online...!
AND i want to use this picture for...!
AND et cetera...!

"my calves are too fat" is completely unacceptable to say, but if the anorexic self portrait details enormous calves attached to slightly discernible thighs by merely veins-- suddenly mental illness is all good. bony arms appear much too wide-- certainly fat but don't ever get caught speaking of it. the skeleton melts. if the skeleton is an assembly of candy it's intriguing. "all i eat is junk food" gets ignored. the breasts are swollen and in my head. neither is this call noticed here nor there.

the best illustration is how the art must be left of center to be appreciated, the person must not be.

until my fish-wrapped newspaper demise it will bother me that many great mentally ill artists (who could neither hold jobs nor maintain a trusted friend) never seemed to run out of materials. how did they keep people in their lives to supply them with paint? paper?

the ill brushstrokes have been on newspaper. occasionally i need to use the weekly food circulars, or frightening pages of the ucla continuing education and extension class catalogue (...with such offerings as introduction to reiki, $99, publishing your screenplay, $598, and pole dancing to keep fit, $59...) to keep the art going. recently, i experienced immeasurable enjoyment when stumbling upon a large sheet of discarded cardboard leaning against this property's garage.

i would go outside during the daylight and venture to the art store, but i think i painted over the map.

[blogging from a somewhat disclosed international location]

perhaps, it is finally happening.
perhaps, he is already dead.

"one time i traveled internationally just to catch up on my sleep." sure, why not reduce what is going on? why not avoid the realness of an impending death? then again, it's pointless since i already hurt. i'm obsessed with 'distraction as distraction' and will purposely spend the rest of the day painting in bed. obviously, i'm thinking about the inevitable... but i spy paint on my ankles. to the uninitiated, this worn off splattering could look like rope burns.

so, the anorectic eye-flitter has started-- that freaks people out.
luckily, i might officially now know none.

half of my body is dying: quite consistently my left half [exactly, right down the middle] has been going numb which leaves me a few seconds of time before i am unable to walk. exciting huh?

i hate fridays. this friday should be my tuesday. ordinarily my thursdays are mondays, but since my tuesday was filled with flights of the international variety that ended on wednesday, maybe my wednesday should be my monday or tuesday and today is wednesday or thursday. no wait, i'm tired, so actually it is easily a friday. hmm.

i just told a man that i have a lesbian crush and somewhat meant it from a distance.
erm, i think.
or: i meant he could keep his distance.
or: hell if i know.

i missed out on blogging here from terrible vision disturbances and have had a lot of life and death, but i've missed so much here that i don't now know where to begin.

yesterday i was so thirsty i skipped my cursory fourteen day consolatory angel habit and was blinded by god's glare on portobello road. whoa! he harrumphed at me in such a way that made me feel like the unemployed pregnant girlfriend and so i flipped him off.
yes.
i saw god on thursday.
he wasn't happy.

[blogging from supersecret location- london, uk]

the lower backache starvation brings about reinforces the fact my torso needs to be halved. perhaps not, but muscles are crying. this heavy sweatshirt is an effort to wear around and donates more pain. am i really too weak to carry it around on my frame? heavyweight cotton- i still shiver. how to get warm? the excessive weight in clothing keeps my elbows from clanking on my hip bones as nothing nothing nothing hurts worse than when the skeleton has a case of the slouch.

i have now lost enough weight for people to mention it.
in under three days? no. maybe.
my shoes are loose.
in fact, one of my shoes fell off while running and do you know
what it is like to come to a complete one-footed hopping stop when
you are dizzy from dehydration?

it is safe to close the lid now- snap it shut.
depression arrived toting a luxurious longchamp leather bag.
"let me help you unpack," i said.
i am still away... somewhere.

someone hijacked my deathsdoor.com addresses and has been spamming the world.
hmm... i wonder if people think i would enjoy the appearance of sending out spam in the form of 10000 diet ads? of course not. i can't have the rest of the world at a normal size. they have to look big so i can look frail. i am such a food pusher- you want ice cream, you got it! cake? i'll bake. i had a roommate once and he gained nearly 100 pounds in under the nine months he lived with me because i figured out a way to conceal one pound of butter in his daily meals and... never mind. i had another roommate once and i would convince him that if he ate an entire bowl containing four sticks of melted butter mixed in with a dry cake mix, i would eat a vegetable salad from subway. he did it almost daily for a few years except my ocd always found some exception to the situation and i never did get my take-out salad. silly boys. i cannot think about those memories without laughing out loud, but after awhile you must stop asking what is wrong with me and start asking what on earth is wrong with them.

my depression is hysterical? zanier? flatter than yours? my face is melting from gravity and i do not really feel that bad. i do not have the right to be depressed or whatever that was, but i look like i have been drenched in melted butter and dragged under a car for more than ten seconds. i am not interested in dying because i am curious in what is going to happen... and i jumped back in this cellar so that i would have a direction in which to work toward.

i figured out what it is i need to get a decent night and day's sleep:
a hotel room.

good luck dave, don't eat all your toenails on the same day.

[blogging from supersecret location- london, uk]

bored!
that expired pill made it totally acceptable to waste an entire day in bed.

last night i took a portion of a pill and today i am a suspended sponge now living a catatonic comfort after my time of distress. i have never known such peace and will bring less baggage on future occasions though i am allowed two bags on an international flight. everything is white. clean is crisp without influence or sound. no echoes from a borrowed accent. no world news. no pain. here is me, white sheets, and extra smooth feet from last week on the sand. next time when the sky is dirty, i will zig-zag through uneven streets, stepping up, looking right and though i have already painted my picture for you, i will then hand over my photograph. i still feel the lid rattling, but much deeper now thanks to a stolen zoloft bean.

i do not know what to say here, how to answer questions correctly, or even how to write about the fear i accepted when i listened to recent uneducated chatter on how my illness cxxlx'xx xaxe exex xaxe xe xxaxxxacxxxe.
people cannot grasp that cxxxxxc axxxexxa xexxxxa lxxkx lxke xecxxexxxx xxxx AIDS.
are we all on the same page now?

i could never explain my excitement in thirty thousand words or less. partially happy is sitting right next to severe pain.

it's nice, the position of having nothing left to lose.
rock bottom is good- no more scrapes on the way down.
i lay here with my hands folded behind my head and i can barely see the sky.
it's comfortable and so far away i can be me without embarrassment.
i don't know how to cover up all of those footprints i left out there
mostly because i don't want to have to go out and tend to them.
i much preferred being light enough to not leave any.

returning to my house, i park next to a new ford mustang, a massive yellow hummer, and under a buggy tree where a family of birds sit and crap on the hood of the car every morning.

the door lock into the condominium complex is broken because it is the weekend and under 25 year-old scum desperately break into the building to visit their newly moved in white trash friends. the other entrance door is freshly tagged with black korean gang signs. part of the hall smells like rotten fruit because the garbage shoot is backed up from the holiday weekend. garbage usually gets removed on mondays but not today on labor day when there is no labor. some lazy jack who cannot afford a car decided to go grocery shopping and has left the shopping cart in the subterranean hallway (!) so i rang for the elevator and shoved it inside to be delivered to another floor.

inside my unit, which just might be smaller than the billion dollar master bathroom i was using at the beach house, paws the loudmouthed cat has left a present for me on the windowsill.

the electricity is on so i must be doing alright.

now i get to figure out how to wear a hat for several days without drawing a particular person's attention to my head, put my passport, sleeping pills, and favorite pen in a travel bag, fidget until 4 in the morning, and then make my way to the airport. tuesday i stop eating. wednesday i will completely stop talking. thursday i will begin counting boredom. friday a dutch friend who isn't trying to get laid will speak to me in poetic translation. saturday i will celebrate my 27th birthday alone even though it is the incorrect date and age. sunday i will take an international flight back here. monday i will sleep. tuesday i will play bass guitar at a friend's house. this is just another pointless week in my life.

i have to go out of the country this week for no reason i wish the romantically diagnosed were to die while i am gone i could say i would never hear that he does not hear his stutter again i wish i could throw everything away including what is already empty and all of the echoes they take up more space than the erased and i do not know how to stop them without replacing what has already been tossed.

when they force me to fix my hair
i promise to stop talking for years
shocked -!
i will be impressed that someone took the time.

zuma beach- malibu, california

apparently i have become kinda ill over the last few weeks.
you've seen nothing, i think.

i got no right to be unhappy.
i got a guy making sure tourists do not taint the dry sand.
i got a happy life.
i got nothing to do.
i got a bad obsession.

i am annoying and scaring people, brilliant friend in particular, by doing nothing and so he took time off from work and is making excuses to see me. i blame it on this house as one of the shacks next door is listed on realtor.com for thirteen million superstitious dollars. what does he care about me? he must just want to sit in this beach house.

you'd have to sell a lot of dilly bars to pay for that estate. sell a lot of books.
this one is about ten, i have been told, so i must be the slumming and occasional neighbor. whatever. it is a place to park so i can surf and get run down by rent-a-cops- once in awhile i sleep here.
him = die
me = dead
i am still not happy but i look spectacular in a wet suit.
it's noisy on the deck with the thunderous ocean and it's scary to go out for more than a few minutes at a time during the sun. i would post photos of here, but of what? i did in april when i had swollen salivary glands and horrific alias hair.