hey. it’s me. and not me. popping in.

I started writing this stuff because I had to, in this blog.  It was a voice in my head that didn’t let go, ringing in my ears, nagging me, language singing the same refrains over and over.  So I did something about it.

It’s okay to find your own project unsettling.  Even unpleasant.  It’s okay that the truth or an aspect of the truth can be ugly as much as freeing.

I don’t know what the final destination of this particular project will be and that’s fine too.  At the very least it needed a break.  I changed careers altogether and entered a brand new field, moved the studio and the bedroom, threw out and replaced furniture, purged and sold endless amounts of random crap, finished a degree, sustained an abrupt end to a longtime relationship, began another one by way of a completely chance encounter.  In under one year – about 9 months.  It’s all still a work in progress actually. So yeah, I’ve been busy.  And I miss writing.

As ambivalent as I’ve felt before about putting this particular language out into the world, I think it matters.  The unfiltered stuff that gets closeted for the sake of polite company and keeping the peace, then by being in the closet creates new kinds of dysfunction.  I came here to give the stuff air time because I know I’m not the only one thinking these things.

But it is also an alternate version of me.  It’s a perspective.  And to a certain extent there is always a persona, because this is writing.

Some who know me in real life might approach this blog rather reductively and take offense.  Or just be surprised.  But it’s important to do it anyway.  You must charge on. You must go with whatever the inspiration is sometimes, questionable or not.  Sometimes, but not always (for don’t we know by now that the unsound internet needs limits in order to properly corral its current adolescent iteration).  If the goal is in service to the imagination of a less unenlightened, less mentally and emotionally lazy, less ignorant or judgmental or violent or complacent social climate, then yeah.  Even if people say oh well who the hell do you think you are, you’re such a hypocrite anyway yourself, well yes, I concede that that would be correct so I agree.  And I do.

Maybe I’m a hypocrite because I write all this stuff and yet I wear makeup when I want to and sometimes that’s enjoyable and I buy expensive shoes. I live in an expensive apartment in an expensive ass area. I do not make a whole lot of money. What money I do make, I spend on unnecessary things just as much as the next person. In many ways I feel I have to. And upon occasion this pisses me off. Yet, how extreme do I really need to be? At what point does being extreme stop making sense?

I am saying that I grew up here and this is my home and despite my deeper values and my objections to certain ideologies and marketing, I too spend money on things that are not financially necessary, yet are still somehow culturally necessary. No matter how short-term the rewards may be, or how questionable the future there is a certain standard of appearances.  This is especially problematic if you want to write or make art because that is time and time is money and if you’re not just making money all the time then that’s a sacrifice, especially here.  To prioritize art, time and money are very precious resources. But they are also very precious for the person who prioritizes living life over the grind and the rat race, life over a type of glorified servitude where you work like a dog just to cover basic costs and student loans, on property necessarily owned by somebody else since you’re quite possibly, essentially, locked out of the housing market even on a middle class income. 

I do not want to have to leave this place just because it incidentally blew up into a cash cow; a veritable alternative stock market in and of itself that hardly makes sense to try to survive in without a six to seven figure income.  Just because this clueless yet intuitive kid who incidentally lived here turned out to favor literature and arts over property ownership of any kind, and somehow became this adult who didn’t give up on this devotion to craft.  I am not ready to leave because if I do then it’s unlikely I can afford to come back, and this is my home.  Despite a prolonged period of full-on travel in my twenties, maybe I have become provincial, fearful, and unimaginative in this sense.  And I am probably certainly superficial in my own way, especially to whatever extent that it might increase my chances for survival in this place.  

So, I am rooted here more, apparently by choice.  I, too, pay to play.  I, too, need certain comforts and the other people around me do too, apparently.  Whatever sense of adventure I once relished is thus somewhat developmentally delayed.  I am influenced by culture as much as anyone and feel I should be more “enhanced” at times, or some shit.  That doesn’t mean that it’s time to give up, accept, stab your face full of hundreds or thousands of dollars worth of retirement funds without even thinking about it.  It doesn’t mean things don’t need to change one way or another.  It doesn’t mean lines don’t need to be drawn, it doesn’t mean all the garbage we encounter doesn’t need to be questioned, challenged, resisted, comprehensively rejected, whatever.

Things do need to change.  Things like, minds.  Minds need to fucking change about this outrageous crap we have to deal with.  Sold like you’ll be more free and have more opportunity if you just follow along, but actually you’re less free.

So say so.  That’s all I’ve got.  Not that it’s a small thing.  That’s why my name is still private on this shit – it’s a nickname.  Because it’s kinda scary, this shit.  It’s not nice.  But at least, to write truthfully means one can never be too trapped.  Nor too controlled by bullshit.  A friend of mine says, whatever you do, just don’t get stuck.

Another friend says, if you’re worried about what other people think then don’t forget that one day you’ll be dead.  And then nothing will matter anyway.  Nobody can say anything to you. And what they do say about you, won’t be worth a damn to you either.  You’ll be dead so who cares.

Comforting, innit.  It kinda works.

You’ll be dead, so who cares.

 

 

 

Can’t you just let me be???

Wow.  I am not fucking around here, folks.

Today I actually had the thought: wow well yesterday I had all these things to say on this blog but this morning I didn’t.  Even though I had the time to write, more time than yesterday. 

And then I thought, I’m just not even feeling the need to write, here.  Why?  Maybe because I feel pretty today, I feel more attractive today than I felt yesterday, so today I’m in the game.  I’m in the fucking game. 

All I did was wake up, throw on jeans and a tee and sandals, no makeup, no fussing around with the hair.  So yeah that’s my state of mind.  And I didn’t even have to buy anything. 

Am I seriously thinking that if I feel pretty today, that I suddenly have nothing to say?  That’s how easy it is to placate me with that shit? 

Damn. 

And then I was approached again.  By some dude.  Not for a date, just because for whatever reason this local dude just has to have my attention.  Just has to. 

Every time I see this guy.  I’m sitting alone in the cafe working, writing, drawing, thinking, and minding my own damn business.  He’s sitting at some other table with his friends and recognizes me through mutual acquaintances although we don’t actually know each other.  Even though I have nothing to do with their group at all, he seems to have taken a shine to me.  He spontaneously barks over advice at me about where I should get up and move to sit out of the direct sun.  I’m actually enjoying the direct sun so I tell him I’m perfectly fine thanks.  Then for next thirty to forty-five minutes he periodically shouts stuff in my direction, like his opinion about my tee shirt to his friends, he stares at me and intentionally tries to catch my gaze, he talks over people at me even though I’m clearly disengaged.  I’m not sure what the attraction is, maybe it’s because I refuse to comply with the demand to be tended to, or refuse to be gracious toward the behavior.  I simply ignore it because I didn’t come here for this.  I came here to enjoy myself, not to humor or entertain some guy.  Then as I get up to leave he leans forward, thrusts a hand up into the air, and shouts over everyone to me, “IT’S BEEN A PLEASURE.” as I run out the door as fast as I can away from his cluelessness / dumb ass.

It’s not always about being cute, it’s about power.  It’s the same old shit in the street for our whole life.  That shit like: Smile, sweetie.  Can I get a smile?  Give daddy some attention.  Smile for me.  Fuck you !!!  Fuck off, bro!!!

And now I’m fucking pissed off again. Leave me alone !!! 

 

Why can’t you just leave me alone !!!

 

Just LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE !!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those Women I Want to Be

Cute.  Squirrels jumping trees, the branches swishing noisily, playfully.  I do love living here. 

I like my job and I couldn’t always say that.  This is all new.  The hourly is good. I work many half-days but that’s a blessing in disguise.

What I don’t like is being in debt.  That’s really what inspired this blog. Because there’s something taboo about the talk of money. And about what kind of opportunity we really have and don’t have, realistically.

What I don’t like is being single, feeling like I want to go out on dates and look pretty, but I can’t afford to look pretty, that’s the truth. 

What I don’t like is expressing this angst, anger, frustration, whatever, about the way we’re treated and it’s not cute, it’s not what we’re supposed to do and nobody wants to hear it.  We’re supposed to put up gorgeous pictures of ourselves, make ourselves look good at any expense.  Any expense. 

Everything we have, if we have to.   

I saw this woman on Sunday and she looked absolutely gorgeous.  I wanted to look like her, but I had to check myself.  How much would I have to pay to look like that?  I know the cost of hair in a quality salon around here.  Hers looked to be about $300-$500 for cut and color with ombre (her hair was quite long).  It looked fantastic on her.  That makeup, those clothes.  She looked so sexy and alluring.  How much would I have to spend on all that?  And how much time would I have to put into that? 

I used to be like this.  I used to put in the money and the effort, even when I was broke.  I found the money for my appearance.  And now I regret it.  Not that I did what I wanted to do, but I regret the times I really was broke, yet feeling like my appearance was so important that I would give up meager resources of money and time when I really had neither.  It seems like such a waste. 

If I actually have the money, perhaps that would be different?  Sort of.  Only in the sense that it wouldn’t be quite as stupid.  But right now I really don’t.  I have to accept myself as I am.  And yeah it’s a choice, too. I’m simply not going to scrounge up that money. I’m simply not going to choose my appearance over financial freedom. It’s not worth it. The extra boost of superficial attention will not be worth it.

Someone might say, well maybe I’m just repressing my sexuality and femininity by rejecting beauty and fashion.  But those industries are making so much money off me, so much and the truth is I don’t have the money, I don’t have the resources.  How many are like me?  And how many are like the old me, spending what I really didn’t have just to feel worthy and valuable? 

I’m mad because this culture makes me feel like I have to spend all this money on my appearance just because I’m a woman, or else.  If men don’t have to thread their eyebrows, why should I?  I’m broke.  Let’s be real here. 

I don’t believe beauty can be cheap.  Nothing is cheap when you have debt.  Every extra dollar you spend is just more interest you’re paying to some ginormous company, adding to its millions and billions of dollars.  They are taking your money.  What’s left for you?  Don’t tell me the beauty industry is for me.  Don’t even tell me these college loans were for me, all these profits they’re making off of us.  LOL !!!!!! 

I’m going to work now.  My hair looks terrible, I desperately need a new style.  But I’m not spending even $38.00 for that right now, at least not until these credit card bills are paid.  The credit card bills are the first to tackle. Four thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars total.

Some part of me is dying to be those women, all those type of women I see, some part of me is dying to play the fool, but it truly is all bullshit.