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no climax, no point, no meaning [30 Apr 2020|02:41pm]
know it before i start, oh next time i'll stop it
you should have known me then
i do as i do again, make the distance and watch it
like somehow i regret
sure, smerz



if i could bottle up this endless melancholy i’d sell it to kids as party poppers, never fake it. little vials for midnight. some older people constructed that moment when the clock strikes twelve signaling the new year, when the world stops and the heart begins. i think we are labouring to get just one or two nights a week without that moment. santa monica, hackney, the five forty eurostar, basements and bathrooms.
we knew, way before being close to able to recognising or articulate it, how, as a band roaming the streets, we were in a systematic bond with others, bands, roamers. if you never felt it you never were it, it’s for many but not everyone. a gathering with intent is an ancient formation, no brick walls nor glass foyers ever succeeded in inhibiting nature from following our proceedings, establishing the links.
smoke is a hyperlink, the smoke of a dance floor on fire, the smoke of a club space in flames, the smoke of a break, the smoke of thousands of years of uninterrupted ritual. strobe is a hyperlink, undermining time, defining the contours of apparition. bass is a hyperlink, rustling everyone’s bones into ignition. eventually we could see we were shaken so good, because we were shaken by some other, through time and space, and as we felt their increasingly firm grip on our shoulders, we began grasping, grabbing back, grasping behind.

[redacted]

when i left i was lethally terrified to be fallen in love with, to fall in love, to be fallen out of love with, to fall out of love. when zizek was asked about the feeling of love he said it’s “Like a great misfortune, a monstrous parasite, a permanent state of emergency that ruins all small pleasures.” no offense to him, but london is so zizekian. meaning his version of neoliberal hell is aptly analogous with the city. anna khachiyan called it something along the line of the most neoliberal place in the world, the pret a manger’s, the self checkouts. you can get a room in the most hideous flat at any time if you’ve got a fifteen hundred plus rent budget. so vile that any peripheral beauty is magnified. it pisses me off how cut off my emotions are generally, in proportion to how afflicted i am by love. in real time, affect paralyzes me, just to transform into a forceful, manic lingering.
fixated on not being approached, physically, even more crucially mentally, psychologically, all of it seemed a constant failure. trying my hardest to discern between affect and deep emotional reaction, because risking a let down was eviscerated from the picture. falling in love would appear a distorted mode of being, when it closed in on me. it had blinded itself in terror of its own shadow, i had. meanwhile, cutting whatever frail emotional ties that had been thrown out felt like a definite castration of the heart. the risk of never feeling for anyone again feels grotesque. when life has been lived months at a time, at most, reconciling with a lifetime of loneliness appears like obligatory suicide. later, if not before, these thought loops have been tangled in the mechanics that perform all my social functions. i have no idea who have met me, spoken to me–no memory, or understanding, rather, of who i’ve been when i’ve lived my life. i could have been awkward, confident, a sex symbol, a drunk, psychotic, apathetic. control is lost at birth, the rest is sisyphean, like losing grip and falling a few metres down the ladder, getting a hold of a step and pulling oneself back up to the same spot over and over. inevitable gravity. i look everywhere when speaking to someone, speak about anything, in the end i have no clue who i’ve seen or what was said.

some friends never stop moving, they will burn through any line, assume position on the floor, illuminate the space. just by velocity they produce a shine that fragments, through the stocked bottle racks crowding the wall behind the bar, into an entirely new population of prism rainbows. the place can be half full, yet, with them there, at max limit. and their dance seems more profound off the floor even, when moving like a social flame through a fog of conversation, when reciting a line together from wherever in a bathroom stall.

why is my gut reaction repulsion when i see the massive pr for student counselling at uni? can’t put my finger on it. a basic bitch tweet about getting help immediately if one thinks uni will be a struggle has been burned into my memory for some reason. who tweeted that men wants to fuck their therapist and women wonders if their therapist wants to fuck them? i see a therapist once for an evaluation meeting, i wonder if he wants to fuck me. would? we barely get through half of my shit, he sees me again for extended evaluation. i tell him about not being able to text my family or friends, not being able to do phone calls for years now, how i’ve isolated myself to my most suicidal point ever, this fall. in just a couple of months. uni can only offer four free counselling sessions, which, it’s implied, is far less than what i need. he prints me a list of numbers for psychiatrist offices around london. some are cheaper, closer to school, other positives. my assigned student halls are draining me for cash, i borrow hundreds from my parents all the time.

[redacted] the most beautiful boys imaginable, stubbornly aware it’s all an evil trick. you don’t need body dysmorphia to be a barbarian in the most intimate encounter with an angel. the most apparent of traps are aware of their own appeal, anyone will take the chance and fail to exit unharmed. an angel is covered in eyes, a glance is an acknowledgement is an unfair leveling. in the city, an animal running for a university presentation in the morning, hideous on the bus. immersed in the most humiliating pleasure. beautiful boys turn you into a joke which warms you inside out all the way home, january, february. they can strike you across the cheek, hand can be closed, open, like they’re slapping caffeine into the deepest layer of your skin. take it because you want to be them. if you ever will, pass on the tradition. do it because you’re in love with them falling in lust with you. hideous boys rendered sublime, a finger goes between the lips, a drop of sweat and a drop of tear emulsifying. the committed failing at keeping a solid grip around their pictures and songs and smell.

encounters with avatars. in my sleep i die, every night. in the morning someone waking up in my bed, a big, fresh sun right on the outside of the window. and he has to improvise with residue from the successes and failures of his copies. he encounters avatars, remembers the tongue inscribing the pattern over his body, but not how he reacted. the city screaming through the window is lulling. pinpoint, is this close to a big break up or further from it? waking up in a strange bed full of belongings. happiness and repulsion and exhaustion and the want to be with people. a moment in which living is threateningly ambivalent, this is close to cathartic. someone else waking up near hollywood, light filtered through dust settling after an orgy. all waking up drinking their dreams. a crossed head for a blank slate.
right after i’ve arrived in london i travel to paris fashion week to attend a casting, knowing i won’t get the job. the guy sitting next to me is a model heading for the same casting, we realise when we arrive after four hours. i am a nodel. many kids from all around the world have been flown in for fittings and walking, most leave after a day or two like me. a girl decides we meet in the lobby that evening to go out do something, eat something, see something and i bail. i do nothing in paris, except for walking up and down the streets for many hours. it is hot and beautiful, even as i get the phone call telling me i’ve been removed from the show. at my initial arrival the casting crew asks for my pronouns, at which i laugh nervously, saying whatever’s fine, meaning–are you serious? but since they’ve gotten in touch with me online they seem to think my username is my real name, a woman’s name, and since i’m not in the height spectrum of the male models, i suppose i must be a woman. is it okay, they ask, wearing womenswear? it’s an absurd question to ask someone who’s selling their body, but i must, in fact, be autistic enough in this moment for them to see before them a difficult, on the verge of fragile, person. it’s okay, womenswear, i’m the object here. i get some cash in an envelope and a ticket home.

[redacted about sally rooney, "the neoliberalising of communism, of university, of feminism", important quote: "as a feminist, have the right to not love any person" - conversations with friends]

at the time being. class assembling at the sticky pub by the end of the day, bringing loaded chips from the shack across the street, chips with beans and cheese. a continuity of things happening right here, and the inconveniences of living splitting them apart. conversation as a sensation, for the body to descend momentarily. an environment so tacky, your hands can only let go of my arms at great effort, stringily. my face and brain freezing and slumped in the shoreline of street and pavement as usual. embracing you perishing projection for months afterwards, a body of escalating corporeality as reaching right through it decreases in strenuosity, like a blind little fool. chips on peas on cheese on these cracked seats, a tear in skin and a tear oriented toward the depth of the eye. i have to bail, as soon as i get off the night coach i throw up this elastic vomit while walking the entire short walk home, over my shoulder or into my pocket, as if whispering. that’s the best cause it feels so skinny to get home. how soon will my dizziness be permanent, please come.

stars were a grid

inversion hour. death, instead of being someone leaving the world, being the world leaving someone. the actual end of the world.



rules

sheer iridescent rainbow sports bra

glittered astma inhalator

golden specked decolletage

extra large orange plastic hoops

multi-colored press on’s

hi hi hi im in l****n 😳 [redacted] whats happening

year of sin in a smoke and a crack
out of the blue and into the blight
does selling out further take it all back
at opportunity i just might

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