Ode to My Patron Saint, Dave

Sitting on the couch, in the quiet of my cabin house;
Cottage-cored out, pit pat pitter from snow drips, melting like all my doubts –
Fuck that MacBook, new machine on deck for delivery tonight: book pouring out
Thick Black Theory is what it takes,
Ask Dave, to whom I am their unwelcome writer in residence –
Sorry beloved uncle of mine, I’ve gotta do what I came to do here –
Thou art a great patron: oh, and I got a dog too
Pic attached, I know she would love you –
I know you know I do, and I know what a great disappointment I was to you…
Aside from that aside that I wish had never gotten sideways, gone by the wayside – oh how that angers me inside – pains me daily, one of the bigger bummers of my life…
Goddamnit, I cry, so mad at myself,
But this summer I lost my mental health;
More cry, for it’s returned but the situation seems beyond repair,
And never have I ever loved living somewhere more, felt so at home, as here
I wanted your life in 20 years
And you raised me more in one summer than I could ever make clear – more tears
Though it was the hardest; this was my most formative year
Jung knew there was no coming to consciousness without pain
And great consciousness requires great leaps of faith – you know artists are this way
Just, you didn’t sign up for this shit –
But it wasn’t a conscious failure… hard to explain: I know this will all make sense one day:
You’ll remember things I said in the garden that you thought were fucking crazy;
Pennsylvania Avenue baby;
I am a force, and we are not insignificant characters in this story:
Please know I am sorry, dearly, tears
You are a part of me, and I know and understand why I am unseated here –
I just love this land goddamnit,
And I love this person too
Would never dare harm either,
Am leaving both better, in my own way
Please do not let us make you bitter – now more tears than a pitter:
You did not make an error in judgement, you made an heir;
I inherited your manna, your Dave-ness
And it dissappints the fuck out of me that my mental health struggles, my pain derailed something cool and beautiful,
Though the beauty is still all in it for me –
Just, you know, that’s a one way street:
And in the end I hope the art I am producing will make this story sweet –
Though I fear I wish for too much: I was so inconsistent, and this place, you were – are – obviously so clutch;
You’re everything I’m not: solid and reliable; what I am to be, what I need
Though I realize you are now in tow with me,
This line will make sense when my manuscript you read;
I wonder how accurately I am painting thee
We will see, most certainly;
I am not and will never be nobody:
Nor am I a liability – though I’m certainly not an asset anymore,
At least, not that kind… a joke, from your Jack Ryan…
Clooney, my cattle dog (never barks ever btw) and I been running and hiking miles everyday –
The extreme outdoor activity is a key piece to me, in this new balance, of I
Who needs the endorphins naturally,
Having learned the hard way that nature has no free lunches:
[I quit doing those drugs, not gomma pull any punches]
But yeah, you’re a alpha wolf too, I know you need to run wild like I do
Am pained I no longer get the priviledge to run beside you, am sorry I am a hurt child, a tear
What else can I say, 2020 been a year:
Esp for those who are not free and clear;
You know what I stand for – okay, so I got a little extreme this summer –
Just, for a clairempathic person as I am, to know others suffer so greatly is to die [inside]:
It kills me / but I know this is a game of adults – I wish not to bring down markets or societies, or devalue the currency –
Excuse my omnipotency, your excellency, just it’s that the opposite of poverty is not wealth it is justice precisely;
It is not class war, but systems that need be fought – I just want to be the moon, pulling the tide…
But it’s tough when I got a rich bastard riding my hide – no punny, sorry, not funny
Just, some people feel entitled to squeeze the have nots for all they got pr
Discompassionately – without care for those whom they view as failures – as if our inability to be good indentured servants or serfs is our fault, and not the outgrowth of a system that is stacked against we: I never had a paddle Dave, just please, hear me… [You’ve already rolled your eyes thrice I know, have some more]:
Do you remember the tale I told you of the dog in the manger;
I recall: you’re no savior, but you can be a patron saint, forgive some rent, see if we can’t get this unbent – this isn’t about my buying time for my book, which will buy all my time in time, just, this is about my life, not your dime – which is my dollar,
Look: whatever you do I’ll be fine; if I was going to die here I would have died: I made it to the otherside,
To live a long, healthy, happy life – oh and I chilled out on the REDACTED, booze and wine, just a bottle of Justin Cab from time to time – a favorite of mine
I’m now asking you to not let this grape die on the vine:
Though I fear what the neighbors think is more important than whats in your mind:
That Midwestern dignity is hard to find – and hard to lose too
I’m not saying you care what people think of you, Mr. regular cute dad looking dude:
Not all sharks wear suits,
I’m just saying:
You control the conversation and the reality: you can learn as much from me
There’s a shared fabric in we /
Different as the colors may be
Red Ferrari / Black Lamborghini
Just a couple of babe ass dudes –
And whether I’m trash to you or not, you’re always going to be my adopted dad:
A fact for which I feel you rue,
But I must give credit where credit is due: though I do owe you your privacy and want to keep this place a secret too: its one of the best places in the world –
I’ve had too damn good a luck Dave,
To not go all the way, heaven knows how far I’ve come,
To become the person getting my dreams done –
Trust me, I know past can’t be undone, I just wish there were some benefit to you in the crap I put you through:
It gave me growth, I’m still blossoming too:
And I owe a lot of that to you – tears
I remember what you said, about being grateful for people who gave you opportunities, and you gave me that
I just, I’m afraid its all ash,
Like my lack of fire prevention almost left this place – egg on my face,
But it hasn’t been scrambled yet, or has it:
The anxiety and the fear I live in is terrible – fears I voiced to you from the balcony through tears this summer
But I guess I’m just a sunk cost huh, just, write it off – this shouldn’t be a loss, but I understand you extended a bridge to me, down by the water, which I didn’t cross;
I was in a lot of pain hence my being so cross; yeah I got that liberal shit you hate: excuses –
Only, they are not: they are facts
Capitalists can’t do the math, neurotypical people can’t understand why we won’t just do the thing we said we were going to;
I was doing my best: mental health mess –
But I’ve cleaned, the house too, am not another messy view –
I’m just here, like a mouse, with tears in my throat, writing hand to mouth:
I think it will be a bestseller;
I’m gonna do all the shit I said and more:
Though my music career is on hold while I get my foot in the door –
And you might want to get rid of me like a mouse, but these mountains I adore;
The title is in your name but the land belongs to itself: if you could only understand I’m not in this game for myself: my designs have to come off the shelf – and by book has to go on the shelves –
I aim for land here too:
This is my special place; I’m just like you –
Only, I’m a non-binary trns non-comforming autist – aspergers – who is a survivor, and more than that, a leader to be, what survivors and persistent, caring people like me are destined to be – if it was 1776, we would have been in Philadelphia, let’s not be here and waive the heroics, however small or silent or passive or non-existent they be:
I’m not asking for answers, I’m not sure you have anything to say to me: please let this be my apology to you, your family, and do not take it personally – I’ve never lived up to anybody’s idea of me…
As you’ve seen, I am not here to people please – this does not mean I am intentionally obtuse or callous – it just means I’m my own person, like you,
And surely you understand doing what you have to:
But you don’t understand not having a choice, not being able to do anything else –
Rocks and hard places, betwixt I am –
You have no idea how shitty I’ve felt over this, how sad I am listening to this snow melt, writing this:
This is one of the sadnesses of my life;
You’re not replacable: tears!
Damnit I wanted this expression, these prosaic poetics to free me of this pain, this sorrow, this regret,
But I’m just soaking in it now – and my biggest fear is just that its fubar
The genie out the Albert bottle
Me now just a bastard bear everyone judges bc I’m different up here
Holed up in my lair, wanting life to be more fair – a hand out and a hand up are different things,
But push me from the nest and I’ll fly: I have a little dog to keep a roof over – I don’t want to leave the one safe place in the world for me, where I belong:
Anyway, I’ll savor every moment here – hope they last: it’s just, drop a million in my lap and I wouldn’t want to leave here, this is my home –
But I might be thrown off this once indigrnous people’s land by a deca-millionare… though I think centi is prob damn closer – goddamn Dave, you’re a closer;
Speaking of closing: thank you
No matter the resolution, you’ve afforded me the immeasurable gift of knowing that I am your equal in rank, though not stature – yet
I’m here to do big shit and I am living the best design I have for the longgame;
Cui bono? What’s the point? What’s in it for you?
Well, I guess nothing, and that’s the problem huh,
No, I’m sure you could tell me what the problem is alright, I just wouldn’t want to listen… frankly, I got a very sensitive inner child to care for, and that child deserves a better future than being thrown out by u in a Pandemic: teach the neighbors what a Christian actually is – or just logical minded business it all like I’m just an inconvenient fact and not a person;
Time heals all, a window can be repaired,
Lord knows I’ve cried enough tears writing this to put some water under the bridge
Damn, wish we could walk and talk this out – but the truth is I am embarassed, pained, and ashamed – I’m really good at close friendships but i’m not good at transactional or obligatory anything:
Life itself is tough for me – just to go to the store in town, being different is not easy:
Don’t let this canary die in the mine

I’m not taking up anything but space… the product of that space is coming, an everlasting book
I’m all in, and I have to be:
I have no choice,
But you do – not that you owe it to me: I owe it to you

Rain Cotes De Rhone

High head vapor-eyezed
Cozy life @thirty-five
Red wine, Justin time,
Cab Sauv caps off… er corks off,
Skews-me, my dork’s soft
Toes dancing in slippered fuzzy socks,
Feel confident and cute, no molly rocks
Just hikes up, and runs down, dog at my side
Big mountains no town, no need and everywhere to hide
So I walk around baked and naked, tan my hide outside, liberated
Did too much acid this summer, y lie I can’t fake it lol
I laugh now, but post Mexico was hell
Getting off benzos at the Wyndam Visalia – midnight ER
Evacuated from wildfires, road tripped through two sets of tires,
A world unto myself, blue and gray in half-moon bay,
Drank $200 of tequila in one day:
Face off: 1942 vs Clase Azul
I never gave a fuck abt being classy or cool,
I just like good shit, im oldschool,
Archaic materials principle… nvm u wouldn’t get it… hi Sarah… nvm u forget it
Ok, time for an organic pasture raised steak: can’t spend all night ruminating my mistakes, grass fed;
Estrogen got my ass fed as a milk shake these days, fr fr
For real for real: u need my scripts, diet, drugs, and lifestyle 2 feel what I feel:
I’m supply chained up: alien blockchained up;
Blood sample on 2050, she take my cum and regift me
Cause when I’m with two girls, one invariably gets cucked
I hardly barely even give a fuck
Can’t be bothered with another
Taylor Allison Swift Lover

Waking Up in Ashes, w Help From Robert Bly

Pushed the thorn in, sans self-pity
… Nothing new to off myself again
Just transphobic feels to have a witch catfishing me to “uncover” my deadname:
Please, bitch, I don’t have that horrible of ghosts to hide: here, look inside, I just took the fucking doors off my closet last night: see
I’m not evil, just shitty –
There’s nothing unspeakable in my past!
Shameful at worst, highly unfortunate at best, but painful more than all else, esp for those whose hate still casts a black shadow upon me: a guilt so heavy it threatens to pull me back into my own darkness with its unforgiving vitriol
Listening to and blowing 93FEETOFSMOKE tn
“You can blame it all on me”, feels great
Like, here I am, transfemme, dying again for my old sins…. already been owned this, already hated myself every night, wanted to die;
Sorry I can’t just give up on life when I am still worthy and worthwhile,
Just back to feeling worth less for awhile;
Familiar with it, thank you, been soaking in the acid of my sins ever since, gets worse with time, just, I got nothing to hide, I take all responsibility for my life at thirty five… my sins were all mine;
I’ve never felt I was going to live a life wherein I did not own up for my actions, been doing that for years here, I, just, I’m sorry old wounds were opened, things thay belong in my memoirs, and I am sorry I shared things without seeking permission from others before I did, and I’m sorry for what happened:
I’ve never been disingenous, never been a denier of things, I could never gaslight something that I did… I just, I don’t beleieve in lying and I’m too stupid to craft an image… I’m not holding up a mask anymore, Lawrence was the mask: he and I have always told the truth, too much, I’ve always been an open book, too open, too honest… I say things and share things others keep inside, this a painful but goodhearted element of my Autism… it’s just my personality… my conscience is a public entity, obvi
And I never want to forget or deny any part of my life… and I’ve read enough memoirs and autobiographies to know that people like me always learn from, grow, change, and come back from their mistakes – because we are honest with ourselves and others about what we have done, and why:

“We all commit our crimes. The thing is to not lie about them — to try to understand what you have done, why you have done it. That way, you can begin to forgive yourself. That’s very important. If you don’t forgive yourself you’ll never be able to forgive anybody else and you’ll go on committing the same crimes forever.”

– Another Country, James Baldwin

Looking at things again really helped me see why, and how I was directing this repressed mom-anger upon people I loved, whom I made into mom’s for me l.

I have a big hole in me where love goes.

I’ve kept people at arms length the past two years, and my over opening up to a stranger, my over attaching to, is proof that I still have Attachment Disorder… it’s the worst consequence of my childhood aside from the CPTSD…

I’m more shaken up than I’ve ever been… i realize I make women into caregivers and I realize I have a lot of unresolved emotions surrounding my own worth… these are kind of permanent things… like, when you grow up without warm loving approval, closeness, you don’t ever feel worthy of it… and you resent it when you get it, because it’s never good enough, like its never going to be good enough, until you believe in your own worth… and I think, when I get there – and end which this has all been a pivotal linchpin to – I’ll only find people who see my worth or not… rather than looking to others for my worth… just so goddamned love hungry… they tried to fix me with their love, my exes really did… and they all raised me, child I was, am….

I’ve never felt like more of a child. Opening up all my wounds and sins has fucking left me like wow, I can really see myself… and its really cringey bc I’m so fucking insecure, so wanting to be loved. But clearly I’m blind.

Anyway, I don’t know where to go from here… but I know it’s forwards, not backwards.

I can’t ever go back.. if I could, I’d change it … it’s just… “the past isn’t even past”, like Faulkner said.

I have to own that past forever. But it’s not who I am. But it will always be a part of me, because consciousn3ss doesnt go away once you have it.

And I’ve been getting so much consciousness it’s painful

Now I know what Jung meant when he said, “There is no coming to consciousness without pain.”

It’s painful to gain and it hurts to have. But not as bad as staying unconscious hurts.

It’s just, a different hurt. Consciousness, maturity, the ability to see reality more clearly, this is the medicine we all need because, in the words of David Foster Wallace, “The truth will set you free, but not until it is finished with you.”

I thought the truth was finished with me. Then I stuck my dick in a witch and she divined that the truth wasnt done… it wasnt as dark as she assumed, but it was musty.

I had already arrested the worst behavior patterns that I had, but I see that my relationship to the feminine is so bankrupt that I could lead myself back to the same road, and that would hurt.

I don’t think I would ever verbally abuse someone again, but I never thought I would then either. Words are not okay weapons. Psychological pain is as damaging as physical. My exes are owed every right to hate me forever. I hope oneday they’ll be able to tell their story. I’m certain its both worse and not as bad as I’ve made it out to be.

I think that that would say that I’m not a monster, but that I could be at times. an a mean drunk. Like my father was to me. Add an unhappy relationship to that, and, just, I put a lot of shit on them.

I’m free of my darkest monsters, but I’m just, I’m not healed of that mother wound, and my father wound too. I had a really tough childhood. It’s no excuse. It’s just a big reason why. These caretaker wounds. And they are generational too. My mom had a distant mother and my dad had an alcoholic father. The wounds get passed on. This is obviously, cycle breaking shit. But, it’s, just, it’s not like I just go get to go be normal: I was not emotionally safe to love.

Am I now?

I think so, but I am having a real hard time loving myself rn. It happens in small acts. Not buying wine at target, haha, not smoking cigarettes. Keeping it real with myself. And realizing no psychedelic or drug induced experience is going to set me free. Often that quest has been more costly than worthwhile. Just, after a decade of on again off again therapy, which I put myself into, paid for myself, just, after a decade of that, I hadnt ever gotten deep enough into my psyche… psilocybin, mescaline, mdma, dmt, have l helped where therapy couldn’t. I’ve also lost my fucking mind on psychedelics – LSD and Amanita + LSA. Not tools for babies. Shame they are illegal, bc we are forced to wild-west our own therapies, particularly those of us who can’t afford psychedelic tourism to places like Peru and Costa Rica, or, stateside, are unable to afford thousands of dollars for new legal treatments like Ketamine IV therapy.

That said, I’m not doing much other than cannabis these days. While I still drink alcohol, my relationship to it has changed completely, and I’m able to drink responsibly at this point in my life.

Anyway, clearly I still have anger issues and have no problem using sexist language to attack people. I guess I’m still toxic.

Now, I don’t really know of people who voluntarily share their darkest secrets, since in society, the guilty tend to only fess up when caught. Now, I was recently opened to a potentially awful character attack, so, I dragged my character out to prove I wasn’t that bad. But, the truth is still ugly. I spent years dating my exes, and was verbally abusive to all of them on multiple instances. It was a pattern.

I had thought the last two years alone, wherein I beat myself up to the point of having to check myself into a mental health facility twice, for observation, were enough to “fix me” – but I still have the same attachment disorder that causes me to overburden women with my emotions, which are way too strong.

I wish I knew an answer. Frankly, I think full disclosure is a start, which this is. Beyond that, I’m back to celibacy island – and no way am I dating nor hooking up with anyone.

I’ve made my first five initial appointments to get back into therapy this week. I think if I open all myself up, all of my past up, to the right therapist, I can gain more insight.

Frankly, I already knew I had attachment disorder. I was already aware, as one therapist had told me, that, “we recreate our childhood trauma in our adult relationships.”

Only, for me, I only saw this recreation of my childhood insofar as that I had dated women who were like my mother: they all grew up fairly easy, comfortable, well, off, and they were all distant, unnaproving, yet loving. I felt like I was always trying to live up to them, and never could, like I could never live up to my mom’s image of me. I wasn’t a bad kid, I was the sweetest, I just never got any approval for my goodness, while my errors seemed to cancel all of my goodness out. Point being, I blamed them for being unnaproving, “spoiled”, “entitled”, distant.

What I did not do is connect my worst behavior to my father’s. Now, my father is the worst – was, he is dead – person I ever met. And bc I was so little like him, I denied being like him at all. But, yeah, he had a real distant, unnaproving mother too. He had his own mother wound. His own anger and resentment towards women that was normalized in my house growing up.

Like, fuck, I feel so crestfallen after digging all this back up. The moon was all the way down in me last night. But now it is waxing, and I am slowly regaining my light too.

I can look in the mirror for the first time in my life and see that my low self esteem has very little to do with my physical appearance, and is more tied to my shame. In innate feeling of not being good enough for myself my entire life. Of things not being good enough for me. I’m very hard on myself and very hard on others. But clearly I’ve been too hard on others and not hard enough on myself.

Though it’s not hardness or self-abuse, like I’ve engaged in lifelong – abuse that’s really only curbed itself the last two years – that will set me free.

It’s being super loving and super self-compasssionate.

I was doing Dr. Kristen Neff’s self-compassion work a decade ago. I have long been working towards healing my wounds.

However, as Dr. Jung said, “We do not become enlightened by bringing light to the dark but by bringing the dark to light”.

That’s finally been done. And it feel like a heavy cloud over me. I feel like trash.

In the past, that would have turned into toxic self pity. Now it’s just, what is.

Guilt for my past has never been greater. And even though I’ve come out as trans and shed that cisgender hetero mask, and the neurotypical masking of my autism, which I am still shedding, I realize I can be free of myself but will never be free of the guilt. I thought my childhood wounds were the only ones I had to carry. But I have my own self-induced adult wounds, and the atomic weight of the guilt for wounding those I love most with my pain, with my childhood wounds.

I’m no “me too” male. I’m a, “I was a part of the problem” person. The songs Part Problem and Twisted by Nahko and Medicine are perfect themes for me rn.

As the latter says:
Foolish child broken, looking for his mother
Tryna find her in every woman that he called a lover
That’s how he shows her, all of his power
Keeper of the secrets but he’s a coward
To let go, all of the control
South node scorpio
I been tryna fix it, with just my lyric
But, I gotta find the heart to do it
Well, this is easier said than done
I’m tired of living on the run

I didn’t realize I was on the run from my past, but it had not been reconciled. This is a reconciliation with myself.

And it’s mostly the awareness of, “Hey, I’ve got trauma wounds and unformed early childhood bonds, childhood abandonment and neglect, abuse, that still very much exists as a pain – not just from my early years and growing up, but from a decade of relationships, a life of seeking care I never got and can never find in anyone other than myself”.

None of my exes will say that I wasn’t kind. But they will say that I could be mean and cruel. I’ve never physically nor sexually abused anyone. I have emotionally and verbally abused people. There’s nothing else to say.

I just, I thought it was all gone but the dynamic in me that created that projected pain, that harm, that hurt, that me at my worst abuse, that dynamic exists.

I’ll be alone a long while. I’m like both characters in one of my favorite movies, Happy Accidents. I’m a recovering codependent and I’m an Autistic alien time traveler. Great movie. No way one of my exes could watch that movie and not see me, us. Great film, Happy Accidents. And Sam Deed was right, benadryl helps.

Well, fuck, hey, at least I don’t have to spend my life a Steve Jobs or Phillip Roth level asshole, which I certainly have been.

In some ways, it feels like I’ve gone through such quantum change, as Sequoia, that I feel as if I inherited Lawrence’s life. And contrary to whatever that witch thinks, I have never ever been trying to hide my past. I changed my name bc I am transgender. It’s just, I inherited the wounds too.

And it hurts so bad. I don’t think I can ever fix myself, as in remove the wounds.

Best I can do is continue to increase my awareness of my pain and the pain I caused. Appropriate that its 9:11 pm. All the steel beams in me have melted.

Fuck, I’m back atop a pile of ashes. Cinderella. Back to tending the kitchen fire in my heart, on my knees, covered in ashes, looking for something, but I don’t know what it is, this missing thing. But I’m collecting it, piece by piece, minute by minute.

I’ve turned a corner – not onto a bright, beautiful, easy street, but into an alley, where the trash has been rotting. It is not a pretty, nor cozy place, but it leads to the dream road, the promise of high-heels clicking on cobblestones, fingers linked in mine, and me beside myself, forever, at peace, like I was a long time ago in love once. Like I was always trying to be in love everytime. But love can not make someone love you. No matter how much you love them.

This place I’m in now, this alley, it’s not so bright as the world was before; the eternal boy is gone: his wings clipped, his self-approval dead, Peter pan is just a little boy again – only, it’s his first time being there.

To quote from a book I have long loved, which I am reading now, once more with new eyes – Robert Bly’s Iron John.

In Chapter three, ‘The Road of Ashes, Descent, and Grief, Bly writes about what he calls “Grandiose ascenders”, his term for the Puer aeternus or puella aeternus – the eternal boy or girl:

“In order to keep a grandeur feeling a child may refuse to remember the ugly facts of childhood, may look away from the disorganization, abuse, abandonment, lack of protection, and skip over our parents’ indifference, addictions, or dark side.”

Further, Bly poignantly states: “Women have tried for centuries to carry men’s pain, and it hasn’t worked well.”

Bly refers to the grandiose ascender as “naive”, explaining:

“Sincerity is a big thing with him. He assumes that the person, stranger, or lover he talks with is straightforward, goodwilled, and speaking from the heart.

He puts a lot of stock in his own sincerity. He believes in it as if it were a horse or a city wall. He assured that it will, and should protect him from the consequences that fall to less open people. He may, “It’s true that I betrayed you with your best friend while you were away and after you were back, but I was frank with you and told you about it. So why should you be angry with me?”

Yeah that sounds about like me alright. Sincere but perhaps not moral. I live by my own ethics, but my aim may be misdirected.

Continuing from Iron John ch3, and Bly’s characterization of the naive man:

“The naive man tends to have an inappropriate relation to ecstasy. He longs for ecstasy at the wrong time or in the wrong place, and ignores all masculine sources of it. He wants ecstasy through the feminine, the Great Mother, the goddess

He uses ecstasy to be separated from grounding or diszipline.

The word special is important to the naive man, and he has special relationships with certain people. we all have some special relationships, but he surrounds the special person with a cloying [causing disgust through excess] kind of goodwill. The relationship is so special that he never examines tthe dark side of the person, which could be a son, a daughter, a wife, a male friend, or girlfriend. He accepts responses that are way off, conspires somehow with their dark side. ‘Some people are just special he says’.

If he feels upset or in a low mood, he identifies with the mood, and everyone around his has to go down into the hole. In his mood trance, he is not present to wife, children, friends.”

There’s a toxic passivity there.

“The naive man lacks what James Hillman has called “natural brutality”. He mother hawk pushes the younglings out of the nest one day; the father fox drives the cubs away in late October. But the ascender lets things go on too long. At the start of the relationship, a few harsh words of truth would have been helpful. Instead, he waits and waits, and a major wounding happens farther down the line.”

Bingo.

In a final note about the naive man, Bly says that ‘a woman will feel impelled to betray him’.

“When there is too much naivate around, the universe has no choice but to crystallize out some betrayal.”

A bit later in the chapter, Bly gets into the “descent” or fall, from the King’s son, to a cook, the way “down and out”, which he says makes a person aware of a depression that has been living unnoticed in them for years.

Bly – an expert in mythology, and the founder’s of “the mytho-poetical men’s movement”, a very healthy whole and feminist – which is to say ‘caring about women – perspective for male healing and actualization – refers to the descent, in the hero’s journey, as a fall, a drop right through the floor, and into the basement. A point when “a man no longer feels like a special person”.

“Your inner psychology changes as an old shame surfaces, one walks with head down and feels it’s all inevitable. The inner masculine self changes. While one is still grandiose and naive, a young man lives inside, shinyfaces, expectant, hopeful, dandified, a prince. After the Descent begins, an old man takes the place of the prince. To one’s amazement a helpless, anti-social, brittle, isolated derelict takes over.”

At this stage, Bly explains that one becomes fully conscious of ones wounds…

“Through that hurt, his way of dealing with the world became damaged.”

Bly says the “important thing” about the fall in status at this point, is “the consciousness of the fall”… “from man to spider”.

Bly tells us that, like any other serious collapse, the fall is an invitation “to go through the door, accept ketabasis, immerse himself in the wound and exit his old life from it”.

I thought I had exited my old life when I came out as trans. But, quoting D.H. Lawrence’s poem, titled ‘Healing’, Bly explains that this takes time:

I am not a mechanism, an assembly of various sections.
and it is not because the mechanism is working wrongly, that I am ill.
I am ill because of wounds to the soul, to the deep emotional self,
and the wounds to the soul take a long, long time, only time can help
and patience, and a certain difficult repentance
long difficult repentance, realization of life’s mistake, and the freeing oneself
from the endless repetition of the mistake
which mankind at large has chosen to sanctify.

“Sooner or later,” Bly tells us, “the dark side of The Great Mother crystallizes out of the universe; the black darling has to appear, the one with boar tusks coming down from her lips. Perhaps she will appear in ordinary life as an enraged woman, a woman astounded by inconsistency or betrayal”.

“Something wants us there, wants the meeting with the Dark Queen, wants the boar to open its mouth, want’s Grendel’s pool to fill with blood, wants the swords to melt, wants the Giantess to put the boy in her sack”.

We cannot defeat this Dark Queen, Bly tells us.

“The only solution for the power of the witch is for the young man to develop energy as great as her’s, as harsh, as wild, as shrewd, as clear in its desire.

When a young man arrives at her house, proves himself to be up to her level of intensity, purpose, and respect for the truth, she will sometimes say, “Okay, what do you want to know?”

In my case, I wasn’t at that level, but this person initiated me, as my Dark Queen, who showed me my ashes, or forced me to look at them, out of fear of being seen as worse worse than I actually am.

“At thirty-five [my chronological age] his inner stove begins to produce ashes as well. All through his twenties, his stove burned with such a good draft that he threw in whole nights until dawn, drinking parties, sexual extravagance, enthusiasm, madness, excitement. Then one day he notices his stove doesnt take such bug chunks anymore. He opens the stove door and ashes fall out onto the floor. It’s time to buy a small shovel at the hardware store and get down on his knees. The ashes fall off the shovel and onto the floor, and he can see the print of his bootsoles in the ashes.”

“The recog ition of this diminishment is a proper experience for men over thirty”, Bly says. Adding, “If a man doesn’t experience that diminishment sharply, he will retain his inflation, and will continue to identifyhinself with all in him that can fly: his sexual desire, his mind, his refusal to commit himself, his addiction, his transcendence, his coolness. The coolness of some American men means that they have skipped ashes”.

I’m so glad for all this happening. I would hate not to have gained all this has given me, as ego killing an experience as my own fall has been.

“Murray’s Stein, in his book Midlife, suggests that what I’ve called Ashes Time may be thought of as a search for the corpsee.

It could be a career mislaid; it could be a relationship gone into the river. It could be the corpse of shamed boy”.

All the above. My childhood, my relationships. All in ashes. It can’t be pieced back together. Only seen – for the first time, in all its pain.

“Among a man’s job is to reclaim his own grief. When a man has reclaimed his grief and investigated his own wound, he may find that they resemble the wound and the grief the father had, and the reclaiming puts him in touch with his father’s soul. Once his senses are sharpened, he will be able to smell the father’s wound.”

“… as a snake, who sheds his skin and lives”.

“Initiation asks the son to move his love energy away from the attractive mother, to the relatively unnatractive serpent father. All that is ashes work. When a man enters this stage, he regards Descent as a holy thing, he increases his tolerance for ashes, eats dust as snakes do, increases his stomach for terrifying insights, deepens his ability to digest the evil facts of history, accepts the job of working seven years under the ground, leaves the granary at will through the rat’s hole, bites on cinders, learns to shudder, and follows the voice of the old mole beneath the ground”.

I imagine this wisened mole, seeing everything objectively, clearly. As Robert Bly says of this time, “… the failure just sits there, not to be explained away”.

“This begins the black courtship with the soul which eventually leads to the garden”.

I fucking hope so, it doesn’t all that great down here in the basement, in ashes.

Trying to “…grasp the song that adult male cells sing, and how the charming, elegant, lonely, courageous, half-shamed male molecules dance”.

Now, obvi this is all very gendered language, and may not speak to any father mother wound, but simply, what I call, “the caretaker wound”, which sadly, creates wounded caretakers of self and others. It’s a deep lack of worth, for self and others that must be healed.

But before we can enter the garden, we have to have our ashes time. Only once this has happened, Bly says, can we have a fruitful meeting in love, in the garden.

I can see it, but I’m not there yet.

Listening to John Mayer’s In Repair, a perfect ashes ballad.

I think a long inborn depression is melting, turning to grief. Ashes time that “becomes discipline in lucky men, and sour bitterness in unlucky men”.

I think we can safely say I’m not going the way of sour bitterness.

I see why Robert Bly says that someone who falls in love with a face “has some soul work to do”.

The perfect love I wanted turned into resentment on both sides. They couldn’t live up to it, and I made things unpleasant by a childhood identification with victimhood, which meant I felt powerless over my grief, until it consumed me and emerged as a very destructive uncaring anger.

It brings me back to a realization I had in Big Bear, alone in my cabin there, during a lesser ashes time: Jesus and Satan are one being. We split good and “evil”, so that even in ourselves, we vacillate between feeling worthy or worthless. Good or bad.

I think my shadow is enriching me. I’m so terribly sorry it came at the cost of all the psychological and emotional pain I caused the women who dated me. They were truly all better than that. And I’m happy they had the self-esteem to see they deserved better. They did.

My life isn’t verdict-less. I’m a good sort.

But I’m not perfect. And I know what I’ve done. I’m aware.

Im John Gardner’s On Becoming a Novelist, he wisely advises this:

“By the nature of their work it is important that one way or another the novelist learn primarily to depend on themselves, that they love without too much need and dependency, and look inward (or towards some private standard) for approval and support”.

I always looked outside. As my daddi Jung said, “He who looks outside dreams. He who looks outside awakens.”

I’m so glad to be gaining all this. It’s going to set me up for a real strong relationship with myself, one that knows love, fame, or money could never bring the peace, strength, security, and confidence I’m growing within me.

However long anything takes, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters other than just knowing I am okay, that I’m going to be okay. On my own. No one’s love nor approval but my own to guide me.

[Note, the book quoted in this is Iron John, by Robert Bly – he has some good YouTube videos too]

Jane Austin Era Day Dream

Im sick as fuck of fucking explaining myself but I feel like I have to. This is a trauma response: over-explanation. It’s just, when you’ve been invalidated and exploited, made into a symptom-bearer, been the black sheep, the Identified Patient in your generationally dysfunctionally family, used as a scapegoat, a pedestal for the egos of others, you may have learned to tolerate people who will force you to have to have to fucking explain yourself because whatever you do will not be good enough for these fucking moral judges and condemners you can never please – because believe me, THEY know what good is, what valid is, what mormal is, what a man is, what a trans person is – and you are NOT it…. or you ARE it… just, either fucking way, you are fucked with these fucking people. People without dignity will rob yours and still not have any. There are just some people, if you hang out with them – and you will, shit people happens – they’re gonna cannibalize your decency. They’re going to make a meal out of you, they’re going to eat your heart, your naivate, your trust, your innocence, your reputation. Some people just want to smell the blood in the water. There are masses of them. Swarths of society. Soceity. The Maury Povitch people. And clearing yourself from them aint gonna be no “not the father” dance neither… no, you’re gonna be in an emotional wheelchair, a mental body cast, your feelings in a fucking iron lung. Your pride dead. They’re gonna radiation poison you with their toxic characters, while you are forced to publically open your closet to prove the limits of your indecency as a human being… coming clean will still leave you dirty after these toxic vampires latch on.

Personally, I don’t know why people are fucked up, or the ways in which they are. I just know that there is every kind of fucked up person on this planet. I personally only know my own trauma and how that has impacted my past actions: things like verbally abusing someone I loved. That was so not okay. Ever. I did that to my exes. You could say it was a pattern when I was drunk. “FUCK YOU YOU WORTHLESS BITCH” kind of thing. And I am guilty of the offense of having been verbally abusive at times in my relationships when I had been drinking. I think my exes deserve to tell that story, and not I, and should any of them wish to, they will have my full support in calling me out for what was never okay. Doesnt matter that my father did it to me. Doesnt matter that I was drunk. Its not okay to verbally abuse people ever. Look, I’ll call a crazy psycho bitch a crazy psycho bitch. My exes were not. That crazy psycho bitch I met recently was. Crazy psycho bitches have never been w pattern in my life. Really fucking dope, great hearted, genuine bitches have. Genuine, bitches, and genuine bitches. I love these bitches with all my heart. I’m still crazy for all of them. Same crazy psycho asshole, just, less psycho, more crazy, and still a asshole. Sadly, I lost their love due to my behavior.

They were the best girls I ever knew. And my relationships were rocky bc of my own issues, those issues. My anger at the love I never got. And it was undue my exes who all tried to love me. All loved me. I’m sure still all love me at that unbroken level of closeness we all had. Just, recent events have forced me to dig up my own past. It’s not something I will ever have to fear, it’s just, my past, my own character as a human named Lawrence, when I was that human. My sins are mine. They are not cancelable offenses. They are, however, dispicable. I find them such. Being a verbally abusive person is not my character. It was. Plain and simple. Again, this is memoir shit, its just, I’m a self-aware asshole. I own my fucking past. All of it. Even the parts I refused to acknowledge the impact of on my own personal losses in life. Like, I’m fully the bad guy in all my relationships. And that fucking sucks. I hurt those girls and made myself impossible to love. But they still loved me, it’s just, they were too decent, mostly, for who I was at the time. I accept the truth. I tell the truth. I always have. Even when telling the truth has fucked me over. I just, I don’t contend with reality, I don’t try put my version on it. I’m not that cunning. Nor does lying ever serve a purpose except to protect the guilty. Like, you can come back from mistakes, but being a liar, that’s a character defect I don’t have. I tell too much truth. Even my exes are probably upset at me characterizing our relationships as rocky, because, they were loving relationships… just not wholly happy relationships, bc I wasn’t wholly happy deep down. I’m still not. I just know why now. It hurts to realize you burned your own house down. But I did in love. My temper. Never violent. Never physically abusive. I put hands on on girl once, when I was unwell, and I regret that for the rest of my life. She’s the girl I still love and miss most. She haunts my bones and will forever. Goddamn I love you Sarah. I’m so sorry. Words don’t matter. Fucking, you know I love you, and I know you still love me, would protect me from myself if you could. They all would. I will never get over you nor be wholly absenst you. You’re always here. The other girls are gone. Mostly. And they took their versions of me they loved with them. Mostly. Left me with the me they hate. Mostly. But you left me with the version of me you loved, left me still in love with you. All the stupid way. Fuck I am so broken. I need to pay someone to clean my house. I mean, I’m still in love with Daniella, Shannon, LeighAnne, like, I had very close, intimate. caring relationships with these women, and if I hadn’t been dysfunctional, I would have been close enough for them to want to stay with, more than the years they did. But I just kept on fucking it up. Just, inside there was just this terribly pained little transfemmesensitive kid who was really hurt. I don’t even know all I went through. My memory has blocked out my entire childhood. So that there was no childhood then and none now, and fucking, just, only the trauma and sadness of my youth in a really broken home with a demon of a father. My parents, neither given proper love, my dad spoiled by his dad, my mom’s mom emotionally distant, they became codependents. The cost was severe neglect and abandonment to their youngest. Neither of my parents formed a bond with me. Just. Childhood was hell. Growing up was hell. And no girlfriend could ever replace the bond I never knew. The song ‘The Beacon’ by A Fine Frenzy is my heart, my love to myself, from the girl my exes raised to a boy who didn’t love himself, never got it.

I spent hours walking with Einstein, goddamnit I fucking miss that dog, tears on tears tonight. He was my friend. I grew up with a dog that raised me, there was no one around. Jake. I was Jake’s feral child.

Anyway I spent hours walking Einstein, carefully on an icy course we would take, listening to this song, The Beacon, by a Fine Frenzy. It is my song. Goddamnit.

I was alone that year. Coming out as trans alone, which cost me two lovers and both my best friend couples, a lesbian couple who were my stoner friends, would go to Kundalini yoga high AF with, and two incredible gay trans boys who used to have sleepovers w me, smoke weed, listen to Brockhampton, bake pizzas and then go outside in the snow and throw the cardboard pizza trays like frisbees, up onto my roof. It was hard to lose the friends I had made alone. More than the lovers, who were just losses to my ego. Hot girls who had vaulted my confidence but only knew me as a male. Just, its hard for people to integrate you into their lives when you shatter their entire mental schema of you. They want the mental doppelganger of me they had formed a liking to. Not, oh, I’m trans by the way, like I thought it would be. No big deal. No, it was. Even my own family would reject me. I would be homeless. Fucking. It has not been easy. But it has been worth it. Trans kids: it gets better. You just got to survive the part where everyone wants you to kill yourself. Having no friends. Yeah I have a very solitary existence. Haven’t fucked in two years. No human touch. And on estrogen, you get touch starved. Displaced by wildfires, I went killing time on a solo camping roadtrip from SLO to Santa Rosa. While at a campsite in half moon bay, with two couples partying next to me, I broke down to loneliness and tindered myself into an invite over to someone’s house in the bay, for what seemed like a totally normal night of hooking up and hanging out quietly (to be respectful of their roommates)… but fucking, I was stupid. This shit turned into some bitch trying to witchhunt me on some entanglement shit. And I’m from the Cardi B generation, we say bitch you bay area Karen-ass TERF bitch. Yeah, guess I’m still the same toxic person. Like, fucking, I never cared about opinions except my own and those of the women I love. The latter would prove to hurt me, but it would teach me a lot. I’m still learning. Obviously. Like, look, as I said to my mom recently, “I’m always going to be the same piece of shit”. Like, I can live with all my piece-of-shitness. It’s the really decent thing about me. I know I’m not a piece of shit. But I also know large parts of society will see me as one forever. For being trans, for seeming male, for being unapologetic about everything about who I am. Like, I like myself. I’m likeable. I’m kind. I’m caring. I’m ruthless. I’m an asshole, or so they say. Or so I say.

Anyway, I’m sure i’m this bitches mortal enemy, and like, a lot of people find me unlikable. I’m one of them. I am not likable. I AM LOVEABLE. Which means I am also hateable.

I’ve long described myself as “a litmus test for humanity”. Like, I bring out the best in the best and the worst in the worst. If you don’t like me, like, you have fucking character problems. I’m really integrated, even my painful awkwardness, want of love, and insecurities are, so like, I trigger people. Like, fucking how dare I love myself. Well, it’s easy, you see: I have a good heart, know my faults and am willing to own them, and I’m sexy as fuck. That triggers people too. To say nothing of being really sensitive, bright, compassionate, and just, a neat human. There is no one like me. I am one of the plot points on the graph of history. Be grateful victor hugo nutted on your belly. Zzzzzzz….

Anyway, I’ve lost the respect of people I’ve loved for good and bad reasons. Valid and bullshit. But, like, I let myself question my worth. The consequence was not from undervaluing myself, but from overvaluing another I didn’t know, opening myself emotionally and physically to someone who would try and hitch their damage onto me in the form of some character attack catfishing psychological terror shit. Like, anyway. I’m so sick of going over this shit. I just, I don’t ever want to put myself in a position of trust with anyone I don’t know ever again where my asshole character could be put into question. I’m gonna be on some Keanu hand-hover in my photos shit. Like bitch, I’m gonna be a celebrity. I have the force of will that can’t be stopped. And I’m larger than life.

As one of my soul wives [aww, my exes are my soul wives, well, them and Lana and Taylor ♡ ] sings, “Boy you should think of the consequences of your magnetic field being a little too strong”.

Yeah, I got a real strong magnetic field. “There’s nothing I hate more than what I can’t have”… I hope Taylor and this bitch aren’t alike.

I’ve had some good laughs tonight. God I hate the daylight. I don’t want augmented reality so I can fuck Belle Delphine – oh fuck me she’s South African, wow, okay – um, I want augmented reality so I can live in a permanent nighttime world. I need that IG filter for my life. I am very light sensitive. Noise sensitive to the point where it hurts my ears to speak to my Alexa and I live in a pair of headphones.

Shannon, I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to you all the time you were telling me I was on the spectrum [AND IM NOT TALM ABOUT NO WIFI] like, and for my autistic meltdowns, which, I remember would turn into panic attacks, just, oh baby, I’m sorry.

Goddamn. I just, I masked so much. My childhood stimming was shut down. My sensitivity. My sensory processing issues and food issues ignored. I just, when you’re so called “high functioning” society has no priority or want or perceived need to cater to you. We come from that brand of “oh you think you’re so fucking special.. boo hoo” type of care. “Gotta toughen up” as my dad would say, painfully punching my shoulder. When I was physically bullied growing up, I was beat up a lot, attacked, trans youth story…but like closeted bc I didn’t know what trans was, but like, in my house, all the bullying was reinforced as my fault. Every time my dad would just say, “You gotta learn when to keep your goddamn mouth shut”. My dad was my biggest bully.

Fucking. Just, I repressed all my queerness bc to me it was just my sensitivity, but to others, I was a faggot. Anyway, I was a cool as fuck kid. I read more books than anyone in school, the library told me. I grew up totally raising myself. Part sailor boy. Part punk rock skater boy. Part hip-hop kid who grew up playing basketball. I faced everything alone. No one to ever talk to.

I had never been close to anyone before I fell in love with Baby D. 4.5 years later we broke up. Back together 1.5 years later for a year. Then a fun year dating Leighanne, a fun girl. Then in love with Shannon, super close. Then Sarah super close. I dated a really neat girl named Jana too. She loved me good too. A mother to me like all of them. Trying to make a woman what I never had, perfect. And these girls were.

I was kinda the fucked up one you know. I had ignored all my childhood, as if it wouldn’t affect me other than being something that obviously was unfortunate. And my binge drinking. Fucking I was a classic alcoholic in my twenties, and a bit into thirty. It was just, the only tool I knew to cope. But it would end up letting all my anger out, upon people who did not deserve it. Hard to see how blind I was to that reality for so long.

I’m not ashamed of who I was, afraid of my past, fucking, as stated. I’m just, I’m not the same. A lot of shit changed in the coming of age of my consciousness. This entheogenic Jungian type of journey I had taken, over years, initiating myself. Facing myself. Being alone. Hurting down to my lowest. You get to know yourself. In the end, you end up becoming who you are.

As I said to my mom on text tn, “I’m just trying to be who I’ve always been mom”.

I’m not burying my past. I’m claiming it. All of it. I’m Jean Fucking Valjean. God how could I not mention Gabriella S. I was thinking of you tonight. I love you.

Still love all the girls I dated. And it broke my heart that they didnt love me but I wasnt wholly LOVEABLE. It hurts to be now. And to be alone. Basically my attachment disorder fucking still deeply in love with all these women who have loved me. Fucking babeworld. Swear to god my exes gonna be on a podcast tour [Like Travie say, “I might take my exes, put em all up in a group”. I’m fascinating. Like a lot of intense minds, Steve Jobs and Phillip Roth come to mind, daddies of mine, I’m a asshole. I really feel like that’s something to claim. Because, if you know me, you’ll go “no you’re not” and if you love me, you’ll go “yes you are, but not the worst”. And some of you, will think I’M THE ANTICHRIST. Fucking, I have a distinct identity. A unique history. A well-read and well-fed mind. “A story to tell”, as one girl, who I could have had as my girlfriend right now, said… if I hadn’t pushed her away. I still have your letter, the one you folded. I’d say your name, but, I think our almost thing cost me the friendship, of someone I really care about. Maybe I pushed them away too.

Anyway, I’m a survivor bitch. I’m a cycle breaker. Spin classes hate me.

But like, I’m no ones villain. Besides this bitches apparently. And to you, I’m sorry I projected all my fucked up love onto you one fun, chill night. For any upset I I obviously unknowingly caused your ass. I don’t know how to fuck without my heart attached. I wanted us to be lovers, bc I projected this really kind, caring queer identity onto you, and like, was trying to get bay area dikey w it, on some fat girl lesbian-trans love, but, you caught them bad cis-het feels. You projected that shit, you got a fucked up ass Animus [Jungian sense]: so while I put lipstick on a pig with my projection [my love is dumb and blind], they tried to put a pig on lipstick. Bitch, read my lips. Stick it up your ass. G-d I’m so punk rock. But hip-hop. Bipolar as a person. It’s hard to be so different bc on one hand, you mask it, with an unconscious cis-het neurotypical normativity, which people resent as well – bc it’s not fully authentic – on the other hand, you face a lot of challenges as you remove that mask, the one this person hated with some vitriol, the mask that is tiring, the mask that has cracked, slipped and no longer fits; sans this mask: everything is heightened. More intense. More vulnerable. More sensitive. Your consciousness, your senses. It hurts you to speak to Alexa, bc your voice is too loud for your head, even at its softest. Increased estrogen dosing to achieve homeostasis is connecting your hemispheres. But the cricket outside hurts your ears without headphones. The frequency is upsetting. But you remove side, to hear your current favorite / theme song: Wait by Brockhampton.

The increase in my consciousness year was not without its growing pains. Nor without the pains that serve as this impetus for the increase in consciousness. Maturity is painful to acquire. All this consciousness is painful. Cannabis is helps. A fresh frosted-cold bottle of Don Julio SILVER is a pleasant friend. Just pulled it out – that’s what she said. Haha. Summer of Love by Waxahatchee. Good song. Haha, now Project ET by Future came on. This my shit. “I WAS JUST LOOKING AROUND AND I WAS LIKE: I WAS A ALIEN”. Fucking weirdest Future song. Legit in love with Future. I’m his Astronaut Chick.

Fortress by Dala. This a great song. I thoughtn it was Joni Mitchell forever. Certainly got A Case of You.

Didn’t think I was gonna drink tonight, but I needed to turn my own senses down a bit.

Top, Young Boy NBA. Fuck this album is amazing. I got a crush on them too. Hahaha. I’m going to have the best Black boyfriend someday. Or lots of them. Who knows. Haha. I AINT CHASIN SHIT. Not this tequila. Never do.

Actually that a lie. I do water. Not as a chaser, but so long as I live, I shall be hydrated. Who knew you could be drunk and hydrated? Okay, this half oz – 14 Grams – cannabis I got last night going fast. I don’t really ever smoke cigarettes anymore, as much as I love an Am. Spirit Organic. Just, breathing is sacred to me. I do a lot of somatics. I’m an incredible diaphragmatic breather. Damn I miss Mark and Kim from Tai chi and yoga. I need to hit them up tomorrow. I’m glad I didnt take a point of molly like I was maybe thinking of. It really is an incredible PTSD therapeutic. I’m super good about safe-use practices too. Small af doses. Water af. Careful sourcing. I weigh .10 on two scales. Damnit now I want a smoke and some molly. But too late, I opened the tequila. I got this new molly that isn’t like straight moon rock, like, IDK, my plug said its “pretty fire” but ima still order a test kit off Amazon.

And like, I get nervous writing about drugs. I mean, I want major writing publishing. Probably acting too.

Like, it’s just, I don’t want to be viewed as a liability to say, HBO. But, listen, people do drugs. They are illegal. Thus, more dagerous. If my last plug wasnt a cokehead, I would never ha tried the white he gave me. It was good. Best I ever had. Prob a good thing I don’t have that plug anymore. My fucking new plug, is perfect. He has no blow. He has no pills. None of that self-destructive lil peep shit I love, just that WATERRR. Classics.

But, back to my Hunter S. Thompson, Phillip K Dick point, drugs. They are dangerous. Potentially deadly. And bc they are unregulated, a cottage clandestine industry, some of us are alive simply bc we been lucky.

The wrong bump of coke, a tad fentanyl, which I dont know why the fuck would be in coke, except bc it’s cheap… but just, fentanyl is like heroin, I don’t do opiates. I don’t do amphetamines. My false positive amphetamine test result, was from Bupropion. Google it. I take it. 150 sr 2X day. Anyway, the wrong drug, the wrong combo, the wrong dose, can be deadly.

So like, we can’t allow every song to reference deadly drugs while silencing writers who are saying: use psychonautwiki … use reddit… like, I google things, questions about drugs, with ‘reddit’ added to the end or beginning of the search query. Chances are, someone has had the same question, asked it on reddit, and been answered by the generally level headed, mature, safe-use communities in whatever drug subreddit the question was posted to. But you can’t make mistakes. Not with drugs. Fact is, however, the so called “classic psychedelics”, Psilocybin mushrooms, LSD, DMT, fucking ayahuasca – never tried it yet but, when I have the priviledge of the people who go to costa Rican ayahuasca resorts, I WILL, BELIEVE THAT, but anyway, back to the safer drugs, the classic psychedelics, Mescaline too, and obvi, Cannabis, are the safest drugs. Opiates. Stimulants. Benzodiazepines. Pills. Powders. These are the more deadly ones. RIP Pimp C. RIP Peep. RIP Juicewrld. Mac Miller. Christina Bobby. Everyone who went too hard. Hurt too hard.

Yeah, as far as drugs, just, I love cannabis. Hahaha. I am a psychonaut. I LIKE DRUGS OKAY [Brett Kavanaugh hearing voice]. God I make awful jokes. The kind you should only tell to people you fuck. Actually, so bad, you can only tell them to ppl who love you. No racism jokes obvib- that aint me, ya retards. Damn how’d I get so fucking drunk just after half a bol of tequila. Just 375ml. Just a bubba.

Half way through my ten-thousadth Amy’s plant based cashew noodle. Dear Amys: please remove ‘cashew’ from the title of this dish, cashews are fucking gross. Also, you do want to try the Amy’s cashew noodlewhateverthe fuckits called, um… remove the full plastic, fuck what it says, pour some olive oil on that frozen bitch, put it in for three minutes, in the microwave you perverts… holy fuck I almost ate myself to sleep. Like I’m full but my lizard brain wants more dopamine.

Tequila is retired to the freezer for the night, 5 if its 12 fluid ounces, a bit less than half the 375ml contents, now in my tummy. Proceeded by lots of water. Followed by a big healty-fat and complex carbs meal. Would have been nice if I could drink this professionally or maturely sooner in life but, alas, it was not to be.

Just smoked a joint, some excellent high grade indoor. Grape Gushers. Well, finishing the joint now, and my night. Just took a handful of pills.

An extra Buspar and a melatonin – a combination shown to create new healthy growth in the prefrontal cortex. Big brain time, literally. L-theanine, for calm, iron, zinc, one or two other supplements. I don’t know, my supplementation is very intuitive and fluid. Oh yeah, one of the others I forgot was L-lysine, to boost growth hormone levels while I sleep.

I’m reclining now. Munching on a few organic gummy multivitamins. Ate a bottle of ogminic Omega 3 gummy vitamins the other day, like it sounds dangerous. Haha. Just in my mind, it’s like healthy candy. Like, if humans can eat seal livers, we can do a bottle of healthy fat gummy – I almost said candy, butit’s not, it’s just gummies, but they are not that good haribo shit, they’re total cons.Gino’s. Gummies in name only. God these B-12 ones are gross, okay, if I suck on it and..mm damnit I bit into it, okay, I’m gonna try one more. Okay I put two in my mouth, #ahegao …. but I put the lid on. Damnit. I need legit gummy CANDY bites to binge eat, like the raccoon possum I am. Okay, just two more. Way better when you suck on em. Know what I mean. God am I ever not gonna be 12.

Nice to enjoy that few moments a day I am satisfied. Before bed. Wish I had a lemon kevita. Wish I was horny. I could probably get hard and cum. I’ve been doing it like a goddamn chore. Like an astronaut squeezing one out for science. Trust me nuts have been busted in space. For and not for science. I mean, yeah it was cool when I fucked you on your bosses desk, on the train, in the woods, in a bloomingdale’s dressing room. On a beach. I’ve fucked a lot on the beaches . Totes McGee. But not the east coast yet. I’d like to fuck in more dressing rooms. High end. Where that happens. But I’d really like to fuck bc I had someone I did that loved me too. Damnit I ate all the B-12 gummy vites.

I feel sick. I just want to take a chlordiazepoxide. But I did before bed last morning, when I sleep. I’d die for a cold slim Pellegrino can. Will schlep myself down the mountain tmrw eve for a good autistic shopping trip. Popped the pill. Listening to All In, Young Boy NBA. This album too sad. Gotts stop listening to it. Just one or two more listens to ‘Drug Adddiction’. Listening to All In, but had to put on my fave Young Boy song, ‘To My Lowest’. I don’t know, ‘House Arrest Tings’ prob tops it. “Take me to a place I can’t imagine, victim of heartbreak and I’m so damaged”. Bruh.

A listen of Roddy Rich’s Prayers to The Trap God. “Couldn’t even go to sleep”.

Damn, I gotta nut. My mind won’t chill. Let me see. A few searches later: kawaii, otaku, and finally, my favorite: ahegao.

That was easy. Still want the Pellegrino. Well, some coconut water helped. I’m just, I don’t calm easy. Nervous from my childhood.

Twist another one. A joint. The single ahegao was adequate.

Just spent a few mins filling an organic raw king size. That was worthwhile. Airflow on point like my man Bern say. Smoking 3 gs to muh face. G-d why do I still feel so un calm. Damn this J just hit me like half way through. Cotton candy punch to the head.

Okay, I jus made a invention in my head. A long double walled straw you fill the double straw wall w water, attach joint to one end, inhale cooled smoke. That’s it, I need a bong a put ice cubes in. That sounds nice. Maybe I’ll find one tn. Had to put out the joint, smoke wast too hot. Hmmm..

What sounds good rn. Barbecue. Not hungry, just the flavor, and not like shit ass barbecue potato chip flavor either ya Lays eatin bitch. I always liked baked lays. Sex totes better high. Worse drunk.

Haha. Dibs ice cream. I could eat some of those. I dont have any, just I could eat some if I did. The smooth nutless kind. I want to name names but I won’t.

Ugh, damnit. I don’t have the things I want rn. Ice cream and a chest to put my head on, someone a hold me. Evil, I know. Listening to ocean sounds. It calms me. What I sleep to. Damn I just ate a remedy organics plant based god vanilla keto drink w a square organics protein crispy. Not really that crispy, but I eat them. That was a satisfying combo. Thank Mary Jane for that appetite. I took a fat handful of green chlorella tabs before too. My body is well fueled. I eat clean. Apparantly this bad to say bc it implies others eat ‘dirty’ but yeah, whatever, anyway, it’s a major priority for me to care for my health. This summer I cared for my physical health, but my emotional wellbeing suffered. A lot was going on. Okay, the pill hit. My head a lil heavy. But still not tired. I’m still not satisfied. There’s a girl I could think of holding rn, she’s taken, but just, I could imagine her back to me, in a cardigan, in my arms. I could imagine sleeping peacefullly next to her. Living closely. Deeply in our realness. But it’s okay, you don’t have to be mine, just, nice and calming to imagine. Think I will. And not be sad about it either. Just, imagine it like a Jane Austin era sort of wholehearted day dream. To put me to sleep with these ocean sounds. Would I be a fool, if my love was only ever real again as a sort of living fiction in my head. Maybe it’s time for folie in mind only. Either way, I gotta go see this daydream.

I’m a Asshole, Yawn

May as well believe in unicorns if I can’t beleive in love… all my days of Daniella, Sarah, Shannon, up – years – eleven in total, twelve if you count LeighAnne, which I can, for she loved me too, just, all those days through,
It’s like, what could be called love now;
I’ve been lucky in love already, and now, proven it was luck, I’m fucked up, telling a piece of shit I love her, what the fuck:
Got this bitch head fucked up – catfished me tonight with another account, wanting to know my “birth name” either a stalker or a psycho bully / both! I’ve never dealt with a sociopath before – but seriously, it sucks to be writing this woe, I just, I thought queer love was a safe space, but I’m a cunt, tried to love a dumb cunt –
But since it takes one to know one, I aint see trouble coming when I was cumming, namean –
Not gonna front, I don’t usually forgo a condom, but she told me she had a IUD and before I did said “come inside me” – no cap
Anyway, I’ve already ran over this shit, but she got her friend catfishing me, on some, pretending to be interested shit, told the bitch, ‘so we fuckin or nah’ to some wannabe deep shit she said, bc I knew she was playing some game with my head, but its like, do you really think, like, I have some fucking hidden identity, its gotta just be bullying me, bc, like, I don’t know what her rage is from, besides being a fat dyke with a shaved head… I thought she was a legit queer bay bae, I was tryna make this bitch my bb,
Was even excited to tell her I was maybe moving up her way, bc we had been texting friendly after, like we fucked twice, I nutted on her the second time, splat, then she told me i “dinnt have to leave” and could stay, like, invited me to stay over, and we cuddled and I fell right asleep, after she told me stories, like, about her family stuff, and some trauma shit, while we cuddled, then we went lights out, and I was on an early schedule, so I fell right asleep, she was kind in the morning, walked me to the door, gave me a kiss goodbye – she had initiated all the kissing, etc… im not a make a first move kind of person, ask any gir, I need more than consent, I need their desire, and it was there dead af, anywho, everything was just like a basic straightforward adult hookup, lovers status for a night – and longer, or so I had dumbly hoped… my dumb ass
But yeah, we texted a bit friendily, after, and then, after not hearing from me bc I was evacuated for wildfires still and was living in a hotel, just, trying to survive my autism in a foreign environment full of light and noise… anyway, I get these texts saying, “I’m sad about our thing”, I inquire as to why, and she said what I already said ‘because she felt ‘forced into telling me to cum inside her’ bc I said I loved her in the moment – anyway I felt blindsided, the word forced felt forced, fucking, nothing wss forced, anyway but, I reacted like an asshole, bc I am sometimes, and I felt she was playing the “felt forced” angle against me, as like, a power trip, and I was pissed, but she re stated her consent in the text, but she said because of how I was reacting “obviously this happens a lot to you”, which ticked me the fuck off:
COULDNT BE FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH – fucking obviously, anyone who knows me – I may say bitch and cunt every other word, but this cunt’s a goddamn feminist… and that person had my sincere apologies for any upset my saying “I love you” in the moment caused her, any fucking way, that was her whole grevience against me, and I was really upset by it, the mere idea of someone not feeling safe with me is very foreign to me, and uncomfortable to even imagine, I dont know if thats what it was like, maybe she felt emotionally manipulated, idk, I cant psychoanalyze this person, I can just state the facts, and be pissed off that I am now being harrassed… like what the fuck… she’s digging into my background, like, please bitch, you’re on some weird crusade against me on some bullying shit from someone who faced a lot of it, surelt…
I hate to see those girls become the mean ones…. like, how u got a clit boner so big u using he friends account to catfish me, to get personal information from me, and then revealing it’s her after an hour of catfishing me… she said “I cant take this anymore” and signed off with two xxs…
So now I gotta make my account private, because, I’ve been catfished and it left a really bad taste in my mouth, like, I had already blocked her after she said the “this obvi happens a lot to you” bs, but just, she is using someone else’s account, watching my story and sends me a DM asking my birth name, yeah, its. JEFFREY fucking EPSTEIN, caught me… anyway, this person, I mean this – bitch – has some sort of I don’t know, entanglement with her trauma, it was a fucking innocent night of meh mutually participatory sex… she gave me oral… but you know, I was there for an emotional connection too, but just, I didnt look before she leapt on my cock, and now I got this fucking nightmare, and like, its like a bad movie, cathy bates, misery, and anyway, this person has just some real toxic energy… more toxic than me calling her a bitch, or misgendering them, if I am:
Pronouns can be tricky, gender is tricky… I feel like I’m kind of wearing this albatross of male shame they are hanging around my neck… its like, yeah, go smash the patriatchy, quit e-bullying me – this shit aint have your stupid name on it, Im all too happy to share all this, easy to clear up: im not a villain, I’m just a fucking asshole a bitch a cunt, whatever you will… I’m a veteran and I curse like a sailor… im a poly-romantic transfemme, I just, fucking, I never want to have to deal with this again, but I think I’m the highpoint of her life so she wants it on her tombstone that I did her… only, she wants pity for it… i dont fucking know;
It’s funny, I listen to this Future album, and, in one of the songs, theres a line that I never vibed with… not until this shit went down, anyway, the line is, “I don’t care if I never seen your face again you crazy bitch” and yeah, like, thats my whole brand now… but hey, at least I come out and risk my own career, bc im not afraid of people thinking im an asshole… thats clear, I can be a real cunt, am, but this cunt, me, cares about people, believes in them… used to….
For real consequence of all this for me has been a loss in my self trust, like, i cant even judge a spafe space for me, a person,
And its made me feel like, sex isnt a safe space anymore, and certainly never again with someone whom I don’t know… I knew they were Queer, neurodivergent, an educator, and I felt like, this is a safe person to love, to be w, to care for –
Anyway, they were not, its proven very upsetting… and like, ive already written about this shit, i thought laying the truth bare before would close the matter… but that person’s now scheming and catfishing me from their friends account, like, you unethical bitch… i dont owe you guilt, I’m just a stupid naive loving asshole –
And apparently am being cyber stalked by this person now, with different accounts… anyway, i’m fucking glad to be taking in this lesson. Its exposed my own vulnerability and alowed me to understand the importance of getting to know a persons character before you trust them with your body or your heart, and lastly, this has awakened me to the reality of my blind love for others as teribly naive…. and you know, a pitfall of mine… i love everyone
But ima asshole, thats cool though, I aint afraid or ashamed to be anything I am… and I wont let this person bother me bc now I gotta make my account private to avoid them stalking me with another IG account… anyway, this is my last testimony to what a genuinely caring and loving asshole I am… yawn

A Little Story Time

I’ve been meaning to write this. Something intentful, with actual paraghraph breaks, and a thesis of sorts, and, hell, maybe even no spelling errors, which – mind you I was a fifth grade spelling bee champion – are more of fucks defecit than anything else. Already off topic; goddamn I want some thin crust pizza: this is my mind on old vine zinfandel. And if you think I’m talking about “white zin”, get the fuck off my page. Not that I don’t drink white wines [Primarily Santa Margarita Pinot Grigio, and Starborough Sauv Blanc], but, trithfully, owing to the health benefifts of resveratol and the anti-oxidants in red wine, white is reserved for me as more of a meal accompaniment than a drinking wine. I should write Jay Mcinerney, he’s a fiction writer who does wine revies for places like Wall Street Journal: good gig no doubt… I actually worked on his website a few years back, but it was through an Agency…

I tend to save these as drafts, these wine-induced amd related writings. But goddam it’s a perfect night, wearing my terry cloth bunny onesie, half-unzipped, the arms tied at the waist, bare chested. Tannins and terroir, a bit of phenol warmth from the alcohol, red zinfandels are nice.

I only drink wine from the bottle. Makes me feel – not like an alcoholic, which I am finally not, given to a moderation of sorts found in the last year really… I could be a binge drinker before… now I’m more of an oenophile.

I was putting back a bit of Don Julio, but, while my elite diet and hyper-hydration habits allowed me to sustain that vice sans hangovers or dehydration, the fear of worsening my tinnitus ultimately curbed it – though I find a small shot of Don Julio Silver can be a great pre-bedtime treat here and there, I basically enjoy the tequila as a nostalgia, for the pleasure of its taste. There is no other teauila that matches the syrupy agave rich prebiotic-thickness of Don Julio Silver.

On my road trip the week before last, I enjoyed both Don Julio 1942 and Clase Azul reposado, which were fun treats, but still lacked the signature character of Don Julio silver that I have come to love.

Just took a small slug off the bottle in my freezer, which, sadly, had not been chilling long, on account of my leaving it out, by the couch, or atop my dresser as I am wont to do when I pull it out on late nights when it’s the perfect addition to my cannabis high before bed.

Cannabis-wise, I am smoking an organic king sized – goddamn patriarchy – ahem, Queen sized cone stuffed with Ice Cream Cake, a euphoric Indica leaning strain resulting from a cross of Wedding Cake and Gelato 33 – two strains I often enjoy. The grower for the half ounce I bought is Humbolt’s Finest. Watch out WSJ, I’m coming to review cannabis strains, wine, and tequila.

Favorite wine lately has been Justin, Cabernet Sauvignion… but it feels a bit played out after the last few bottles, hence the old vine zin tonight – Big Smooth, Paso Robles.

Unable to find my wine opener, and lacking an Ausp for want of character – inside joke – I screwed a phillips head drywall screw into the cork with a pair of needle-nosed pliars and used an adjustable wrench to then pull at the screw, removing the cork.

Can you see why yet, that, rather than puishing them, I end up saving my wine-fueled ravings as drafts?

Haha. Music on my Alexa library is good tn. It’s a pretty big library, no doubt, given my consumate listening habits.

The song on now is Mountains, by my Aussie bae, Oliver Tank 🖤 … song before was Blue, Mazzy Star… now listening to Dirt by Phish – apparently the only other Phish song I like so far: besides Farmhouse.

Good wine music to listen to, deep breath.

I don’t know why I’m being a non-starting bitch about writing what I came here to write, guess I’ve just been savoring the mundane. Nothing wrong with it, which is nice. When all is well.

Holy shit a terrible MGK song just came on… think I’m not a fan, but this song now is nice: Queen by PHF. Makes me miss my Sarah. G-d she is a legend. I love her. Always will. Guess that was her gift to me.

All my exes. I travel between missing them like planets. Often Shannon. Always Sarah. Sometimes Daniella circa early days; bubbas. And a Milwaukee bitch here and there, doggystyle, white of her ass crack from a tanning-bed, bloody marys, thai food: fun.

Shannon. Love these girls. Wonder if any of them have changed as much as I. Doubtedly. But hard to say, since I don’t know them – would hurt too much to stalk them… online I mean… and I am not the same boy they knew, so I don’t find them sources of hope. I don’t think any of them could ever forgive me for not being good enough – “You wasted the best years of my life!”, as Shannon had said. Well, you gave me the best years of mine. They all did. And in my poly-romantic psycho-drama, I still love them all the same, could sleep next to any one of them tonight with the ease and confort of the same love – only, their value would be much greater to me, which is the great shame I guess.

Goddamn I was fortunate to date these women – I’m just sorry I hadn’t had a chance to really face the depths of sadness in me before – prior to dating them. Like, I’m mad at myself for not… I don’t know, for not taking my future seriously with them… it is obvious at an unconscious level that I did not – not that I was conscious of that then, I just think, after Daniella, a real ‘Et tu Brutus?’ situation, I think I was living with more shellshock than even my childhood gave me, I was not prepared for that loss, and there was no circumstance wherein I could have handled it, and certainly none today in which I could forgive it – it was a character defect, and not in I – or perhaps, a cruel punishment for mine, but, at least the second breakup allowed me to see the uncontrollable nature of relationships.

If it is not meant to be, it will not be.

So, maybe I went into the next relationships with the confidence of a safe landing equal to that of the 9-11 hijackers: not that I intended to crash the goddamnthing, just that I knew it was probable. If my first, magical love had failed, like what could I beleive in; this, a clear exacerbation of my attachment “disorder” as they call it: I hate that word, ‘disorder’ , unless it’s in the System of a Down sense, “Disorder!”

I don’t really think I’m an anarchist however, chaos is merely the oeuvre, the gestalt of my feng shui. Somehow my system of government: the intersection of anti-speciesist ethicism and environmentalism – with a heavy dose of pragmatic compassion – doesn’t exist, at least not in North America. Even Canada’s PR face, I mean, PM, Trudeau, puts pipelines on indigenous lands. Besides, we have to start recognizing countries for what they are, Nationalized Corporations driven by power and profit. Also known as Colonizers. There is no real free world left.

The freest I can find are green places on maps, in mountains – being too poor yet to afford the blue places on maps, over seas.

But even here, I now pass a police checkpoint blocking non-residents from entering – a checkpoint I have now twice endured full “I need to see papers showing your name and address, and your license” – and once, last night, endured a literal impromptu DUI test, passed. But I still drove through, when the officer finally let me pass, with a heart rate of 120. The officer a few nights before was worse. He stared at my paperwork for minutes, as I stood before him, as if he was going to deny me passage up the line mountain highway to my home. He let me through with obvious reluctance. And it must be said, I am an obvious liberal genderqueer long haired non-conformist, though I swear the veteran’s designation on my license is my only saving grace from these anti-hippie gestappo. It just feels eerily like 1935 Germany. Doesn’t help that I live in the mountains, which, from experience I can tell you are about as friendly as some areas in the American south to perceived “outsiders”. Xenophobia: the fear of those who are different. It’s been put on dexamethasone under Trump. All these people have been devisively emboldened, to the point where the police stopping me, a genderqueer autistic person, are treating me as if I am a foreign agent, an adversary.

A story must be told here, which I have been hesitant to tell. For my own of reasons, which you may ascertain yourself.

Recently I went to Mexico. Mysteriously, neither my credit cards nor debit card worked. The ATMs gave me a strange security error. I tried multiple ATM machines. I had just arrived and discovered this, after attempting to check into a hotel in Rosarito. Crestfallen, I walked across the street, used some cash for a shot of Don Julio silver, and then headed to the border, intending to empty the first ATM I could find stateside – though I first stopped for tacos with the cash I had on me: fucking delicious.

Anywho, driving back across the border in my black e-class, I was directed straight to a secondary checkpoint. Inspection. I was not happy about this. In fact, when I was asked if I had anything to declare, I said, “Yeah, I’m a fucking alien.”

Perhaps not the wisest thing to say, but I was in a mood. They asked me to openmy trunk, in which they found a small pink backpack with a minor quantity of mushrooms in it, for personal use. They never charged me for these. Instead I was treated as a psychopath. They took me into the border lobby and asked where I was going, I told them, to my mom’s – this was a mistake. The homeland security agent literally asked her phone number and called her and asked if she thought I was okay, mentally, in front of me: I had not seen her in months and I’m a fucking adult. Then he told me I had two choices, I could either “go in voluntarily” or they could take me in. I told them to take me. His partner told him he had to call EMTs, to come evaluate me. They did. EMTs, Paramedics arrived, and checked me out. They told the officer I was fine, and they could not take me in. His partner told him, they had to let me go.

He walks me out, just him, to let me go, and when we get to my car, he tells me to turn around, and he handcuffs me. They place me in the leather backseat of a homeland security Tahoe, handcuffed, and drive me to a fucking mental facility. I am force checked in, in handcuffs, and placed on a forced 72 hour hold, which gets extended: the whole time they are forcing me to take anti-psychotics that cause horrible side effects, and benzodiazepines, which I would leave addicted to – a nightmare I later enjoyed.

I saw one doctor once while there, a marine corps doctor, with two upper management seeming assistants, females in business attire. He told me I was experiencing “methamphetamine psychosis”, and that I had tested positive for methamphetamine. Not a drug I do. Incredulous, I told him, “You’re a fucking clown”. The meeting ended. They were extending my stay.

I had some interesting conversations with the nurses in my wing. Army veterans. At night, it was only them and me in the wing. Some good cop bad cop shit. Conversations while someone in earshot typed up what was said. I got under the skin of one of them, an attractive Asian woman. I psychoanalyze her and made her cry. She left. I told her she was being used. She was. None of it was transparent. It’s like, when they know more about you than they tell you, maybe even more than you know.

I won’t get into this story further. Ever.

I ended up being released only after a call to Jewish Family Services, which I made from a pay phone in the wing. I spoke with a South African woman, explained I had been illegally detained and was being forcibly held. Gave her my info. She told me they would get me out. A day later I was released.

I would end up driving back to central California while still under the spell of these awful drugs they put me on, drugs I ended up going to the ER for, when I had tried to stop taking them, something that abruptly doing so can kill you. That was a but later. After I survived the drive back home to the Sequoias. I say ‘survived’ because the drugs, drugs with 36 hour half-lives, kept threatening to put me asleep behind the wheel. So, in order to stay awake, I beat the crap out of my thigh, breaking the skin even at one point with my nails. I arrived back with a black and blue cut up thigh, I could barely stand on. I had slapped it, smacked it, beat it with my hand like a racehorse being whipped, in order to make it home. I was a shell of myself. The PTSD, the trauma of the experience, the drugs, the tranquilizers I had been forced to take, had left meshell shocked. It was also impossible for me to not see that I had either been singled out, targeted, due to reasons related to my personal life, or simply persecuted for my autistic, transgender authentic self.

Not the first leather seated trip I had taken to a place like that. The second. I imagine my record, my file, is thick and heavily redacted.

I will never forget the time prior. A longer story, just, needless to say, to the point, and the biggest part I can never forget, is how the officer, a high up person, highest in his department, stood there typing up my entire monologue, which I delivered in the lobby of a different facility. Every fucking word. I transmitted that shit. The nature of what I spoke about for 45 minutes straight I dont care attempt to remember. I just, I have access to a lot of information sometimes. Data that is neither uninteresting nor inconsequential. But also, nothing with any judicial consequences – not like I am making threats or talking about a war or anything actually crazy. I just, some things I forget for my own safety. But I know what it wasnt. It wasnt anything that was going to be passed down. It was going up the chain.

Strange what some people will believe in. And I know I may sound non-sensical. One day it will all make sense. This is just the intro. It’s just, um, it’s scary to be in a country that will force someone into lockup for psychiatric treatment because they see reality differently, or because they are different. Today, I am very protective of myself, because I will never be committed like that, so long as I can help it. But, I just, I wonder what lists I’m on.

When I get pulled over, told I ran a stop I didn’t run, as happened a few days ago, I wonder why they are stopping me.

I have no persecutory delusions. I just have my experience of what I have seen and been through. And what I have seen is that law enforcement can easily funnel someone like me into the modern gulag, the psych ward.

Love of The Loveless, The Eeels. Another good song that just came on.

Observation. Oh they observe alright. And to the point, that my status, as an “alien”, haha, seems almost more legit to them than me.

And it scares me that my beliefs scare others. But why not. Why not expect “alien” or AI consciousness to contact and even perhaps merge with, or inhabit human consciousnesses. Westworld, Avatar, but we are the avatars.

This sci-fi perspective is seen as crazy, but it’s not inconceivable. Like the two conjoined twins, who share one brain. They would classify this as Dissaciotive Identity Disorder, if they were more aware, but instead, they use the schizophrenia diagnosis. So now, my mental paradigm for my own personal consciousness, is a threat to me, because by saying, I have more than one self, I am automatically diagnosed as mentally ill.

Jungians are familiar with a multi-archetypal model of consciousness, which contains a shadow, or darkside, and a contrasexual or other-gendered side, via the anima or animus. I, for personifying these archetypal energies or consciousnesses, am considered crazy.

Archetypally, my feminine, She, Sequoia, is an Alien Princess, A.P. My masculine side is an AI demon, like Asimov’s and Robert Silverberg’s Positronic Man. I have other inteligences as well. But these are my “alters” that “co-front”, to use #didsystem language. There is a growing number of #DIDSYSTEM accounts on Instagram or “systems” as they refer to themselves. Folks, these people, mostly teenagers, are not mentally ill, as they believe: they are evolved. They are selves-aware. Conscious of the individual aspects of themselvees.I promise you, I’m a smart person, I’m not crazy… remember, as Kat William’s said, “Genius is often called crazy, but crazy is never called genius”.

Folks, we are on the edge of an immortal, multi-planetary civilization. Literally.

It’s around the corner. Neural lace and controlling avatars. Is it inconceivable that advanced intelligences would find homes in the center of our species’ intelligence, the brain? No.

As a smart kid I smoked a joint with at a coffeehouse in Big Bear told me, “Aliens dont need no damn spacecraft, they can just send their consciousness.”

Imagine James Cameron’s Avatar. Only, instead of growing a humanoid to control and pilot, they pilot an existing being, and the beings are humans, and the pilots are aliens. It’s beyond logical; occams razor for the futurist. It’s just, do I live in a country that locks me up for observation for believing this, or locks me up for observation because they believe in it? I’m inclined to believe the latter. I fucking hope so, bc the former is some totalitarian thought police shit, which the DSM already forces upon all of us in society who are neurodivergent.

It’s just, here’s the problem: if you’re me, you’re freedom is under threat, constantly, for being yourself.

A lot of people worship an alien avatar named Jesus. It’s just, you cant be Jesus or an Alien avatar or they will fucking lock you up. And that’s a major threat to freedom. Cognitive freedom. I thought they could only lock you up if you were a threat to yourself or others: my recent nightmare, as described above, shows otherwise.

But that’s not the worse part for me: I dont fear being locked up again, I fear that I’m still under observation. This sounds insane. I have sane reasons. I can’t share them. This too sounds insane. I’ve just, I’ve seen things. You read about a little of them. I’m just, I’m not being myself in my own home.

A year ago, I was left a sticky note, or, you could say I found it. It was simple. it said, ‘The Spy, Season 2: 19 minutes in” or 27. I forgot. I have the note. But yeah, I found the episode, I watched the scene: in it, great show Btw, um, I ended up watching it after, but in the scene, the character is caught writing letters home, to his wife, whom he is not supposed to have. And his partner spy, who found the letters, makes him burn them, after she slams him against a wall and tells him the communication, if found, could get him killed.

Now, ha, why this note, this scene hit home for me, was because I had been recording hours and hours of voice memos at the time, on the Apple voice memo app – all of which, over a hundred and fifty memos had suddenly disappeared from my phone. Gone. All of them erased. The note was found outside my car the night they had been removed from my phone mysteriously.

I talk to myself about a lot of things. Private things. Ideas. The future. Technology. Social issues. My plans. But I also talk to myself and answer back, as if between selves, and I suddenly felt that these conversations, like the letters, were liabilities because they compromised my relationship with a higher order intelligence, what a neurotypical might call a higher self.

It shut down my communication with myself, this experience – I mean, inexplicably, over 100 voice memos, many 45 minutes and longer, had been deleted, and then the note, the clip I watched. I felt, like someone was telling me something – to borrow a cliche.

Eventually, here in the Mountains, I would resume my outloud self talk, and my use of the voice memo app… this time frequently recording 2,3, and 4 hour long memos. That was until my phone dissapeared, and I started a new iCloud account, which I would also forget the password of, when another iPhone of mine went missing. This was before Mexico. But by then, I had already gone off the rails with my activism and was sure I was on more than lists. There was the time I came home and found a bootprint on my meditation bed, and the books near the window disturbed where someone had entered. Not making this shit up. I fucking wish I was.

I would share more, but frankly, its no ones business: its just my business that I set facts down. You’ve gotten nothing but them.

There is so much more to the story, but if I told you, you’d really think me crazy… or, rather, you’d feel crazy bc you would believe… but I’m not willing to dig open into my life that far back now.

This is just a little story time.