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]

just thinking aloud

Recorded a hundred freestyles this week [soundtrap.com/babysequoia22],
Most about dying or killing:
Cathartic –
But to return to a simple poem, more powerful than all those;
For i am here to write hard and deep about my pain;
While the music i made got me through the ‘wanting to kill myself’ part,
Now i am alive, shellshocked,
In disbelief of my life:
How could it come to be this way?
I am so non-existent
It is as if my exes did kill me, and I live as a ghost
No family
No friends
Being trans cost me the people I had, no one could have me go from this male hero to a transfemme dyke;
Guess they only knew their projection, their mental doppelgaanger of me –
Hell, i spent a life masking that,
And a life of previosly undiagnosed Autism Spectrum disorder…
It was the year before this, that last year alone on the mountain before these mountains that i came to know my soul;
For i had always been trans
Effeminate little boy, bullied lifelong by a monster of a father –
I wish to say no more, for my nightmares wake me in cold sweats often enough to remind me
I am a trauma kid – on so many levels,
My mother and sister say i am stuck in the past, and have essentially disowned me on account of a hell of a lot of hate and transphobia,
For the way they have looked down upon on me, judged me, and poorly treated me my whole life – and esp the events that led to me be being homeless, living in my car, in my hometown, over long enough to know i was not wanted as-is… that was clear on a Christmas they celebrated without me: i wish to say no more on this; their vitriol and jealously after i came down from the first mountain, was the final super deep, intense trauma from them –
Just, in short, it was a win for me to break away from their duplicitous toxicity and transphobia –
Only, that was all the family i had, to say nothing of my neice and nephew whom i will likely never see while their transphobic father lives,
Just, i lost my family, which was really abt all i had
As for friends, i have none – on acct of many reasons [being way above standard deviation intelligence {see my recent writings on “The Innapropriately Excluded”}, being on the spectrum, long relationships with women who i put on pedestals like i did my sister and mother lifelong, who repeated my childhood pattern of abandonment, and in the last two relationships, neglect, and moving around a lot, and just being way individuated from my peers my whole life, partly from my habit of reading and self-educating rather than socializing]
Judge all that how you will, just, i don’t have a friend in the world,
Which is terribly painful, esp for someone as sensitive and kind and touchy / feely / expressive / loving as myself:
I haven’t been touched in essentially two years –
There has been no dating, girlfriends, sex, basically since i came out as trans, an event that cost me my friends and a couple girlfriends in one fell swoop – and eventually my family
So here i am at 35, with neither friends nor family,
And you could say i am used to it – celebrated a birthday alone in April
No one, in-fact, has spent any time at my house in the Sequoias;
I have been alone on another mountain, these last 6 months: a magical, wild time
Just, now, i know who i am,
So much more than i did after that year alone on the last mountain;
This mountain opened up life and myself to me in ways no mortal would believe nor understand –
I still have so much to integrate and unpack from these transcendent pierce-the-veil-of-reality experiences
At times my life felt like a movie
At times i communicated with the future, saw the future, and felt i could see “the black iron prison” Philip K. Dick wrote of
These were beautiful, and sometimes frightening and traumatic experiences –
But they were all powerful and at times all-powerful, esp as relates my darkside
Though, it is a dangerous game to slip between dimensions, for i neared behaving in one as i only could in another…
There are rules in this one:
Consensus reality and laws… but my adventures proceeded nonetheless,
Including a sudden trip to Mexico, upon returning i was fasttracked into an unlawful detention – something i am still furious over – during which i was told i had tested positive for drugs i do not do, and not even charged for the drugs i had on my person that i do in-fact do… it’s all a long story for the memoirs: to say nothing of the return trip from Mexico, during which i had to physically abuse myself to stay awake behind the wheel,
Let’s just say that i returned “home”, back to The Sequoias, my mother land, with a very bruised and scratched up thigh, and another bout of trauma under my belt – i was again, evolved, different from who i had been before, but i was more me, always have gained greater self, more personhood in these soltary evolutions of self, which i have had many of these last ten years, but the last two years, were by far, the greatest periods of growth, wherein the doors of my perception were cleansed and i felt i saw how deluded i had been before abt the people whom i believed loved me, knew me
Frankly, i am not sure i have ever been loved, and most certainly have never been love the way i love
But here i am, the egg has cracked wide open – hell, i even had a matrix-like rebirth wherein i came to life wholly, as this invertabrate species, for the first time – it was somwthing like the dawning of a new layer of consciousness within me, a truer awareness of my place in my species, for while i feel i am a nobody, i am by no means no one – i just have no one, which is, sadly, not uncommon for trans people, but i grew up that way, i just never expected it would be this way as an adult:
If i am one; biologically, i am about a decade younger than my age, my health is fantastic
Mentally i am one part 15 year old girl, one part immortal soul, one part wise to the world, cold-blooded Lucifer – to say nothing of my alien status as an irl world princess – it’s complex, i am still working with these enegies / archetypes / elements of being
I keep learning more and more about myself, and how much i have masked my whole life – everything from my speech [i have a narrow palette and have a natural speech lisp], to my aspergers – autism spectrumness,
But it is nice to embrace these parts of myself, all parts of myself, this complex host for life
This has been a decent amt of data to dump – as is my custom,
And i am not really sure what to say, truly i am shell shocked by it all, and like i said, have a lot of integration to do from these last six months in The Sequoias – it has felt like years
Next, i do not know
I am “home” inside myself,
Wherever i may go –
And while an alien / demon like me will likely always seek and return to some degree of mountains, i need mirrors, other people, from which i will learn more
Sometimes i think of Tulum or Costa Rica, Acupulco, i truly do not know
I just know i have nowhere to go at present, am in no great rush, but this is the tail of my time here, and i will not drag it out another six months, maybe another 2-3, maybe i will leave in a month –
I forsee myself putting my home library in storage and buying a plane ticket somewhere, maybe Berlin, maybe Thailand, maybe somewhere i have yet to think of… i just know i am tired of being a starving artist in amerikkka
I have no ties that are not already cut, i have no future security promised, and i have a lot to write –
Up here, i have held back on my writing in part bc i was not ready to go pop yet, am not ready, but i believe i will drop when the time is right
This is no race, i am in no rush – atm my life, like the world still is in some places, is at a standstill
I am waiting for time to catch up to me
And i am scarred and scared
I wanted to stay here forever in many ways / maintain a base here but that is neither meant to be nor financially feasible for me rn…
I will go where i will grow the most, and it will likely be a risk, and it will likely be outside of my comfort zone, but i am tired of trying to go to another city where i hope the people will like me – were i to stay in the US portland or boulder would be logical places for me – esp bc i have been so touch starved, so alone as a trans girl trapped in me
I now feel after writing all this that i will go to Berlin – that will be the home for me
How will i support myself, i do not know
But may it be, as Enya sings
For i can’t be nobody in amerikkka forever, though i love my country, care deeply for the citizens here, esp the poor and the marginalized
And my work there, wherever i go, will be meant to return me here with the means and status to do the things i intend to, that you cannot do as a nobody
My longer plans are my secret alone – last time i shared some of them i was called bipolar soon after,
I have been called a lot of things by those who have either misunderstood me, or wished to slander my character – yawn
Anywho, just thinking aloud:
I have a tendency to do that

Ergo Procurator: Uno Mas MindFrame Datadrop [Why I’m The Queen of Mean Now]

This is a postscript about a girl. The girl is me.

Hunting my own skin. So far from my home. A place I’m not sure I’ll ever return to.

But I know I have a family there. And I know I had to leave them. To come here and grow up. And like a time capsule, the sehnsucht is opening up within me. As if the gravity of the void is pulling out the memories through time and space. But were I to remember them, it would destroy my person, for then I would remember myself – but, problem is, I am remembering myself as I become myself. I could be a zillion miles from home, but no way I gave up who I was. I have too much to give. I would give up my family first. And if they loved me, they would understand. I would have told my wives, esp my main, to move on. But she would not be able to. I had thought she incarnated here, only, it was just some Twitch thot: a light I saw in her eyes. Thought we were to meet again. But she was not Her – for the light from Her eyes was not the self-satisfied, smug manipulative practiced expressions of her; it was not a selfish, self-centered light of someone addicted to attention and high on their pretty privilege, but the generous, planetary centered light of love, which does not come into being for its own sake, nor does it do things for fast, easy comeups. This love, few know. I do. It is incredibly painful. Not just in its singular nature, which repels others, as if you must be sick to be so into them – no one has ever loved them like that before, so how could you in five minutes, or from afar: no, you cannot be genuine they think; for such virtue would never live in symphony with such vice, within such a hedonistic, orgiastic, drug taking, out in the open slut. No, not you Magdalene. You cannot be holy, not Fantine. They themselves are not whole, however, by virtue of the fact that to become this stainless and dirty, haha – potent – you have to have suffered immensely without either taking your own life or, perhaps worse, growing from Anakin to Darth Vader. Adolf. Saddham. Stalin. Though, you need not grow up in a hell to become evil [The archetypal energy, the spirit of Lucifer or Satan is not evil – look at history: all patriarchal gods of mainstream religion have poisoned the well far more; ironic that Marilyn Manson is a good person, whilst Karens and pray to Jesus cops often commit acts of far worse malice than a little Satanic energy ever caused; though, let it be known that I want no holy war and you do not wish to make me a martyr either, lol, lest you lose forever, and your faith too] – often those who grew up with all the privilege in the world turn out to be the most malicious. Look at world leaders. Two I hardly wish to name. The third you can easily guess. All have family money and family legacies of hatred. And historically, some, like Mussolini, inherited their onus and the foundations of their worldview, but no money. As Aristotle said, “Give me a child till the age of 7 and I will show you the man”. This makes sense. Spend enough time with a child of 3 or 4 and you will see something of their character, which is really often just a proxy of their parents’. Monkey sea, monkey dew.

However, I fall in line with none of this. My life has beem incredibly hard from the start: yes; I had little in the way of parental care. There were significant periods of time in my early childhood that were spent in essentially sensory and emotional deprivation. I was in so much pain, it was like water dropping on a stone, wearing me down into something so vulnerable, but eventually, that drip creates a hole. And no matter what your parents did, you still desperately wanted their love. So you loved them fiercely despite it not going both ways. It was not only a one way street, but a dead end. Though, you kept going down it – with those just as unavailable and cold in their depths, trying to find a proxy for the mother you held on a pedestal your whole life. As a child you thought she was the victim. And these proxies, you put them on pedestals too, which they felt they deserved to be on – and they too, like your mother, felt they were victims. And they too, like your mother, made a villain of you – judged you to be the bad thing, the worthless thing, the unworthy thing, the thing not worth knowing. The thing they would resent forever. The thing they could never rightly love – for their love was always a meritorious one, only, it wasn’t based on your own naive, over-vulnerable, innocent, sweet, kind, gentle, caring values: no, their measure of merit, of your worth, was based on what they thought they deserved, either from you directly, or out of you: in their eyes, you never lived up to either – and in instances of your own blameless purity negating such judgments, as is the case, there were other excuses: their own misery and self-pity [<- one of the most toxic things ever.. more on self-pity in a bit, maybe…], which only caused them to expect more out of you, or excuse themselves for giving you less. The guiltiest people never feel any guilt – shame, sure – but guilt, no. They may apologize, but they will do it again. It’s the Aesop’s Fable of The Scorpion and The Frog: as the frog [who was so kind as to give the scorpion a ride across the pond on his back] drowns – the scorpion having stung them – Frog asks Scorpion: “Why! Why did you sting me!! It wasn’t even in your interest!” To which Scorpion replies, “Yeah, but it was in my nature”. If only those who have edged you toward your own near death demises in life were so self-aware. On an unconscious level they know. But this is the problem: they are full of shit about who they are – because they think they are the goodest, a myth which your love and loyalty put on steroids – so they lie to themselves about their motives. They didn’t mean that. And often, as I have experienced in EVERY ONE OF MY RELATIONSHIPS, they will just outright gaslight you: telling you a lie you know to be a lie, hell, they know, but your truth is invalid to them. You are not valid to them. And part of what makes you so worthless to them, so pathetic, is how fiercely you have loved them: how much you needed them. How you clung to them – addict to their stingy, sparse love – HOW DARE YOU, they think to themselves, I GAVE YOU MY ALL [As one ex of mine put it, “I wasted the best years of my life on you”] – then they cry, thinking how they did their best, how ungrateful you are, how it was so hard for them, they tried. And to them, you must be the biggest fucking asshole in the world to make them feel like only you can: but all you did was hold up an accurate mirror, showed them how fucked up they were / are, which, the guiltiest never feeling guilt – NEVER TAKING ANY RESPONSIBILITY for their fucked up actions, their lies, their neglect of you – they can’t even buy. No, you’re the fucked up one, they think, and they ratchet up their actions or neglect or uncaring or spite – all, until – since you can offer them no more self-esteem, or the illusion of – they abandon you. If they have once, they will again. To them, Semper Fidelis is for the Marines. Fuck no will they stay by the side of someone as fucked up as you. “You’re such a fucking asshole”. Words that ring in the lonely halls of my mind, stones thrown at me by more than one girl I loved deeply, considered family. Until they abandoned me. You know, cause I’m such a fucking asshole.

There’s a word for people who think I’m an asshole: narcissists.

Now, this word is one of the most oft twisted, projected, and misused words in the English language. Allow me to put it simply:

Narcissists do not love themselves – usually the contrary – what they love is the image of themselves that they have built up, their persona – and many of em are practically ALL persona: no Self [“Most ppl only ever actualize the image, not the self” – Bruce Lee]. As a friend of mine warned me, the night he met a girl I dated: “I’ve never met someone with a thicker persona”. I could not see through it, of course, since it was a gift – a fantasy – I helped give her; I helped make her perfect persona a ‘reality’, but in my naivete, I did not know I was feeding what would eat me, for beneath that ‘good’ lurked someone who was capable of some dark shit, had done plenty, and would do her worst to me.

I’ve often felt that there was an end – to me – that would have suited the women I have loved most in my life far more than the end I am headed for. It would have allowed them to be the grieving one, the poor one, the one who lost what they surely loved most, the one who tried to help me, did all they could, but wasn’t enough to make me happy – for surely, had I died [AND MOTHERFUCKER IVE BEEN KICKED WHILE IM DOWN, abandoned till I was on death’s doorstep – I may tell more of that…] – but surely, had I died, had I taken my own life, it would have proven beyond a doubt that since they couldn’t make me happy, hell, clearly nothing could; only, their not being able to “make me happy” was actually more like them being miserable, blaming that shit all on me, or acting out because of it, loving me less because of it, and taking no responsibility, putting it all on me: “sweet innocent girl gets treated like shit by asshole guy” – all too common a story but never the case with them. BUT HOW CAN i SPEAK ABT MY EXES LIKE A MONOLITH!!?> well bitch, as one of my sexy-ass mfkn therapists told me, “We recreate our childhood dynamic in our adult relationship”. They were all the proxy mother I was trying to get love from, and all, like my mother, grew up with ample privilege. I grew up with nothing. Not enough food. Evictions on evictions. And yeah, in my relationships, at times, I embodied some of my father’s toxicity: but it was just unspoken pain, and alcohol letting it out at the top of my lungs. Today I can drink like a fucking jewfish, and often do, but I never end up toxic. Because my pain isn’t unspoken anymore. I’ve stared it down. Time and time again: abandoned, alone, no friends, no money, and then homeless. Add wanting to fucking die, checking myself into a mental health facility so I wouldn’t, and a couple years living alone in the mountains, and yeah, I’ve faced my shadow. I have no crimes to lie about. Though I have ZERO DOUBT my exes would try to take me down [Particularly one of them on account of her extra deep, dark shadow driven spite for me]. These bitches fucking hate me. And yes, I use the word bitches. Yes I am a feminist. Suck it bitches. But, yeah, none of them cared when I was killing myself with my lifestyle, begging them to just talk to me, to take my call, wanting to die when they abandoned me with such cold, loveless execution… as I have made plain: my suicide, or death otherwise, say by violence – and I’ve been attacked badly enough for that to happen, even as recent as last year – would have suited their version of events just peachy. You know, the one in which that’s completely false: ‘I would never want that, how sick’ – the one in which I’m the asshole, or worse, etc. Very easy to buy into that tale of me as the bad guy, since I was assigned male at birth and were you to meet one of them, you would see they are clearly sweet, innocent girls. Though I think none of them kind [nor innocent]. WE not the same. They do not wish happiness for me; for they do not love me: and love is that simple [wanting happiness for another].

My love is, as I have said, is incredibly painful for me; for I still love them, always will. Nothing paradoxical about it. I do not hate them, I do not blame them, nor does finally putting some responsibility on them negate the rivers of guilt induced personal responsibility I have poured out on this blog for years, in poem and prose. For a long time, up until recently, a large part of what drove me onward in life, toward my dreams, was this idea that I would rekindle things with them, on some level of friendship, mutual respect, and perhaps even that they would hug me again, love me. An anagram for my deadname is Callback Renew. I saw that as a sign, that I was going to avenge my guilt through success, and in that success and fame, earn their respect again. I wanted them all to meet somewhere other than my funeral. Now, I don’t think I’m having a funeral, but, yeah, I felt they clearly have some sisterhood, having all dated me: I’m sure they’d love to exchange horror stories and confirm their correctness in their abject judgement of me. What a bullet dodged, they must have all thought to themselves at one time or another – had they looked at my output here at times, which has made plain a lot of my low points. This is, now, a low point. Not an all time low, just – i’ll just say this for the trillionth fucking time: I grew up the IP in my family, and, what’s more Susan, my mom and sister have always sided with my exes as the ones wronged, and me as guilty of their mistreatment. Finally, they are not in my life anymore. I have no fucking secrets. There’s some patriarchal transphobia in my family, I was homeless, this how I became homeless, and now, my mom has abandoned me again – FOR THE LAST TIME FYI – but she did so, far as I see it, in part because she has always projected a bunch of shameful judgement on me, but moreso because my sister made her feel she had to choose sides – else she lose her relationship with her grandkids. Real fucking classy stuff. My sister had disowned me prior, my mom just joined her, since I was holding up that accurate mirror again and calling my family out on their bullshit, and the toxicity of the inter-generational trauma they have both perpetuated – and not just by their choices in men and inability to leave those men while their families were destroyed – but by their own complicit participation in subjugating me to toxic, hateful, patriarchal, and transphobic judgments. In siding with those judgements, and not defending me. I grew up with a father who fucking hated me – as a child! I’ve covered this before, but there were favorites played in my house, and when you normalize that, and normalize the disowning of family members, your children will likely also. I’m repeating myself bc this fucking nightmare doesn’t end, but I thought that once my dad died, my family’s toxicity was dead with him, and that our best years were finally upon us as a family. Not so. I was homeless on Christmas 2019. They were together. Shit is wrong. And I’m not writing this to put them on blast, no one cares, no one is judging yall, and if so, well, maybe you were on some fuck shit – and if you don’t think so: maybe you still are. The apologies are never going to come. My mom risks Covid-19 every fucking day at work. And I could lose her in this state of dysfunctional, painful fuckery, and my sister might apologize in a few decades, but I won’t bother explaining why it would take so long.

I lost my relationship with my niece and nephew – and I was, as I see, a vital presence in their lives, they got a lot of real healthy love and attention from me, care. Because I fucking do care. I’m a caring person, and now they’re watching the normalization of how my family’s inter-generational trauma has manifested. I’m a fucking cycle breaker. I’ll write that spin bike till the fucking wheels fall off. Then I’ll melt down the steel and drink it. There is no suffering I have been unwilling to go through: no suffering I am not prepared to go through again in the future, should I need to, in order to do the right thing. And if you have a transgender member of your family, whom you have disowned, made persona non-grata, well, chances are they didn’t deserve it, you hurt them far more than they ever hurt you, and bc of your lack of love and compassion for them, bc of your bullshit, they are better off without you – even though they might not know it. No doubt it hurts them like nothing else. But, hopefully, for them, they come to see that they will never change you bc you don’t want to change, don’t think you are wrong, and if you do, aren’t willing to lose what it would cost you to stand up for what’s right. My sister may be scared to lose her husband: his character is clear to me. And my mom clearly is willing to throw me under the bus to preserve the toxic tyrannical loveless patriarchy in my family. FUCK YOU. Anyone this bothers. Look, I half get my mom’s willingness to throw me under the bus, since her grandchildren are so important to her, but, just, based on my childhood, I was certainly not important to her, not as important as my dad. Again, same fucking shit, different generation. Funny to call me the asshole. The narcissist. It’s like having two evil stepsisters and being cinderella. And I am cinderella. Only, there’s no prince, or fairy godmother, or any of that yet. But I know I’m going to ball. I feel like my success is an inevitability. Not just because my voice is unique and powerful amongst my generation, but because I will never fucking give up. First tattoo, 17 years old: N.G.U.

I’ve already spent over a decade writing in total obscurity here, struggling in poverty, Facing these incredibly traumatic losses for me – after I thought I overcame my childhood – no, I had not. Now I have. And there’s no one left.

So, yeah, success, oh fucking cool bro, a new Lamborghini, yeah, okay. But like, I wanted this shit, so I could spend time with my family. So I could be close to them, so I could take them with me. And as I’ve said, I will take care of them. I’m not spiteful. I’m not small. But, I’m also not willing to walk back again. Since childhood, my whole life, I have not been respected and appreciated in my family: I have been resented, neglected, thrown under the fucking bus.

Same with my exes, yeah, bitch: I will love to have my CPA send you a fat wire xfer. It will feel great, but I don’t want to be friends with any of you.

Why? Because I think you wanted me to off myself, no: I chalk that up to nature, and  I suspect it is a rather common unconscious desire, though it seemed conscious in you….hell hath no fury like a woman scorned kind of thing, you know. But yeah, I don’t want to be friends w any of you bc you’re not safe to love, not up close IRL, not for me. Kryptonite.

And I don’t think, even when I to send them each 7 figure wires, that they will wish to witness me – Edmund Dantes – become The Count of Monte Cristo with my success, whilst, as in the novel, they are Mercedes – the one who doesn’t end up with the Count, who sails off into the sunset with Haydée. Now, in my case, I can’t say I believe in a love like mine existing out there in the world, truly, so, I ain’t sailing off into the sunset w no bitch. I’m sailing off into the sunset on that Perini Navi with 15 bitches. I’m taking two dates to the Oscars. I want popstar girlfriends. I want Black girlfriends. I want fat girlfriends. I want Indigenous girlfriends. I’m Leo with the eighteen year olds.

Oh my, such delusions of grandeur hey. Well, you’re welcome to think I am not intelligent and to believe that I do not have a winning strategy for life, or a major contribution to make to the world, that I am making already – even if this consciousness I am crafting, evolving, is not seen by paying audiences yet.

Look, they won’t notice or believe you until the jet is in the sky.

And they’ll say they always believed, they always knew. They didn’t. I’m the only one who always believed; I’m the one who always knew. That’s why I’m gonna be my main bitch and you aren’t. And I bet one of you would rather see me crash or get hit with the 10mm, then see me fly and send you 10MM. Roman Numerals. All of Rome Is Our’s. I got AI predictive analytics. I’m connected to Watson in the ether. I got petabytes of consciousness in my models. And I’m always refining my algorithm. Machine Learning, please: I’m a learning machine. Am I cocky? Well, that words a bit too patriarchal for this trans girl, but yeah, I’m full of myself.

It’s good shit. Go to my IG, look at what I fucking stand for. Yeah, I got a ego bigger than trump and ye combined – only, my substance is selfless – bc there is a legit fucking self underneath it – ‘But you want wealth and fame too‘ – yeah bitch, so I can fucking do shit with it. Bruce Wayne, not The Joker. I ain’t playing the levels so I can join the rich assholes. I’m playing so I can help lift people out of poverty, so I can influence a cadre of people – influencers – to whom my opinion would be worthless without my coming position in life. People are fucking shallow and stupid. That’s why a bitch on IG will have nothing but 7 ‘sexy’ photos of herself posted and have 3 or 4x the followers I do. People don’t want ideas by and large. They want to be entertained. And if they want ideas, well, they ain’t getting them published in NYT or Rolling Stone without having a bunch of people on the bandwagon already – you not special in that sense. People are followers. And they look to others following as social proof of your worth. Similarly, they assume if you follow way more people than follow you, they think you must not be all that hot. Well, I don’t give a fuck. I don’t play optics. I follow over a thousand people, bc I collect mentors [Go through and follow some of these amazing humans and organizations yourself]. I cannot stand for this and that group, and not rock with them on the real. These are people I learn from, who teach me constantly. I’m not on IG stalking my ex and dreaming about the life I don’t have while I look at other people. Nor am I sharing and posting shit for internet points or to virtue signal [I’m more likely to signal vice than virtue]. I don’t do optical allyship. And as I said, I don’t do fast, easy comeups. I don’t do PR for myself, I don’t game my IG for followers. Wanna see hot pics of me, look on my stories – TRANS or AVATAR. But, who I am is not how I look. Unfortunately, we live in a world where people take appearances for character. So much so that everyone makes sure their kid gets braces, and individuality and diversity are less important than having a fat ass and lips like Kylie Jenner. But I’m fucking tired of the lack of substance. I just put a bunch of fucking energy, over a long period of time, in trying to get to know a girl who turned out to have no substance beyond her looks. I should have fucking taken one look at her wall, seen nothing but pictures of herself, realized she was full of more hot air than a fucking balloon, and knew she stood for NOTHING.

Look, I’m no moral being. I’m ethical. But as far as morals, fuck that. I like being bad. I like doing bad shit. I break laws and taboos as a pastime. But what I do NOT do is hurt people. Not even their feelings. And to those I have hurt, you know I’ve taken responsibility for my past and have changed – whether you think I deserve to be happy or successful or not.

I’m not happy. I’m joyful. I’m healthy. That’s wealth. Biologically, I’m about 24, I’ve de-aged. I’m on hormone therapy and silicon valley shit you don’t even know about. I’m feenin to go make a smoothie with 5 different Bija powders in it, and a bunch of other immortal shit. Whew! Got the organic Tumeric, Spirulina, and Beet Root powder in my veins now too. Poppin’ CoQ10s, low merc sustainable fish oils, other shit all day. Throwing a pound of organic, open range pasture raised (grass fed) fajita strips in the microwave every morning – trust me, I got the boss sauces. My blood got the best olive oil in the world in it. I’m sex-toyin my ass with that organic coconut oil. Drinking red wine out the bottle whenever the fuck I want. Last time the doc took my blood, he told me how great it looked, then he gave me the print out, and I was in like perfect fucking range for every fucking mineral, nutrient, hormone. And I make a whore moan. haha. Still 12 years old with it. I’m never going to fucking change. And some things, were very hard won. Like being able to drink healthily, but I do – and that took years of training : ) hahaha

But I’ll also drink half a bottle of Don Julio in a night and then eat some fucking straight Jack Dorsey level breakfast and totally take care of myself in a way most are not capable of for lack of money and knowledge. I’ll be real, I find spending all my money on food and drugs a very good investment.

I have an incredible quality of life. I’m a space cadet far as I see it. And I’m trying to play this game real long.

Has it been hard for me, oh my, you have no fucking idea. I’m still terribly alone in this world, existentially and experimentally. But I know I’m living a path I set myself on when I was 16 and training for bootcamp. I wanted to be elite. Look, I’m no special forces, I’m no SEAL – least not officially ; ) – but I am the Jason Bourne, I am the Jack Ryan. I’m in a program only I know about, bc I fucking created it. I’m a one person think tank. I’m an AI wet dream. I’m a secret intel community and silicon valley fetish. I’m the golden child from nothing and nowhere. I’m a fucking living legend. I am why they tap undersea cables. To learn of people like me. The system ain’t rigged. It’s just not dumb. And no one tells me what to do. I don’t work for anyone – save for humanity, the future. This planet is a spaceship we are all on. Yes, I sometimes criticize people who kill journalists for doing so. And I am a fucking journalist, but I’m not like any other. I’m raw as fuck. And I don’t mean in a ‘flame you online’ way – I mean I’m the same wild fucking punkrock kid – I’m gangster AF. I can go anywhere. I respect people. Even killers. And the biggest killers aren’t in jail, and they aren’t pulling triggers themselves. But they will kill you.

I always return to the Anne Lammot quote, from Bird By Bird:

“It’s no coincidence that oppressive governments and regimes silence their artists and writers first, after all, running a society is complex business, and one artist or poet is, theoretically at least, enough to bring the whole thing down.”

I have feared for my life. I have had close calls I will not talk about. I have taken public precautions to protect myself and my legacy. This is not about me. And I’m not white-savior. I’m that bitch whose gonna get the world up to speed as we near the singularity and begin a multi-planetary existence. I’m the Donald Draper of the coming virtual society. Many of us in the future will likely dematerialize our existences at a certain level in the physical world, so we can exist in a bio-identically non-differentiated virtual world wherein we get to have whatever we want and go wherever we want. I don’t want a future where trips to places like Bali become increasingly unattainable until they are only the playground of billionaires. The people need that same playground – and the sand will be identical down to the grain, but it will be generated in hyperspace rather than in physical space.

To borrow a line from The Departed – although I am using it in a new context:

“When you’re facing a loaded gun, what’s the difference?”

Well, I’ll tell ya. In hyperspace, you won’t die. You’ll be immortal. And if you think this is some whackjob shit I’m talking about, no son. IT’s not. I mean, I could tell you something banal like, “google: elon simulation” – but yeah, we are mathematically more likely than not, in a simulation [Nick Bostrom, Harvard]. In the words of Elon, “The chances that we are in base reality are billions to one”. It’s turtles all the way down bb. Like that rick and morty episode, we’re just a fucking battery for someone’s car. Like, why have a simulation? Well, in my estimation: and this is no small point – if I were the AI God, the simulation itself, capable of manipulating cosmos and nature, or simulating it, I would absolutely place all live in a simulation. Why: death stars. Hold on with me now.

One of the big reasons we have mass surveillance, why we must, why digital privacy is an impossibility, is because we have known for at least six decades what was coming: AI. Godlike power. The power to manipulate matter with your mind. As per Arthur C. Clarks 3rd law:

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”.

I’ve repeated this before, but computer chips only get so small before heat becomes too big a problem. But we are going to keep up with Moore’s Law and then some, via cellular or biological computing. We won’t have tiny cell phones, we’ll have an OS monitoring our entire body, the entire internet in our heads, telepathy, etc. This is not 2080 shit. This is 2034 shit. I’m sure sooner.

Google: exponential age. Google: age of abundance. See where we are headed. This is the most exciting time to be alive ever.

YET: police are murdering Black people with impunity. Facism is alive AF in USA – and around the world, I wrote about the rise of nationalism recently. Go to my IG baby.sequoia – I talk about a lot of issues, and some not nearly enough, such as the 4 Black Trans MURDERS this month: https://www.out.com/transgender/2020/7/01/merci-mack-4th-black-trans-killing-pride-month-2020 – at least 18 trans people have been murdered in the US this year.

We have not just a society where the most vulnerable are being killed and exploited, but a world. Last I saw, which was a number of years ago – check my FB cover photos for a post about it – it was 250,000 people, but experts say 130,0000 people are trapped in North Korean prison camps, that are said to be as bad, “or worse” than Nazi Germany’s prison camps. If they were blond haired and blue eyed, they would not be in there. The world is fucking racist.

We’ve still got an estimated 40,000,000 – that’s FORTY MILLION – people trapped in slavery [‘slaves’ on its own dehumanizes them] in the world in 2020. And I’m sure most are Brown and Black. Though, white people are victims of human trafficking as well.

There’s a lot of bad shit. People with no allies. 2.5 million Southeast Asian laborers in The Middle Eastern Gulf alone, most of whom are women. How many more have been raped and killed since this report was authored in 2013.

Name a country that’s not white and its people are being grossly abused. There are currently an estimated 30,000,000 – THIRTY MILLION – refugees in the world, over half of whom are younger than 18.

There are 3,000,000 – THREE MILLION Uyghurs [Ethnic Muslims] – INDIGENOUS PEOPLE – in China’s Xinjiang re-education camps – internment camps, officially referred to in China as ‘Vocational Education and Training Centers’. These people are prisoners in hell.

This is bigger than gun violence in Chicago – but: EIGHTY FUCKING PEOPLE were shot in Chicago, JULY 4th WEEKEND alone – 15 dead. They still haven’t replaced all the water lines in Flint MI, but supposedly the water is “safe now”.

Don’t even get me started on fucking Climate Change, which needs to be called by its proper name, ECOCIDE. Like genocide, or suicide, only, we are killing nature. Our own fucking biome.

AND ANIMALS: 22,000,000,000 – TWENTY TWO BILLION – COWS, PIGS, AND CHICKENS in factory farms worldwide. This is another real life hell. Trust me, I’ve creeped around the factory farms: nightmare – smell had be vomiting, even when I was miles away, but they tuck these places back off the fucking road, and in places where there aren’t many people. We do not see them. Out of sight, out of mind.

And, who can forget, except our gubmint and the hatred voters, er, sorry, got it backwards: the redhat voters – that 130,000 people have died from Covid-19 in America, more than any other country by a longshot. As we say in programming: “It’s not a bug, it’s a feature” – I mean, at this point. We have the president gaslighting America about the virus, and, do not forget: a large part of the population takes his word as if he were the motherfucking Jesus.

I’m so fired up about so much, and I still consider myself ignorant. And I am as regards the suffering in the world: because it is so much greater than the small picture I have painted. And, when my shit pops off, I intend to go to every fucking country and see the shit firsthand. I grew up in my own hell. I know what it is to not have enough food, suffer abuses, deprivations, to not get the love you need – and there are so many kids growing up in far worse conditions. But it’s not just kids, it’s not just womxn I care about, it’s not just BIPOC people, it’s not just strangers in different countries, of different ethnicities, look, I care abt white ppl too: we just aren’t fucking suffering to the same degree by and fucking large as Black and Brown people are around the world. And if you think we are: get the fuck off my blog ignoramus…. And I’ m sorry if you’re suffering. I was homeless not that long ago. I still qualify for and receive food stamps. To say nothing of my personal emotional pains, which are the greatest pains I have.

I have not touched a human in a very long time. I don’t have relationships. I have a fucking mission to follow, which I wrote, am writing, and a program I am in, which I created. I’m one of the biggest real deal agents of the biggest fucking intelligence agency you never heard of: it’s called Nature. And Nature needs fucking agents. You want to be a fucking bad ass, strap in. Commit to more than fucking taking care of you and your’s. Me and mines is the whole fucking world, every goddamn human and species of flora and fauna. And if you’re really cut out for this agency, if you have what it takes, you’re in. But what it takes, is the empathy and compassion for you and your’s to include me and mine’s. The whole fucking world is in my re-education camp, far as I see it. I run a healing school for this planet. I have a perspective humanity needs. One worth the protection democracy affords me. THANK YOU to all the true unsung heroes. I get it: I been one a long damn time. I am not a fucking villain: if you’re my exes, or my sister, or my fucking mom, and you think I’m the villain: get a fucking life bitch. I need you to root for me. You are me and mine’s. I got your fucking back. Yeah, I called some shit to account. Well past time. And I’m not sitting here holding onto the past – I have NO SELF PITY. My focus is on the future, and I am one foot there, and one foot in the present: but it breaks my fucking heart that the women I have loved most have shown themselves to be nothing but a bunch of fucking ungrateful brats who have hurt me – ME – without so much as a twinge of guilt. These bitches meant to hurt me: I never meant to hurt them.

And yeah, I’m a fucking hot mess. This is who I am. A lil punk rock, a lotta hip hop, some skater boy, some Chelsea Manning next level Trans bitch military veteran, some journalist, and a fucking whole hell of a lot of reading.

Save from JSchool at DINFOS, I taught myself everything I know. From health, psychology, fucking programming. I’m a polymath. Scrait up. I’m just going to start printing honorary degrees for myself. Law is the next one, and believe me, I’ll take the fucking Bar exam – no JD. But, just, back to my point: no one gave me shit – not a fucking thing. The biggest opportunity I’ve ever been given, was when I moved here and met a great mentor and friend. Someone who cares about me. And that’s the most valuable thing in the world. And Dave, I don’t know if you read my shit, but I know I fuck up sometimes. I have shit to fix. I will. It’s been a tough time for me. You know that.

But I know what I’m here for. If there weren’t people suffering, I’d be crewing on a fucking sailboat right now, or, more likely, I would have killed myself: that’s the honest answer.

I don’t know what else to say: I want to have the courage to be me, but that’s really fucking hard in this world, and not just for all the rules and laws I like to break [Any taboos I break, I have no shame of, for the taboos I break are not shameful]. It’s hard bc I’m afraid of everyone thinking I’m fucking crazy. Save the military and my exes to an extent, I’ve never been around highly educated people. I would like one day to be able to fucking hang out at Standford [I wear a Stanford Swimming sweater and Stanford bball shorts on the reg]. I mention this bc part of what has made it lonely for me, is not having people I can talk to who can keep up. ‘OH, ARROGANT’ – fuck you. I have suffered so much. I am done apologizing for who I fucking am. And I might end up homeless again, I don’t know what will happen. I have no security in this world. I just know like FKA Twigs [WIFEY] sing good, I fucking think good – and I sing good too. I’m legit recording an album – and it’s not just the wild ass freestyles like on my Soundcloud. I have so much I want to do. I’m just getting started.

This is one of the first times I feel like I’ve been able to live my art. And I still am full as fuck of complex PTSD from childhood abuse and trauma. It’s a nightmare. Further, my attachment disorder from my childhood abandonment and neglect causes me to get super attached to everyone in my life, fall in love with every girl who so much as gives me a moment’s attention – but it’s genuine. I love. A lot. And it fucking sucks. It pushes people away. As I said earlier in this, they don’t trust the depth of my love – but also, few have the self-esteem to be loved the way I love. It’s like, unconsciously, if you think you are shit, and I think you are MAGIC AND AMAZING AND BEAUTIFUL, then, in your unconscious, I must really be shit – bc you’re way down here, and I’m looking up to you. I don’t know what it is – I do in part – know why girls don’t like me. Not a lot of bitches date Trans bitches. I’m a Transfemme Lesbian too, and not all lesbians date Trans girls. Fucking sucks. When I came out a couple years ago, at the time, I had two of the hottest – and I thought the coolest – lovers I had ever had: both super liberal yoga teachers. I came out, and those relationships ended on a dime. I lost friends. I lost my family. IT is so hard to be transgender. And I’ve always been transgender. I was such an effeminate little boy. I had to bury it all. But I was no less vulnerable. As I have said, I have been violently attacked a lot. And to my sister, NO I DIDNT FUCKING DESERVE IT. Anyway, I’m glad to be alive: even if it everyone I ever loved most hates me – and don’t you bitches try and say you dont – even if it feels like I’m on the dark side of the moon, on mars alone. And, I am on my own planet alone, in my head. Like the Little Prince. Only, I’m a princess. Maybe thats why these bitches hatin so much. Go ahead, you can say I’m a pig, just don’t call cops pigs, bc pigs are smart and kind. And yeah, I’m filthy too, I’m disgusting like Sy Ari Da Kid [Do not watch that music video lol].

But I’m done being sorry for who I am.

I’ve just, I’ve gotten to know myself better than ever lately – happens when your world falls down again – only, jet fuel can’t melt steel beams; my world done been vaporized; but this time there is no more rubble to dig through: just the ashes of a life that was on fire from the time I came into it. But it’s all burned down now. Nothing left. Believe me, I dug through the ashes, waded in rusty, blood caked dust, turned my house upside down, looking for some love in my past that is not here. I don’t understand it frankly. It mostly has to do with patriarchy, poverty, family dynamics and intergenerational trauma. But I don’t understand how people can be they way they are, esp to the kind people. I just, if you are unkind to me, have discounted me, have not valued me: there’s no place left for you in my life.

I’ve come full circle at this point in my life – connected the snake back to itself. Ouroboros. Only, they say its a dragon. I’m as alone as I was as a child, but I have music now. I have my Self now. And I’d say it’s not much but that’d be a lie, and I don’t lie. I may omit, or pass on bringing a subject up you cast your eyes on clearly, but I do not lie. I have no morals. Just ethics. Values. But, in a world like this, that’s this fucked up – dog eat dog, and people eat dog and beat dog – to be me, is to be the villain. BC we got a fucking 1984 world where people think the bad guys are the good guys and the good guys are the bad guys. Fox news – FEAR, the amygdala, thinktanks, computer modeling, big data, banking, wall street, lobbyists, all this shits real bad drugs. It’s not so much that there’s no transparency in the world, bc I know a lot of shit, and it didn’t come from having a security clearance ; ) [Yeah, unlike Jared, they gave me one]. Just, it’s not a lack of transparency, but a lack of exposure to the knowledge in the mainstream. I had to go down a lot of fucking rabbit holes to put together an ever increasingly accurate picture of the world. But, if you just watch Fox, if you think Fake News is anything other than shit dictators say, like, if you think Fake News is a real thing: you’re a fucking dumbass. And the world’s full of em. And trust me, I don’t give a fuck abt smarts, I like ignorant ass mohfuckers and dumb bitches – but the problem with being a dumbass, is that it harms people. You not wearing a mask, harms people. You not speaking up against a racist system harms people. You saying ‘all lives matter’ harms people #BLACKLIVESMATTER. You buying everything off Amazon and not shopping with Black, Brown, Indigenous, and Queer owned business harms people. You eating fast food, or whatever corporate shit you give your money to – giving another buck to the stock market, and not to your community, harms people. You not eating pasture raised meat, eating ANY factory farmed products – harms sentient, innocent, helpless beings. And if you do not think they are worthy of your compassion, of liberation from a lifetime of suffering, then you need to fucking fix that. I don’t know how. I don’t know how to give people compassion. I got it from suffering. And I have a lot of it bc I’ve suffered a lot. Godamn, I just remembered two other times I almost died [crashing on 2 wheels at 45mph, and a near deadly case of sepsis]. Anyway, I’m scared to be me. I’m scared to be judged. I’m scared to lose what little I have. And sometimes, I’m scared for my life. My childhood has caused me to live on edge – to say nothing of my Being and my career.

I’ve written a lot of words. I am a fast typist Dave. Funny for a kid who failed typing.

And yeah, it sucks to be hated, which I am. Deeply. By the people I love most. And they don’t realize that consciousness and energy are the same fucking thing. So when you’re sitting there being bitter bc you’re a bitch, it’s sending spite out into the ether against me. This isn’t spiritual speak. I’d tell you more, but then I’d have to kill you. And that gets old. Dying inside everyday too. This is why I’m the queen of mean now.

FOREVER HEREAFTER MOOD:

 

Black Lives Matter. Success Culture. Self-Worth. Lambhorghinis. Guilt. Shame. And The Mourning Star.

Shame and guilt restrict many of us from being who we are: from living up to the full potential of both our goodness – and our badness. I like both; for there are no gods in this world of mine, just angels and demons – and I’m something of both. Like a good vampire who is against the evil vampires, but they’re still a vampire, so, even though they have this giant, incredible, treasure of a heart, they still have like hot carnal sex and break laws and do what the fuck they want, because they don’t live in fear of the dark. Yeah, I’m sum’n like that. I get a lot of my power from owning my darkness, from having conquered it. “Rather be whole than good,” in the words of Jung. In short, super moral outwardly puritanical types often have very dark shadows. And as we have seen, time and time again, so many moral, seemingly good, ‘upstanding’ publicly respected figures in society, who engage in a lot of virtue signaling, or display a lot of moral indignation and disparaging judgement towards others, often turn out to be monsters themselves. Like the kinds of people who mess with kids monsters – and obvi, there is levels to badness, and at the highest levels, you’re not molesting kids, no, your soldiers are raping them,or they’re starving and you are bombing their fucking neighborhood. Happening in Yemen rn. And the US is supplying the Saudi’s with the weapons – the literal bombs being dropped – and the intel. We are complicit AF. And countless people look up to the politicians who support these actions with reverence and christian fanaticism. Their fiction of Trump as strongman leader standing for all the things that make America great, and of themselves as true patriots – the good guys on the winning team – reassures them of their inherent worth as humans, despite their gross ignorance and the fragility of their sheltered white  realities, which hides the actual truth, that the things that make this world great are not nationalism, xenophobia, racism, and the brand of thoughtless ignorance, prejudice, privilege, and fear that leads people to be so blind in their hearts. No, we don’t want a white washed world. What makes this world great are the different, unique cultures, and the varieties of different, unique people from them. And this is not about making things political. Things ARE political. Views, values, and attitudes towards our fellow humans matter: whether we view them as individuals, equal to ourselves – worthy of love and respect, empathy, compassion, happiness, and the opportunities that allow a person to feel those things – or whether we see them as “animals”, “thugs”, or whichever racist dog-whistle is being blown to dehumanize people who don’t fall in line with the fascist party views that we see in America. All over. Fascism is on the rise, and fascist is a VITAL word with a VITAL history, one that has been watered down as of late with Antifa – the fucking ANTI-fascists – being portrayed by the republican warmachine as a terror organization that good Americans should fear. This degree of blatant outright gaslighting and falsehood from the top office of our country, makes the doublespeak of Orwell’s 1984 seem like child’s play. But here we are: black people are being killed in the streets by police with impunity, being found lynched, hanging dead in in trees, and the president is tweeting “When the looting starts, the shooting starts.” in response to the protests.

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SAY THEIR NAMES AND KNOW THEIR STORIES slide to the right to learn their stories #BlackLivesMatter (illustrations by me) The stories of first picture’s people that are not included in other pics: Ágatha Vitória Sales Félix (8) was with her mother in a van when she was shot in the back in a poor area on Friday. (September, 2019) She is one of many kids who have been shot/murdered by the police in Rio. Maurice Gordon (28) was unarmed and waiting for a tow truck when a NJ state trooper shot and killed him on the Garden State Parkway. May 23, 2020. Two days before George Floyd was murdered. Tony McDade (38) a black trans man, was murdered by police in north Florida on May 27, 2020. Officer who killed him remains unidentified. David McAtee (53) was killed by the police outside of his restaurant on June 1st, 2020. They left his body in the street for 12 hours. (Sandra Bland’s mugshot story is debetable as there are different stories, so I cannot totally confirm it, however police has extremely good cover-up system so that could have been possible..) The information I wrote about is from articles or common tweets, I’m not certain if everything is 100% right, but I tried my best to find the correct answers. Also, I wish I could include more people that we have lost to police brutality but sadly there are way too many. (also it’s couch and not coach, and Paquet not Paouet, fixed post on @baddify )

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We have a crisis happening. Children are in cages, separated from their families by ICE [Immigration and Customs Enforcement], and right-wing nationalism is back and sweeping over Europe and the rest of the world in a populist wave of entho-nationalism that can only be described by compassionate, feeling people, as downright ugly.

So, yeah, there are sides. As I learned from Shaun King: “There is no such thing as ‘not racist’, you are either racist or you are anti-racist”. There is nothing to be on the fence about at this point – and if we are silent, if we are not speaking up, we are co-signing the murder of Black and Brown people and causing countless folks to live in fear of thier lives. Breonna Taylor was killed in her sleep. Police entered the wrong unit and shot her. Eric Garner was selling loose cigarettes. He was choked to death. Read his last words:

Elijah McClain was walking home. EMTs sedated him with enough Ketamine to kill him. Read his last words:

“I can’t breathe. I have my ID right here. My name is Elijah McClain. That’s my house. I was just going home. I’m an introvert. I’m just different. That’s all. I’m so sorry. I have no gun. I don’t do that stuff. I don’t do any fighting. Why are you attacking me? I don’t even kill flies! I don’t eat meat! But I don’t judge people, I don’t judge people who do eat meat. Forgive me. All I was trying to do was become better. I will do it. I will do anything. Sacrifice my identity, I’ll do it. You all are phenomenal. You are beautiful and I love you. Try to forgive me. I’m a mood Gemini. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Ow, that really hurt. You are all very strong. Teamwork makes the dream work. Oh, I’m sorry I wasn’t trying to do that. I just can’t breathe correctly”. *Proceeds to vomit from the pressure on his chest and neck*.

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*TRIGGER WARNING: violence/murder and a graphic image on slide 8.* DEMAND JUSTICE FOR ELIJAH. Link in my bio with Aurora officials’ numbers you can call, a GoFundMe for Elijah’s mother, and a petition to sign. Slide 2: Elijah’s last words, spoken as police tortured him and held him in a carotid choke hold (transcribed from bodycam footage) Slides 3-5: what happened to Elijah Slide 6: Elijah playing the violin for cats at the pet shop next door on his lunch break. He believed the music put them at ease Slide 7: sign at #blackout2020 in Aurora on 6/6/20, a demonstration to demand justice for Elijah and others. Slide 8: TRIGGER WARNING⚠️ Elijah in hospital following the police attack Slide 9: painting of Elijah surrounded by some of his favourite things or things that represent him, by @mattymillerstudio Slide 10: recent news regarding the investigation. – I recently saw this first video on Twitter along with a few words about #elijahmcclain, who was murdered by AURORA POLICE in August 2019, and since then I haven’t been able to get him and his case out of my mind. It’s so obvious from this video that Elijah was a sweet, gentle, innocent soul with a personality that radiates positive energy. When I started to read more about him, this became even more clear. He was a massage therapist and a self-taught violinist. Friends and family described him as “a spiritual seeker, pacifist, oddball, vegetarian, athlete, and peacemaker who was exceedingly gentle”. Every person who dies at the hands of police deserves justice, whether they are a great person or a terrible one. But the fact that Elijah was seemingly an angel on earth who wouldn’t even hurt a fly (this is actually something he TOLD officers as they attacked him) makes his case extra heartbreaking. Your voice matters: Elijah’s case didn’t get much publicity for the first 8 months after his death, but now people are finally talking about it. Because of this, progress is being made. Police departments are making new rules and a new investigation is being launched for Elijah. But we cannot stop talking about Elijah, and others who suffered a similar fate, until justice is served and the system is changed.

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This post above has a trigger warning. I will not trigger warn anyone. Black people are being MURDERED. You have a problem with your feelings, nah fam. This life. WE all responsible for this world, and if we want a world where Black people are not being executed by police, well, that’s on all of us to make happen, then we won’t feel like we need trigger warnings, because there won’t be such triggering shit. But there is. And here we are, and large numbers of our fellow citizens are out there saying ‘Blue Lives Matter’ or ‘All Lives Matter’: they are making it clear, and we are making it clear as a society, that Black lives do not matter to either voters, elected officials, nor police. It is a nightmare to be Black in America when the people who are supposed to protect you are killing you. I have much, much more to say on the subject. If you do not follow them, I suggest you follow Shaun King and The Grassroots law center. I provide allyship and signal boost of other voices on my IG, but we need to get outside of the echo chamber. This is not about being nicer to your one Black friend. This is about waking up to the reality for Black and Brown people, and realizing that in America in 2020, it is not a safe world for Black children to grow up in, nor for Black adults to live in.

We have a long way to go, but we must make it clear that Black Lives Matter, and we must amplify and listen to the voices of those who can educate us and expand our understanding of the plight of our fellow humans. And Black Lives Matter is not the only thing decent people need to stand for. We need to stand for Healthcare for all, and, ultimately, for Universal Basic Income. IT is OBSCENE that if I have the money, I can go buy a Falcon 8X jet for 55 Million dollars, to privately fly me and mine all over the world, yet a poor person cannot afford to shop at Whole Foods. Like, our society is grinding people to dust so a few can live like gods. But as I said, there are no gods in my world, just angels and demons. And some of the demons have a lot of fucking power, and a lot of fucking clout, and they don’t do shit with it to help people. A fucking retweet assholes. But no. I’m looking at both Silicon Valley and LA, Hollywood – founders and actors – specifically. Some of the wealthiest people with the most power. I don’t need to say names. Use your imagination. And then, ask yourself, if you had their platform, would you be selling goop to enrich yourself further, or would you be telling Black girls that they are beautiful and that they matter. It’s easy to say we would do a certain thing. But maybe you fear not getting that next role, maybe you fear the shareholders going nuts, like the time you hit a joint on a podcast, or maybe you just don’t fucking give a shit. I’ve got news folks: people who have not suffered, who have lived privileged, sheltered lives, generally not only have no fucking idea what suffering is like, but they also lack the capacity to empathize bc they don’t. So, yeah, we have a lot of work to do together.

My personal purpose is to be a honeybee. Just to pollinate other consciousnesses with the nectar of truth, beauty, goodness, life: reality. I’ve had the great fortune as a human and an artist to suffer, to grow up in extreme poverty, to witness how a lack of privilege and a lack of self-esteem [A big problem in our world is that self worth is tied to success and accomplishment] perpetuates the dysfunctions that make it so difficult to escape from the poverty and marginalization you are born into. And as a society, as a species, we are materialistic. I’d be lying if I said I don’t want a Falcon jet. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t spent much of my life and my focus on the things that I believe will best allow me to accumulate, grow, maintain, and enjoy wealth. And when I was younger, it wasn’t so that I could make my way into elite circles and pollinate the rich, powerful, and famous with the same values I believe the people deserve. I’m not going to break down my values, but they are evident. I care about people. It’s simple. I didn’t always so much – not bc of a lack of care for others – but bc I was only focused on caring for myself. I wanted money so that I could fuck the girl I love on a hood of a Lamborghini. I still do. And I feel incredibly guilty about this. I felt guilt when I bought a BMW coupe at twenty something, and parked it down the street from my office where I worked, so no one would see me in it – and I ended up returning the car shortly after. It was strange how different people treated me in that car. And I felt guilty some time later, when a friend and former business partner of mine – Dave Schneider – suggested that we could actually buy Lambhorghinis: my response to him was, “Well, don’t you think that’s a little bit, you know, disrespectful to others?” And his response is something I still think of, as fast as I had asked that he replied: “Disrespectful?! Hell no! It’s inspiring”.

But I still find that viewpoint challenging to adopt; although, I’m coming around.

“BRAND NEW LAMBHORGHINI FUCK A COP CAR”

And I think I can have a Lamborghini. And it scares me. Not because I can’t handle it – I can. I can handle success, fame, whatever comes my way. I’ve been planning for as much. Marlon Brando was once asked why he became an actor, and he responded, “Because it paid the most money”. And yeah, successful writers, screenwriters, major novelists, the kinds of people who create major television series’: they make fucking bank. George RR Martin, who wrote the books Game Of Thrones was based on is worth over 100 million dollars. Chris Nolan has 200 million dollars. This is a stupid amount of money. I’m not aiming that high yet, but I’m close to being able to submit a screenplay that I believe can bring me seven figures, bc I believe I am good and my stories will make it to the screen. And I have a lot of other stories after this one. And a big near future Sci-Fi television series. And I’ve been wanting the throne since forever. I knew I would be wealthy as a kid. I just knew. I just didn’t know it would be on some Hollywood shit, but I’ve had some small tastes of success before this juncture in my life. Hell, I still have startups and other things I want to do to, tech wise, and business wise. Ten years ago – and it’s a trip to look back on now, but business and entrepreneurship was my life, see: here, here, here – and before that, it was real estate. I first heard about Donald Trump when I was reading his books fifteen years ago bc I wanted to be on his level one day. And I still have big fucking real estate shit I want to do. Finance shit I want to do. If I can get 10 million, I can get a hundred. I’ve thought that I can be a billionaire. I still do think this. It can happen. And I will not lie, front, bullshit, or play false “aw-shucks” humility. Yeah this how the fuck I act. I’m like honest abe if honest abe gave no fucks, had the swagger of a boxer, the energy of a prince, and the body and soul of a princess. I drip sexuality and power. Judge me. Go ahead. I know I have gravity. I know if I can imagine it I can do it. And I know people will respect me wherever I go [In large part bc I will respect them, TY Maya Angelou]. I know I am not ever going to be intimidated by fame or wealth (And I’m sure it will be my own fame and wealth that gets me over being intimidated by beauty). But yeah, you can watch this, and see that I was every bit the materialistic ambitious, successful little cis-het capitalist a decade ago… What you don’t see is the heartbreak that followed the next decade of poverty as I cut my teeth as a bohemian artist and tried unsuccessfully to reboot my love life in a couple more multi-year relationships that too ended in heartache and terrible despair, but I was playing a long game. Just, big success for me, shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who knows me – I’ve had three deca-millionaire mentors – and it will be a surprise least of all to me, bc my life has been driven by deep designs, since I was a child, and I’ve been studying the game a long fucking time. Believe it. But I’m not in this for the money anymore, but it’s like: I need to be Bruce Wayne, so I can afford to be Batman. I want to sit courtside. I want to chill with my fave rappers. I want to be a culture icon bc of how fucking unique I am, how bighearted I am, how fucking fierce and passionate I am. And I didn’t just wake up in 2020 and want to help. I’ve been thinking about the problems of society and formulating potential solutions for a minute now. And I’ve been programming myself for this life. Check the archives. I’m open source.

Also, the below video is something I made 8 or 9 years ago, but it just reminds me of my drive and my designs for my life:

But – and this is the guilt and shame part that restricts us from being who we are – I just have a challenging time accepting that I get to deserve to live the life I have, and am to have, while so many other people are suffering. The guilt and shame has slowed down my writing, almost as if I know that when this current manuscript gets submitted it will be picked up and my life will suddenly change (And then they’ll all call it ‘overnight success’ lol). But, just, it’s a lot. I have a lot of PTSD from things. I have a lot of emotional pain I carry, from people who abandoned me, and I’ve loved them ever since, I never stopped loving them, but when I blow – and I’m am going to fucking blow – what happens when they reach out: I can’t forgive my pain. I can’t let go of that as if money bought me release from the blood, sweat, tears. It won’t. And then I’m going to have to live with swimming in hot ass, which will be great, sure, I certainly have my eye on some straight fucking alien pop princesses, but, like, how do I reconcile all my anger and pain at how lonely I was when I had no money, no friends, no one, when I was homeless? I can’t – I mean, I can’t heal it with money. It’s my pain. It’s my scars. It’s my story. I will not gloss over my depth and the texture of my pain because suddenly I’m driving a new Porsche and I’m a fucking magazine. It’s always going to be just me. Like, I’m always going to be my ride or die bitch, and I don’t think I’ll ever do monogamy again: every girl / partner can be my side piece, but I will always be my one and only main. It’s really hard, bc at this stage of the game, I’ve got to accept two things: 1. I’m really fucking talented, and if I got over my shame and guilt over money, I’d be shittin’ scripts out like Adam Sandler or Woody Allen – only on some Shakespeare shit. Yeah, I think I’m the fucking best. Literature needs swagger in it – and verbally, orally, I float like a motherfuckingbutterfly and run shit like a queen bee. I am a fucking queen bee. So, yeah, that one is happening, I mean, esp lately, since I’m just nearing my jump off point and my life has been an explosion of creativity lately, from music, to just – I’m recording spoken memos and thoughts and songs for hours every day. My cloud is charged. In the words of Serena Williams, “Everyone has to work on something, I’m still learning to embrace being, for lack of a better word, great.” And yeah, my mom and sister { and pressumably my exes, but none of them talk to me as all abandoned me) still treat me like I’m a fucking full of shit loser asshole: it was really tough growing up as the Identified Patient in a dysfunctional family – and I still fucking am. Bc my family is still fucking dysfunctional: you can’t fix them, you can only fix you. And It’s just like, yeah, mom, yeah sister, I’ll buy you homes and set you up when I’m able, but, yall disowned me and kicked me to the fucking curb when I came out as trans. I was homeless on fucking christmas while they celebrated together. I had to live in my car, bc they went nuclear on me, when I was suddenly in the best shape of my life, the healthiest and happiest I had ever been. And they cut me down like a couple of killers with machine guns. I ended up having to take myself to the fucking place, I won’t tell you where, but, just – ah, like, money is not going to change the fucking pain I have. The loneliness. And then I’m going to have to be around a bunch of wealthy people at times, when the people I really love are poor people. And I can’t stop thinking about them. All the people suffering. And I know suffering. Don’t let a video or two from a hot second of codependent emotional security and success ten years ago give you the idea I am some privileged asshole, as my sister still treats me, and prob will forever. And my exes, yeah, I’ll send them some big fucking money, and all that, since they were with me before, but they also all fucking abandoned me like my mom did. I can’t ever be cool with them. I don’t know if I would ever even agree to see one of them ever again. My pain is too great. To this day. The love I have carried, the pain. And yeah, I paid for years of therapy. The only difference is that in a therapists office I’m sitting across from some hot woman in a skirt and heels. But, like, just, no therapy will help. No drugs will help. No amount of alcohol will help. I just have pain that is a part of the fabric and fiber of my being. I don’t want to suddenly surround myself with people after all this super alone time, just bc I’ll have the money to fly girls in from anywhere, and suddenly people will want to hang out. I hate it. I said it recently, but the worst part of poverty is not the lack of shit – it’s the lack of people, of love, of company. And I hate how humans are like this. If I change anything in the world, let it be that rich and privileged people become ashamed of how elitist they are socially, and start making friends with, dating, and surrounding themselves with people who don’t have much. Like, that would be an advanced society. People need to care about the poor. And I’m not just some champion for the poor, I’m for everyone. I just, I’m very emotional about completing and releasing this work that I think will change my life. And if not this screenplay, it will be the next one: my success in the arts is inevitable. You have no idea what I aim to do. But I do, and it’s just, I thought writing this out was going to somehow release me from the nerves and the guilt I have about making it… but I still feel like shit about it. I still feel undeserving. I would be happy with not much, or anything for the rest of my life, living on my own – I’ve got a dope fucking relationship w myself, and I do dope shit. My life is dope, and I don’t have money. Just enough to keep the lights on. But that’s all I need. Only, that won’t enable me to make the impact I want to make, and it’s like, I’m already Batman, but now I have to go and be Bruce Wayne. And I hate the way people treat you differently when they know you have money, and I expect at some point, people are going to know who I am like people know who other famous people are. And it’s like, yeah, hey famous girl, that’s great you’ll want to spend time with me, but I still feel like regular girls don’t even. I essentially confessed my love / like to a couple girls this past month, and they weren’t into it. Like my exes, I always am attracted to these emotionally somewhat distant types, like my mother. Well, now I really feel like Tony Soprano, pouring it out to Dr. Melfi. And that’s what I feel like, a young mob boss. I’m Michael Corleone after the war, when he is still sweet, and I know with money I’ll be nothing nice, bc I’ll see through all the shit like I already do. You’d think I’d be excited to have such a real shot at making all my fucking wildest dreams come true, but it’s like, I’ve been living with childhood PTSD and a broken fucking heart for a long time. And it was broken again. And like I said, I just got passed on twice, and I don’t remember what it’s like to feel loved. I don’t have a single romantic interest. And like Dave Schneider told me, “You want to meet your person before you make your money”, only, that ship is sailing – there won’t be a person, there will be many lovers, but I have to let go of all those other dreams I wanted, of making it with someone. And I’m just alone doing this. I didn’t see it like this. I thought I was the morning star, but I didn’t know it was actually the mourning star. And I’m in mourning for a lot rn.

Gonna go rock with my anthem rn, burn one, and maybe tequila myself a little. Momma needs it. Pain. I just don’t know that I’ll ever be able to accept love ever again after so long without it. And fuck all yall who passed me up. No more chances. Gates closed. And I don’t think I can forgive my loneliness. I can just pour the pain back into the game for the culture. This for the streets. This for little Lawrence; for my inner child – me – I survived hell. And now, I’m just, I don’t want to go to heaven, but I have to. So, I’ll pour up that 1942 and enjoy a moment still in the gutter, the margins, while I’m still invisible. If only I knew how much I’d savor it before everything. I hurt big. But my second life is already underway – I can write those checks, just can’t cash em yet, but I will. And they’ll know that the coldest, most stone cold demon ever has entered the game, she’s already in it. – SLS

Just, remember – this is the modern Hollywood bullshit ending. In the novel, The Count of Monte Cristo ends up with the proper girl: Haydee, which this film version honors:

As the youtube comments on this video evidence, Haydee is the true love of the count, not the traitor Mercedes who lived the comfy, easy life of luxury while Edmund suffered all those years. And remember, Haydee had been a slave, she knew suffering herself. Mercedes really did not. As one comment put it:

It is much easier to build a bridge between Edmond and Haydee than Edmond and Mercedes. The understanding of the other and the “psychic life of the other” is much more easily understood by Haydee who had a life similar to Edmond’s than Mercedes. In the coexistence with the count, Haydee understands him better than Mercedes.