⇦ The Four Cowboys Who Guard My Blog:

Townes Van Zandt (Waiting Around to Die)

Jimmy Carter (Summer Brings the Sunshine) )

Townes Van Zandt (I'll Be Here in the Morning)

Jim Ford (I'm Gonna Make Her Love Me)


ENTRY 52: November 6. 2022
On Bob Dylan's 'All Along the Watchtower'

There must be some way back
Said the joker to the thief
Saddled on the moonlit ridge
I just can't bear to leave

Certain of the fate ahead
Their time had came and went
And all along the stony brook
The water laughed against

Ghosts called from meadows
Like sirens out to sea
To beg the joker and the thief
To stay in their sworn ecstasy

All along the starlit meadow
The grass had turned to mud
Ripping down the castle grounds
He spoke above the flood

You'll never see these stars again
So long as you're away
Water surged on every side
We know we cannot stay

Lonely through the desert
The sorried joker howled
O'er shining rocks and gracious night
The land beat round and round

ENTRY 51: November 4. 2022 Don't hmu today, Berlin Got Blurry on my homepage.
ENTRY 50: November 2. 2022 C,

I wanna be there when you touch fire

I wanna be there when you cut the wire


Saw you on the street today. You crept up and stared unmistakable in sharp skin, your face was like a perfect pale triangle that reflected my surprise, my horror,

I wanna be there when you touch fire, to be there for the inevitable fall, stop striding past me on the street, you evoke a spider, its unbecoming.

Whats the difference between nautilus and ammonite? I'm not the one to ask am I right!

Whats the difference between the vision today and you? Whats the harm in choosing the dream within a dream, I'd rather see you every morning.

𖦹
ENTRY 49: October 31. 2022 I should be asleep (it's 12:18) so we're ignoring that it's halloween for the moment,
I think things are improving, I still have so much to do, but at least I'm beginning to dream about what's ahead once I get out from under all of these classes. I can see myself being able to write for pleasure again, and maybe even starting my other goals on my dream board, the moments I do have for thinking about the things I love feel so important and precious, I'm thinking of an obscure Fuller quote about Boccaccio writing the Decameron, if that helps

I see a vision of my mother in our family trailer, I see the windows behind her letting a cool light in half shut blinds, I see her sillhouetted there in front of this aluminum grid and the perfect sharp angles remind me of a fingernail on metal and I grit my teeth. I don't see her turn but I see the light come in like that behind her and I could cry, I could cry now and let the emotion from my chest but I won't, I'd rather hold on to the feeling and use it later, use it over and over again to remember my mom in front of the cool morning blinds, I'd rather return again and again and prick this feeling with the morning light surrounding her head as she remains blacked out in shadow, a figure I couldn't place unless I designed this moment, a moment that could come to me again any morning, since it never came at all. More and less than a memory. Cool half shut blinds and the cranking space heater and warm rays of morning.
ENTRY 48: October 22. 2022 It's so early in the evening to feel this way, to need to face these anxieties head-on, to need to cope in some (any) way. Finding a way to cope is difficult this early in the evening. You can't smoke a cigarette (I quit), you can't drink coffee (why stay up more than I have to?), you can't drink alcohol (),

I went for a walk around the neighborhood. The problem with this time of evening (7 pm on a Saturday night, late October, Portland, OR 97202, cloudy) is that everything looks so completely as you would expect it to. You cannot see through the well-lit car parks and stately clean and cheaply made suburban homes in any meaningful or enriching way, you can only walk through the road as it was designed to be walked, as though you were walking your pomeranian after work. You can't even pretend that there might be something worth saying beneath these swollen black trees, because you can see them clearly, and there isnt.

Last night I dreamed that I was looking in my full-length mirror. In retrospect, I should learn to use the floor-length mirror as a dream check, like how they used to say that about "checking-your-watch" when people wore watches. I was looking in the full-length mirror and my skin extended from the usual outline of my body, at first forming thin spikes not unlike the tendrils of a sea anenome above my waist, then morphing into a line of protruding pustules as though those gum tree seed pods were lodged beneath the skin and softly floating away. The pustules extended up my torso on the left side and down my left arm, I rationalized the condition as some sort of virus and continued about my dream,

Today I bought a chest binder. I think that's really all there is to say about that.

I feel bored, but not in the 'things are too great right now I sure hope they don't go wrong!!' sort of way, more like 'I feel that things are deeply not as they should be and fear that my life is not at the correct heading, furthermore I don't have the time or more-so ability to fix it'. I feel bored in the, nothing feels right sense, I feel like I just explained that.

I wish that I could scurry under the neighboring parked car and roll around in the mud, I wish that I could stay that way all night and get cold and shiver and feel sticky and then when they came out to go to the sunday brunch grandma hosts I would creep out and stretch like a cat and snarl, all for fun of course, and then I'd just never speak to anyone again. That's how I think I might fix things.
ENTRY 47: October 9. 2022 I'm seeing in a dissioso haze, today I'm in Portland.
walking down Sandy, moving towards what distruction? moving towards many people rubbing their wings together, it's unseasonably warm for this time of year.

My partner just left: what does it mean to be alone in the world for a few hours? I can smoke the last half of my cigarette in the full moon light (why is it so goddamn warm outside?) What does it mean to die if living long is just outliving all your friends? A mayfly life is just as long as mine if you think of it like that.

What does it mean to be healthy? If smoking a cigarette brings clarity, if I just like it, if telomeres degrade in the sun and we all still love warm weather.
Portland is like a soup, Portland is like a stick in the mud. Have you ever thought about those Metric lyrics, everybody else just arrived, ate their complimentary shrimp cocktail, and left
what am I seeing and not seeing in this city? Where is the underbelly and how do I swim down to it, why are there some things that I just can't reach, and why is it so much more me to fail?
ENTRY 46: September 28. 2022 It's been so long since my last entry, is this how things will go from now on?

I've been feeling stressed out, and sad, and overwhelmed, and brow beaten. I wish that I could rejuvinate myself a bit and recapture some of the happy feelings I had a few months ago. But sadly, all I have right now is restricting food and hating getting dressed.

I think I'm in a strange spot right now with getting help- since I know that it will be good for me, yet also feel that it would be better to just fade away into slowly getting worse and worse, never righting myself and instead floating into a deeply unhappy and painful life. It's funny that I can care so much about doing right be my career/my job yet putting effort into my actual personal happiness doesn't seem like the right path right now.

CONTINUED: SEPTEMBER 30. 2022

Wow please don't read into that. I think I need to focus on finding happy things during the day that will cheer me up. My anxiety subsides when I realize I actually have good friends and a good life here...
the problem arises when I have so many things to do that I feel guilty for favoring fun things. Whatever, I'll make do. Really whats got me in a tizzy right now is this terrible feeling that I'm not going to get back to Germany, merged with this weird dislike of my parents (weird because they haven't really done anything wrong lately, I just feel this desire to never speak to them again...some say ED's revert us back to childlike states...or maybe it's just all that stuff we never talked about)

M is moving into his new apartment today. I've almost finished Lolita. I find this entry funny because it's straight to the facts, happy/sad we do not mince words here, or provide any further detail, things are what they are.
ENTRY 45: September 12. 2022 One of my favorite Fujiya and Miyagi songs, Lightbulbs, also the name of their second studio album- scathingly reviewed in Pitchfork (deservedly)- includes this chorus:

If today is the same as yesterday
Tomorrow will be the same as today


I thought of these lyrics today because Prairie Style by C.S. Giscombe just arrived in the mail for me and I was pleased to see the same sentiment written there:

Pleasure has its locales and gateways but tomorrow's just inevitable, tomorrow's the same as today.

Tomorrow's the same as today, tomorrow's the same as today. These words play in my head often- I find their contradiction comforting. The classic, 'and the sun also rises' and so on- since I am almost always desiring for tomorrow to be different, to be better, for me to make the right choices instead of the wrong ones, and yet. We live as though tomorrow will always be the same as today, we take steps that don't matter in no particular direction at all, today I made blackberry jam and watched a YT video about Dave Chappelle, and how exactly is that supposed to change tomorrow?

One thing that occurred to me today is that I am getting better at deciding my day. I'm not sure when all of you fine readers learned this skill but it has only come to me in the last year, the realization that I can decide my own activities (beyond martial arts on Mondays and Wednesdays). I'm sure this is a end-of-college thing, 'so you're in the workforce now- what will you do with it?!' I realized this summer that life is about teeing yourself up, creating the daily structures that will implicitly and subconciously shape the person that you are. This is the function of a parent, to create the structure (the metaphorical tomato cage) until we learn to make it ourselves. The problem was that until recently I was still using the old wire, trying to bend it to fit new goals, directions and a view of myself that I am sure my parents had not imagined.

The problem is that at present, I have given myself time but not yet filled it with structure, so I am floating. I find myself hesitating to reestablish my goals, perhaps because although I felt comfortable deciding I did not like my old direction, I haven't yet felt confident in a new one. I found my old vision board under my bed last week, I'd accomplished almost everything on it. Fucking river.
ENTRY 44.2: September 7. 2022 Yesterday I put on my low-rise blue jeans that I bought in Germany. I've worn them successfully twice, but lately I've been putting them on and quickly taking them off in favor of something, anything, more comfortable. Maybe it's the stiffness of the material, but I really know that it's the low-rise anxiety that comes from seeing nothing cover the space below my belly button (a word I do not believe I have ever had the courage to write or say. but 'navel'? even worse). Yesterday I was in such a hurry to undo them that I ripped off most of my fingernail and now feel a twinge of pain with every letter that I type with my right hand, there's a metaphor there I think.

I read my cards with A yesterday, a lovely endeavor that culminated in a surprisingly cohesive spread- I'm always amazed that unlike astrology, tarot seems to become more reliable the more that I read, instead of starting to contradict itself once I make the mistake of consulting my local paper and costar on the same day. I pulled the two of pentacles for my past: apt since I actually did pull this card for my present the last time I read, and found solace in it (a butterfly (read:moth) balancing graceful change upon their wings). My present this time was the high priestess: acknoledge the shadows that your intuition is pointing you towards. Was it lame of me to say my shadows were just the many unanswered emails in my inbox? yes. But I think there is truth there. I left the team in order to have time, and what the fuck am I doing with it now that I have it? being sick? starting my car with a screwdriver? My intuition drove me here, now isn't the time for me to stop listening. My future was the son of cups, a card I've been pulling regularly - as if replacing my old friend, the ever-in-his-father's-shadow son of swords. The son of cups is sweet, creative, emotional and carrying dark intensity - and I know I just shit on astrology but, scorpio anyone?
ENTRY 44: September 7. 2022
Wrote this a while ago, but never posted... found it today and figured I might as well...

Lately I've been feeling like a kid at summer camp - when the pines give way to the matted trails that turn in switch backs cold in the dusk up to orange lit mountains. I've been feeling like the moment the family car has dissapeared around the bend and the turn of the gravel has softened into the chirping of crickets in the grass. When the counselor who looks a bit lost themselves motions for me to head towards the cabins, seeing the wintered wood slumped against the hillside and feeling the imperminance of it all. I stare at the mound of familiar clothes I've strewn across the stained mattress and stand heavy in the empty room, see how many seconds I can count on my plastic watch before it is time to move on, on and on rings the dinner bell.

I see you while I eat my sloppy joe. We've never met but I recognize you as my tether, my distraction from my ever-slowing watch. Outside the mess hall night runs her fingers through the glass and smiles that soon I will be on that old stray mattress - listening to the fan turn back and forth.
ENTRY 43: September 2. 2022 Perhaps this entry should not exist - perhaps this should stay in my head

I wonder about the meaning of a blog - really I'm only writing to B now, as I'm guessing most of the other quiet listeners have disappeared after my month-long hiatus (I was traveling, you get it)

My blog is for displaying my writing in some ways, but mostly it's just my diary - and at times those goals are counter intuitive. Today I need to write in order to make sense of this, so I'm sorry that it won't be good, or interesting, or worthwhile, but writers write- and I'm not ashamed to make a mess of things

I left the team this week. It's still painful to say that - it feels as though I might cry most of the day now. I don't know if it was the right decision, or if it was motivated by anxiety, the monster around me all the time. I'm afraid to be bad, I noticed this on the first day. Usually I assume that I am going to be bad, but that I will perhaps be good, but that should I be bad this year, it is overwhelmingly okay. This year was not that way, I felt that should I be bad, I would be laughed at, I would be looked at as a failure, as the idiot drunk who ran away to ignore their responsibilites and take a summer off, and now look - it catches up to you. I felt that the second I made a mistake, I would prove them right. So I couldn't even try, there was no room for that.

Now T is doing well, she's doing great this year. And I'm jealous. I'm mad, I feel like there is no space for me left, there is nobody who believes in me now, who wants me to succeed, only those that want me to fail. Even when I want to keep going, when I want to finish at the real end of the road - instead of here in this strange patch of overgrown grass that feels forgotten and lonely and as though I never should have taken that exit. I feel as though I'm letting them win, when I know I'm only making myself lose. That trying and failing to take back what stupid acheivement I have deluded myself into thinking I want (just for my awful coach to be wrong about me) will not be worth my time. I can justify that I am leaving to focus on the things that I love, not the things that make me want to scream - it's just the fear that creeps in, saying I'm only leaving because I can't take losing.

I think I'm leaving for many reasons, likely more that I haven't come to terms with yet. If I am leaving because I don't want to be ridiculed, doesn't that point to a problem in itself? I no longer feel safe here, it is no longer safe for me to be bad, because the person who would have told me that was okay, given me space and permission, is gone. I wish I could give permission to myself, because that would be the only way for me to step forward, to rejoin, was knowing that when I most definitely fail, it is okay. But isn't there more that I could strive for? Instead of convincing myself that I am okay with failing, what if I could try and be good in the things that I care about? There is uncharted ground ahead, ground that I can be happy on. The problem is now, the space before I can escape back to Germany and feel like myself again, the space where I have to convince myself that life is okay, is moving, where I know that I do not fit. The space where I'm lashing about, trying to escape back to the happiness that was so close only a few months before, and seeing it so clearly on everyone else. Things are so painful all the time, I only wish I could rest for a while.
ENTRY 42: September 1. 2022 Here we are : one month has passed since my last entry. And where am I now?

I wish that I could live in the west texas desert painted up so right 'n pretty by Natalie Diaz
(for those who haven't visited it yet)

The point is that there is a lot of pain out there. And in here, how every strike of the clock on the mantle brings stronger loneliness and sadness into us. Like how I still think of that old boyfriend (really acquaintance) when I read this poem,

Or how I think about the frat party I went to in Boulder (who among us hasn't said those words?) I remember the loneliness of the cavernous rooms, stonework and columns in faux greecian facades and all the people drinking who I did not know. I think about sitting on the couch as I waited for my roommate to collect me, the lights dim white on the quartz countertop and old cartoons someone had turned on played on loop over the TV, mesmerizing me. The stretching black cat ran with the mallet in his gloved fingers as the VCR below flashed NO SIGNAL in green LCD letters and I lost track of the voices and the people and the comings and goings. The room felt like the loneliest place I had ever been.

I know I said I was done grieving that ol' cowboy, but it's been reopened since now I won't be seeing him every week - so I think I'll allow myself a bit of heartache. But who among us can write "glow-throbbing" and get away with it? Certainly not me. If I ride the night any more for you D, I'll break it.
ENTRY 41: August 9. 2022
When I got overwhelmed yesterday I thought about plum creek. Plum creek is a colloquial name for the was-empty lot a few miles down from my grandma and parents' property in Cle Elum. My experience with the lot came mostly in the form of my dad taking me to look for elk and deer there in the late evening. The best part of plum creek was the white work truck that had been abandoned before I was born. It had decals for plumbing or something that were slowly fading and ripping from the sides - and I always dreamed of going through the cracked windshield to find what I assumed would be the driver's bones. The truck sat out in a ragged patch of grass and bleached whiter and whiter each summer. I think I always assumed it had had some sort of higher purpose as a plum delivery vehicle, due to the stickiness of the name plum creek in my psyche.

When children's youtube sensation Blippi bought plum creek last year to transform it into some childrens-carnvial-commercial-extravaganza, I asked my dad if the truck was gone. My dad seemed surprised that this would be my first question, but yes, the truck was long gone. I haven't been back to see the empty lot now.

I got overwhelmed because I'm in the falling action now - and I need to make sure all my loose ends are tied up. With others, with myself, with my fucking homework. I think it was good to think about plum creek and that truck sitting there year after year. It must have been so quiet, sitting in the grass among the pine trees and watching the seasons change. It must have been so nice to have been loved by me, to have been valued simply for being there to waste away, impacting me just by being something I found beautiful. I wonder if impact needs to be so complicated? Or is being there year after year in subtle beauty enough for us?
ENTRY 41: August 9. 2022 Some Berlin Recommendations

Futurium

I don't know what I expected from a Future-Museum but this was extremely literal. Lots of reading about the urban jungle (what if we built cities like nests and lived in mud alcoves with birds and squirrels?) I think I wanted more cool art installations and less ipad but I enjoyed that it upheld the german tradition of making all participants go outside and march around on the roof (for what reason? look out and see that the real future was around us all along)
Natural History Museum

I saw the holotype for Archaeopteryx! Also the 'wet collection' was not in fact a sea creature exhibit, it was hundreds of thousands of soft fleshy bodied animals in formaldehyde (shown at left).
GrĂĽne Lampe

What if I was a food blogger? I'm just kidding I don't really care about food, this place was cute though! I got mushroom soup (like in the potato famine!) mostly I just liked it because the green lamps inside reminded me of the bankers lamp my mom always kept on her bedside. The old people at the neighboring table all got vodka shots before they left.
BrĂĽcke-Museum

Remember that expressionist painting I brought up a few weeks ago? Well it sadly wasn't at this museum BUT a lot of other stuff by Heckel was...did you know that he used an 8 year old girl to do a lot of his modelling? I didn't either.

As soon as M and I got off the bus to walk to this museum we both had the feeling of getting-to-the-campground. like: end of the gravel road, get out, 'okay, let's set up the tent!' I thought it was the pine trees until I realized it was probably the smell of the nearby forest fire wafting smoke over us - this should have been foreshadowing.
Teufelsberg

We visited an abandoned US military base now completely covered in murals and found-object sculptures. We begrudgingly paid 8€ at the gate, assuming by the ramshackled signs hung around the fence that this would be an over-priced roadside attraction type thing. Then after a strange interlude through the military museum (army tank models and rusted peach cans obviously put together by the single veteran staff member watching from behind the bar in his motorized wheelchair) we came around the corner and saw the enormity of it. The faded and torn towers erupting from the layers of brick and concrete, every surface painted, a maze of eyes, faces and words. Everything was open, everything could be climbed, the surrounding woods were filled with shacks, tree houses and rebar structures in various stages of abandonment. The old foundation of one building was flooded halfway high with swamp water, duckweed floating through the concrete doorways. We climbed to the top of the tower and watched the sun set through the wind-torn canvas orbs, I have never been to a place like it.
Teufelssee

We walked down to the lake as the sun dropped under the horizon and the veteran and his young lacky kicked us out of Teufelsberg. Another couple was following behind us as we made our way through the woods. In the halflight we heard snorting in the brush and startled a herd of wild boar grazing on roots near the trail. I looked back at the couple and asked 'are they dangerous?' the woman had eyes as wide as mine and said 'I think so', luckily as we stood still the pigs crashed in the brush and out of sight.

We sat by the lake as the fish bit bugs from the water and watched the last light fade from the tower on the hill above us. M said if he lived here he would come to this lake all the time and just sit in the shadow of the cracking towers, looking like pure apocalypse on the horizon. A woman dove into the water and swam to the floating dock. I said 'boy, I sure wonder why it's called Devil's Lake?' -

At dark, we set off through the woods for the bus station - about 20 minutes walk. As we reached the turn off from the road to the dirt path we heard rustling and snorting from the bushes. I am not ashamed to say that I was terrified. Boars were completely blocking the path we needed to take, invisible in the brush and crashing around us. We had no choice but to continue blindly down the road, moving to the middle as we heard boars moving along both sides. The forest road had no streetlights (and my phone had died long before) - In Alaska they tell you to talk while you hike so that you don't startle the bears, so M and I tried to keep talking - eventually just repeating each other as we became too afraid to think of new things to say. As we stopped for the third time to wait for the boars to settle M pointed at a street sign and said I should climb it and hold on if they charged. The road was completely deserted but for three cars that we tried to flag down, of which only one stopped. Neither of us had ever hitchhiked but there was no question about whether we should try it - when the man in the Audi stopped and asked where we wanted to go we said 'please just take us out of here', he seemed to understand our desperation but said that he needed to go up the road and would be back for us in 5 minutes. I don't know if he ever returned because I heard squealing in the distance and we kept walking.
ENTRY 40: August 4. 2022
Yesterday shifted things, it's funny that sometimes you know when a day is going to be important, and other times you just wake up and find yourself crying at the public pool. The lifeguard telling me to put my shirt on wasn't the surprising part, what was surprising was the man I'd played volleyball with earlier coming up to ask if I was alright as I cried small child tears in the arms of my friends. I still don't know what he saw when he saw me coming towards him- walking dejectedly through the green grass, tears coming down my face and my nipple piercing still sparkling in the hot sun. I wonder if he saw a topless woman crying- OR had he recognized something earlier in the way I moved my free body through the air? had he noticed my hestitancy when the ball flew high and I raised my arms, bare of straps and began rewiring the muscles on my chest. I wonder if he came to play volleyball with me because he wanted me to feel normal, that my body was normal here, like his, and with the casual offer of a ball over the net he was trying to tell me that I was welcome. I wonder if he saw the fall then, the sad walk back to womanhood- was he hurt too? at seeing how close I had been?

Later that same day I began to cry soft tears at the thought of my mother. A smart someone once told me that the way to tell if you are depressed is if you stop feeling better when you cry. Yesterday I felt better. Sometimes M and I have it out about my mother, and it's the times that I feel most healed by a partner. He says:

What happened to you makes me so sad, you didn't deserve any of it. What happened to you was so unfair, and somehow you have only ever put good into the world. I love you because all you want to do is to give love to others.

This morning M and I are at a coffee shop together as I write this, he is reading More Than Two and interupts me to show me a passage he highlighted, it says one must show courage in a poly relationship and be brave in the face of uncomfortable experiences. He says, I want to work on this with you.

Last night, I woke up at an unusual hour when the apartment was dark and all I could see was M's silhouette as he sat facing away from me on the bed. He got up and I heard him drinking water in the way you do after you forget to drink water on a night out. I realxed and started to fall back asleep. Then he yelled and I heard a crash in the bathroom. I got up and asked if he was okay, with no response I opened the bathroom and saw him laying completely facedown partially in the shower, unconcious. I woke him up and sat with him on the side of the shower until he tried to stand and fell down again, complete dead weight in my arms. He threw up and I had to leave to stand in the open window, trying to convince myself that the outside air was cold and fresh when it felt stagnant on my body. M is fine now, but I have become so attuned to these changes in our lives punctuated by the fluctuations of our bodies. The reality of the brain shunting blood away and the aftermath of blood flowing back, of picking up where we left off but a little more unsteady every time. Aging and feeling the control slipping, making us pull up on the reigns, or perhaps begin to let go too. Who are we when we remember that we are corporeal? Sometimes I can't even say 'body' because it makes me cry.
ENTRY 39: August 2. 2022
Miscellaneous

Today I realized that I will be leaving this country. I can't delude myself anymore that I'll somehow have enough time to do everything. In calculating the next few weeks suddenly my flight home was there on my calendar - the end. I think I'll need to seriously compartmentalize in the weeks after I get home, because really there is no way I am going to be able to handle this re-understanding of myself. Here, I can just forget the incongruence between what I now want and my old life- but at home I will be living completely in the routine that I have now outgrown. I think it will be best to just play the game for the next year until I can muscle my way back to Germany - but I can also imagine a breakdown creeping up on the horizon. When in doubt, repress repress repress.

I've been trying to write a short story but I've been overly critical of myself and keep stagnating. I want it to be a lovely little light-hearted ditty about summer camp but I'm completely overthinking it. I lack focus and direction (as is often the critism of my poetry) and I'm struggling to find the right tone or - write anything cohesive at all. I'm on the verge of scrapping the whole thing and switching to an erotic C fan fiction (me as nervous kid with glasses / C as captain of the cheer squad) just to feel joy in writing 'prose' again. I wonder sometimes if writing something is really always better than writing nothing? I'm sorry that this blog entry is such a let down, thanks for your attention anyway. I thought you might be interested to read the poem that M has kept in his phone case since I wrote it freshman year of college, I remember that he has it every year or so and ask to read it again- I think it's funny that he's kept it close to him for so long when it's not in any way a love poem. I think it does fit with my thesis here though somehow, but maybe just to show I've actually never cared for narrative focus.

Stop! you are as vulnerable as a spider's thread
suspended in muggy seconds
you think you can't cut crystal seams
then one night you do and permanence becomes
the smell of your old, slow, neighborhood
where words don't hang like webs
and tomorrow will always look the same
but you flipped it all and now you too are hung
like a bat and gravity is pulling that
stupid, foggy head low to hang
your crystal neck
vulnerable as a softened thread
maybe you shouldn't have sunk your head so far back
pulsed that wormy neck so far forward
and spoken
in a world where spider silk snaps easy
perfume permanence behind your ears
say nothing bad will happen dear
the spider can always sew it back
hang your neck, bare and clear
ENTRY 38: July 31. 2022
A few things have been going on lately - one is that I got one of the songs from Metric's new album stuck in my head (success!) and most of my thoughts have had the faint backdrop of formentera the last few days.

Another is that my feelings and emotions have steeled into 8-inch thick plates not dissimilar to the steel painstakingly welded to killdozer by MY metaphorical Ted Kaczynski - Marvin Heemeyer. At the risk of having this blog shut down by order of decree - I will refrain from saying my hero. Actually I have moments of feeling, but only of good. My body has shuttered itself to the pain of the reality of the world I am facing and has instead latched onto the happiness of small moments, soaking in them in a quiet and unhurried private trance. It is not good, and it is not bad, things just are. Perhaps what I'm saying is that I'm fantastically in the moment, much to the frustration of those around me - who may wish me to think of what will happen AFTER I have welded myself into a metal-sheathed bulldozer. And I am trying, but I fear that I have never done this properly, this being completely within each second, until right now. And though I am at present pulverizing the city hall and getting my left tread stuck in the foundation ditch, at last - my anxiety has gone.

It is easy to think that things are uncomplicated when you are someone like me. What can truly go wrong when you are a young white woman living in Europe with a loving and supportive family? I like to write on my computer because the words are superimposed onto my reflection in the screen, and I must constantly be reminded how those around are seeing me. You feel like a killdozer? Well you look like the gay kid drawing anime eyes in their paper margins.

Much good has happened here on this hollowed ground, like the place near where the old ship is docked that always makes me think of C. When I was depressed I thought that everyone I met was saying the same thing, every thought in my head rang stale and tired and I could not understand what I was supposed to be doing all the time. These last months everyone around me sounds like a philospher. Every text that I get reads like Plato, every small motion of your fingers looks meaningful. Yesterday on the bus two people sat down at the same time and it occured to me that they were dancing. When people speak to me now I capture their words like those fleeting mayflies and eye them carefully until I see the beauty in the threads of the wings. I've become rabid for connection. When I am with others I am at last, not thinking of myself.
ENTRY 37.2: July 27. 2022
Konstanz

When does a trip start and end? The last photo for the scrapbook was already taken, but we are not yet home.

I am prodding you, we are at the beach which is really a lake- and the seaweed is freaking me out. We are speaking as the closest friends that have ever been. You speak like me, you think like me. Again we say the old jokes, I know all the music you like and still I'm prodding you, move farther please. Be more like me please.

Two men are at the pole far out in the water, they are playing in the seaweed. You say that is like you and your boyfriend, I know that you mean me but it still hasn't felt natural yet. I drink my second beer and swat at the horseflies on my legs, I'm prodding more, maybe now you'll see it and say the magic words. When you are pushed too far we reroute like water, the heron is catching a fish.

I am both within my head and within yours. And every time I feel as though I'll never be alone again, even though I never was to begin with.
ENTRY 37: July 27. 2022



I wish I had a sewing room. Except not for sewing exactly- perhaps one decorated like my favorite iSpy page (the beach one) with playing cards and jacks and buttons and scraps of paper stapled to the wooden slats of the walls. And through the window I would see the beach (of course) but I wouldn't even need to look there because my eye would be always wandering around the walls that dripped battered brown sea. I wouldn't even sew I would just huddle there in the unending day and maybe some times I might write a little ditty about how the waves sounded like woman's breathing and so on.

One of my most surreal memories is my mom taking me to ballet class. This was before I could form the vision of the sidewalk/the lobby/the shape of the building we would go to. What I remember is the teacher telling us to gallop in a circle around the room. I was wearing pink flats with a thin ribbon bow, those shoes that I can recall lingering in my closet until the move, dirty and ugly and being moved from plastic bag to plastic bag but never taken to Goodwill. I would gingerly take them out sometimes and try them on, I found the pale oval of the top of my exposed foot to be so unflattering. Still, I sat in my closet and let the summer light (there was never a time of day) filter through the blinds as I looked at them in the mirror with my dark wash skinny jeans.

My mom would stay and watch us gallop and I would look at her with what I conjured as exasperation. I could not understand how the other girls never felt self-concious, I mean really what are we doing? I would slow my gallop and try and adjust my footing to look as removed as possible. And the pink leotard, the pink padded floor, wasn't it a bit much for all of us? This was the same time that I was going to martial arts, with dad, our thing- and I wonder if my mom wanted something like that with me? When she asked me (probably after the first class) if I wanted to quit I felt conflicted, I had never quit something before. Plus, she had tried so hard to get me those pink flats. Maybe I'll take a break I said, after one class, maybe I'll come back to it.

ENTRY 36: July 21. 2022
NO SUBJECT

SENT (6:31 PM)

It is spelled Shianne which I'm not sure if I'm okay with, I feel that Cheyanne is verging on good/acceptable while Shyanne is absolutely not okay at all.

That sounds so wonderful to spend Christmas eve with your best friend, like honestly that is a dream I am jealous, you guys will have some much fun - also I am excited to see the fated pants, pink pants worry me but I trust you

I have spent all day trying to remember the dream that I had last night, it was beautiful and vivid and I was in a version of Germany (which I'm now realizing has occurred in more than one of my dreams lately), I had moved into an apartment but then immediately needed to find one of my neighbors who had just moved out/gone missing (remember I'm aLWAYS looking for something in my dreams !!)
[...]

you looked pretty today,

SENT (9:17 AM)

Hey lovely,,

Okay, I strongly disagree about the cheyenne/Shyanne/shianne debate. I think that Cheyenne is the worst out of the three for sure.

But I will admit, it does feel strange to wear pink pants in bozeman,, which just makes me want to wear them more. Especially because they perfectly match the new pink shoes from Mara. You'd love it.

I don't really know how I should handle any of this but I care about you. A lot. Insert well worded gooey stuff here. I hope you are doing well and that running is good and that you don't have to deal with any asshole customers.

Yours always,

SENT (3:13 AM)

I think that I should continue taking my meds, although as I type this I still haven't taken them the last two days. I am worried though, especially because I'm beginning to think I might be spinning down into the same cycle that I have been in for the last two years. I love change but yet still seem to cling to people and especially situations that I know.. I'm going to take my prozac this morning and find a psych today
[...]
I have a feeling that you are going to read this and feel some anxiety or confusion and of course I can't tell you not to feel that way, but I will say that I will not be behaving like old me, I am aware of the cycle and my tendencies and I think this is just me trying to get myself to take my fucking meds and see a therapist again. I love you

Here are some things that I wrote over the summer, I hope that you like them: any relations to persons living or dead is purely coincidental

yours regardless,
ENTRY 35: July 19. 2022
And now I have a shirt with coffee beans on it, it's large (very) and brown and tan. I also have the feeling of being physically drained by the last week (really 5 days but whos...) I also have a cup of coffee again, after I broke my routine the last few mornings and started with instant fits of anxiety and general lashing about my apartment, instead of my usual blend.

Last night I smoked with M in a limp/stale Mannheim plaza, throwing around some theories about why everything was shit right now. I revealed my only secret, the fateful drive home in the snow that catalyzed my break up with Z. Telling him because it finally felt right but also so that I could finally say that I'd seen one of our favorite names in the game (Scotty P) scratched into a gas pump in middle-of-nowhere Montana. He thought that was cool. He told me that I was done-in, damaged, disregarded, left for dead, tied to a railroad track, by C - and that now I was attempting to do the same to him. I do agree that my quest to become C and throw my other (feminine?) self out to sea has to come to this logical conclusion: that C was a narcissist and so to truly have his life I must contract that same illness. Or perhaps contract is too passive a word.

C finished their trip yesterday, posting a half-hearted thank you to all of the people they had met along the way. Now.. would a narcissist do that? It felt poetic to see them return home on the day that they were so prominent in my vision, a ghost folding around us in the dry night air. I wish her well, I wish her well. Everything feels poetic to me these days, which is really just another way of saying I'm losing control. I know why my grandmother got really into Bible study later in life- feeling around for the door handle on the dark porch, fumbling with the keys in the lock and thinking turn, turn just please turn.
ENTRY 34: July 17. 2022
TW: bridges, boundaries and suicide

At the risk of this entry becoming too hot for publishing (hopefully with Pearsons but I could be flexible) - I will stick to the concept of Bridges

Bridges signify the movement of a body from one state to another. In my Nazi culture class we discussed Leni Riefenstahl's use of a railway bridge to show the characters moving from the metaphorical "city" (class, society, you get it) to the wild and unencumbered forest, the magical other. This same professor (my favorite I've ever had) was also obsessed with this painting of a bridge by German Expressionist Erich Heckel (shown here):

Enrich Heckel: Landschaft bei Dresden(1910)


I wonder if Herr Dr Prof Fuller had something of a thing for bridges and this concept of boundaries/grenze throughout our lives. He was a perpectually sick man at least in the time I knew him, and always seemed to be teetering at the edge of the beyond. I wonder if he saw the bridge as more of a life or death thing than I did? Notice as well that the figure is on the bridge in Heckel's painting, caught in perhaps intense agony (am I projecting?) between the two worlds.

But I've never really been an expressionisim man myself, I much prefer the reaction - aided by my main man Brecht - of New Objectivity. I hate to admit that Heckel's bridge never really did much for me, other than making me wonder why he didn't make it larger? There are bridges that captivate me though, the suicide bridge in Portland for example: with those tacky blue signs at each end reading 'we will help you cross this bridge'. I like to imagine the graphic designer tasked with making those signs. Which shade of cornflower is most likely to stop someone from catapulting themselves off? If we align left is that too burecratic? Or would people call more frequently with a more friendly and poetic central alignment? It is believed that the lead singer of the Manic Street Preachers commited suicide by tossing himself from a bridge after a long period of self-isolation and Alexander-Supertramp style hitchhiking. Although his body was never recovered - leading to decades of speculation by his teenage, early-aughts goth fan base (a bit of a D.B. Cooper situation). This all really gives a new perspective to the old 'Bridge Over Troubled Water'. I'd like to take this moment to share an unfinished poem that I do not believe I will finish any time soon. I justify this by dating the title, for it is the sound of that day and that moment, and that is enough for me.

Self Portrait (July 13, 2022)


I sit, I stand, I think of you.
I sit, I stand, I think of you.


splayed out sticks flung from the basket
arms so long they reach you
arms so long they get thin


walking over bridges and theres that searing
achy - brakey wallowing as if I might do it.
you really get to me sometimes, ya know?


I saw the girl from that earring poem today,
laying loose on the fire escape, like a cat
she looked at the camera and dangled over
a long shiny tail
I'm sure someday I'll describe
as looking like a silverfish


If I'm honest with you,
this poem was supposed to be about me.


But I guess I'm really up to nothing,
Except waiting for your move

The pain I feel using 'achy-brakey' unironically is actually a lyrical technique meant to conjure a similar pain in my readers, for that I apologize.

As I sit in the cafe writing this cluster (f) two children are wandering infuriatingly close to my computer screen trying to escape various real and perceived hornets. As Marie Howe says 'This is what the living do'. Max told me that I should go to Alaska next year to write, that I should take writing by the balls and make it my bitch [trans, reclaimed]. I agreed, then he asked me what I would write about. 'I dunno' I said.
ENTRY 33: July 15. 2022
Now we reach the point where the blog must diverge: for up until this moment all of the readers were not people that I lived with.

One question I have is: why I struggle to get dressed with someone watching? It's okay, you don't have to answer - I actually know already.
Getting dressed is everything. it's gender, it's confidence, it's regency era. It's the person that I am putting forth in this day, this moment and the intimacy of learning the process to that person , the mis-steps of where my hubris and confidence leads me (why would you ever think you could wear a leather vest without a shirt?). The intimacy of learning what I really think of myself, the person that I think that I could be- and perhaps feel I am currently inadequate for. I absolutely hate people watching me get dressed.

Gender: And here we arrive at the main attraction. Today I walked into a dressing room and wanted to die, and who hasn't felt like that a fair amount of the time? I'm beginning to think that my body might be communicating to me in a sort of code, as though if I listened to the cadence of my body dysmorphia it might reveal itself to be stamped out SOS carried over the telegraph over and over and over. Yesterday I listened to this code. Took my body in my arms and said I hear what you are saying, I know that you are afraid and stressed and that there are things that you have not yet said. I remember when my therapist told me to try meditating, I think she was trying to tell me to listen closely to the code that I am sending, I just wasn't ready to hear then.
ENTRY 32: July 13. 2022
The woman in my dream looks at my longingly, we are at music festival, she is the DJ I've followed on instagram for many years

Her: says no words but communicates that she believes that I am a woman and that I am beautiful

Me: you realize this is a dream? so I can do whatever I want

Her: confused, eating rice that I later feel in my own mouth

Me: contemplates whether it would be hotter to give myself a penis or a strap-on

Her: I actually just ate McDonalds before this

Me: finds this hot and wakes up
ENTRY 31: July 12. 2022
Oh god things have shifted !! The kind of shift that you can't believe you were ever on the other side of..

I was going to outline the path that I took to make this discovery but I found it tedious and I'm tired of boring you fine people. Let me summarize in a haiku:

THIS famous poet,
he could be from my own street,
blogs like me and Bri!


It took until this day in my life for me to realize that THERE ARE MANY BLOGS

There is a WORLD out there: a complete a wonderful ecosystem of friends and true (i'm coming) Community.

I feel a bit like I just learned how to read. In the last few hours I have been taken for a ride, held in strong cowboy arms and tossed into the fray of what it means to be a writer in the 2000-2015's age of the digital wild west. I'm starting to feel so close to it - like I am knocking at the window, have you read the TS Elliot one about the yellow fog licking the walls? (I know you have)

I'm not the greatest writer, or web site designer for that matter: but I'm beginning to see the seams where I may be able to hook a nail in (like my nipple piercing catching on a wool sweater). I'm not the greatest writer but all that I want to do is write. I've seen it now, Tony Tost of the long lowly Enumclaw streets is a poet, and not just a poet, but one with a blog, and not just a blog, but a blog that I recognize. And yes, you may have visited that link and realized that the only thing that happened today was that I discovered Blogspot. Touché - BUT I realized that I have gotten to the point in my writing development that I speak the language. I read a piece Tost wrote about George Oppen and while doing further research came upon this:


Nevermind what any of that means, the point is that I know those guys! I'm not the greatest writer, but I do love to write. NOW I feel often that I must pull myself away from writing, that I feel so compelled to send this indigestible nothing-no substance strings of thought into your computer that I cannot and do not wish to do anything else. And perhaps someone else with something real and important to say started there too? Anyway Check Out Tony Tost:

EXCERPTED FROM 1001 Sentences


501-510

Follow the pronouns.

Walking across the grass composing this sentence (I can write it down later) between each sip.

I can be seduced but not my process.

Spread-eagled between each of your opinions.

Love is the mother of violence.

So: the sun pierces the cherubs that gnaw the hammers that we all are holding—and the blood on them—so that it can behold these moments through our eyes.

And: the advantage of fragmenting the self in this way is seen in the new relationships developed by each of the self’s characters so that all these sentences can eventually be seen as the remote biological past.

Sentimentality is another instrument for innovation.

So: the body of the living individual is a poetic accompaniment that maintains a distance between images and the processes used in obtaining them.

And: the swans pecked the angel into a perfected bliss.

510-520

Let us pass the cloud back and forth—like this—between our mouths.

The beautiful thing about antinomies is that they don’t have to be spoken.

The war is over what gets to go without saying.

She is balancing the checkbook, sweeter than the breath of Mary.

We go from the music we find via its decibels—deeply romantic—into the entire storm.

The misuse of sentences has led to new insights, as has the misuse of pets.

Consider eternity: it is as available and empty as birth.

She mentions that I am beautifully executed.

My poetic idiocies are re-imagined in the sentence’s dancing flames.

The seasons also speak in revolutionary cadences.

521-530

There was as a serpent and it divided, my brother and I.

They have built machines that can bypass our essentialist questions of what is innate in the machine.

We have already gone through some light snow but not out of faith.

Imagine space like you imagine travel, a productive boredom.

Laugh heartily at the joke.

If only you knew how you live in me!

But no, one does not talk like that, of extreme ocean waves and ocean wave climates, water creatures.

All the things you never told me, Radiant System.

I am considered to be the mystery, the disgusting promises of a face to face communication.

It was one of the most heartbreaking things you've ever had to watch for I was still too tiny to come home.

531-540

I have been writing the memoirs of the princes prior to myself.

For you I’ve made a ceremonial pair of socks that can go all the way up to your throat.

My destiny is bigger than yours.

I’m getting all crazy-eyed touching your clothes.

Every sentence of exploitation operates in the same manner; because they are all the same we can utilize them for wisdom.

We thought you would outlive us and therefore live forever.

On the back of my paycheck I am writing history.

The professor claims another victory, raising his hoof.

In just one note, a maestro can demonstrate his or her power.

Fucking river.

ENTRY 30: July 10. 2022
Where I'm from:

There's a band called Enumclaw now, which was actually formed in Tacoma. A few years ago someone told me about them and I hate to say that I didn't really give a shit and thought they were just another Modest Mouse wannabe, which I have since walked back. I realized earlier this week that Enumclaw was playing at the capital hill block party along with Cannons and my shining star: the GECS - this really piqued my interest and I visited their apple music page..

I'm considering writing a review for their new album when it comes out so I won't say much here but suffice to say, seeing 'Fruit Flies' by Enumclaw appear on my phone scatters me in a way I have never felt. It's like opening up your school district website to connect to the wifi but suddenly it's not your school district anymore it's an indie rock band and you're crying.

There's a few core themes to Enumclaw that I've always wanted to write about: one was the logging roads. I'd stand after school in the gravel parking lot and chat shit with the country kids next to their trucks as they idled them in no hurry to leave. They would say there was a party at mile marker 16 and I would imagine them driving there late at night, driving drunk and high and never getting lost on those old dark roads. I imagined that they would walk into the brush and build their fire as big as a funeral pyre and be with each other in that drunken homoerotic haze. I loved the country kids, and they loved me back. But they never invited me to their parties at mile marker 16, I think they knew that I couldn't let myself be taken by the drugs and the cold mountain pines the way that they could.

I lost my virginity on a logging road. As constructed as the concept of virginity is, it is what I named this event at the time, so I will honor that. My boyfriend and I drove up into the hills and stopped at a pull-out outside of Mud Mountain Dam. I was sober and beautiful and had horrible sex in the back of a souped-up subaru with stickers on the windows. The pull-outs outside of Mud Mountain were notorious for this, you'd drive up and see other cars parked loosly on gravel, as we all spread out over the maze of roads and found our quite places in the moonlight. The logging roads represented the ultimate freedom, many of them forgotten and left to be reclaimed by the weeds and bushes that slowly closed in around them.

One of my other boyfriends had a brother who died up on these logging roads. Not far from where I had stopped with J four years before. They found the car abandoned at the pull-out the next morning, but the brother and his girlfriend had vanished. The town searched for their bodies for a week before they were found caught up in the branches of the White river. It was announced that they had both drowned, had apparently gone swimming in early February, or, the town hypothesized: were caught in a flash flood.

I wonder if the band Enumclaw knows about the logging roads there, if they ever drove up at night and stopped at a pull-out to shoot the shit and do what kids do. The surrounding areas don't have roads like this, you can't just keep driving into the wild until you are completely alone, with no neighbors and no towns - Enumclaw is the last stop before the foothills become impenetrable woods, all the way to Mt Rainier. Occasionally hikers or wandering residents would get lost in these woods. There was a man who had walked away from his nursing home and was rumored to have been seen out on the logging roads. He was never found, but a few months after he went missing I was running up in the hills and heard a whistle calling out over a large fen. There were no trails on the other side of the meadow, just the swamp and pines that I could barely see lining the opposite side. The whistle came long and loud, repeating for a few minutes and then stopped, and I did not hear it again.

As we moved through the town this was the constant, pressing feeling- that Enumclaw was bounded by ghosts, and I think even outsiders can hear that in the name. There's something not quite right about it, a sound that you are not supposed to make. I'm becoming more aware of the presence of place in my life and in others, and I hold the name Enumclaw like a secret gem. I've started saying it like a spell.
ENTRY 29: July 9. 2022



Last night I queued up 'Lauren' by Men I Trust completely on instinct and a Gemini-Scorpio (wow. talk about problems.) immidiately woke up and said : oh my god

I met K for coffee on the pretext that his girlfriend would also be joining us. the assignment? talk shop (poly)
the important part was that I listened to Men I Trust while waiting for him at the coffee shop - that and he said one thing I've been thinking about this morning :

Me: Are you worried about your relationship being hierarchical? Think about vetos, like hypothetically of course - your partner could make you stop seeing someone if they didn't like them - and then suddenly you have to break up with someone you love, but only because of someone else. I think that's quite painful.

K (aries): We aren't too worried about that - since we both view falling in love as an active thing - falling in love is making decisions and moving in a direction, wouldn't it take time to fall in love like that?

Is love an active thing? I'm sure it is for some people - those that have a very finite sense of love, that perhaps understand what they mean when they say it - oh god for me though, the thought of an active love, a decisive love? The possibility of stamping it out and walking away like nothing ever happened? The only other aries in my sphere right now thinks like this too, 'he wanted something different from me, so I just stopped talking to him, I knew it wasn't a good path for me'

Much has been said (and written) about love, probably everything that there is to say. Still - I often find that I feel a sinking anxiety with love that only dissipates when I spend time on this circular track, the love-slurry that never seems to become clearer but does, somehow, start to make me feel better after a while:

Gemini-Scorpio: I love Men I Trust, is this Lauren?

Me: Yes

Gemini-Scorpio: My girlfriend loves this song. We should definitely date.

Me: Yes

Is this a defining feature of polyamory? Obviously not since there's such stoic logisticians in our ranks - so perhaps it's tied to my obsession with community? I apologize that I haven't made any effort to define love, or the pain I feel, or what I'm trying to find here, I'd direct your attention to this anecdote of the time someone caught me after the mosh at Together Pangea and said 'I'm sorry but I think I fell in love with your spunk'

Now that, THAT is what love means to me. When I said 'I love you' to Max for the first time it was at my parents house. All of my friends from high school had come to dinner and of course, we'd had a wonderful time. After everyone left, or perhaps the next day, I felt sure that it was the moment to say it. This story is sweet but it's overly-simplified - because of course I loved Max the moment that we started chatting shit at the party when we met. It only took months for me to feel that I had successfully followed the societal code: don't say love too fast, people don't like to hear 'I love you' too fast - It's strange though because we don't have this code for our friends, or even strangers - somehow the farther you are from someone the easier it is to say 'I love you'. I understand this on some level, but it also feels a bit constructed to me- a bit puritanical if you will. When I say 'I love you' I'm really just saying I will miss you, and I miss almost everyone. And maybe that is really the issue at hand here.
ENTRY 28: July 5. 2022
Heidegger.

I think that I might be low on iron, as I haven't been taking my iron pills while I've been here and have felt extremely low energy during the day the last few weeks. I have so much to do: a report on Bertolt Brecht, a few assignments I've been putting off from creative writing, perpetual programming to show my advisor that I'm still devoted to urban mammal research. Heidegger would call all of these problems the small b of being, not the larger overall conversation of Being (sein vs Sein). I know this because instead of starting on any of these endeavors, I watched a 45 minute lecture on Heidegger this afternoon. Which incidentally, is the exact decision that Heidegger proposes is the key to self ascension/life/whatever. I know that my true Being is concerned with this blog, and with carefully selecting the decisions/ROADS DIVERGING in my life that are most Me. I know that left to my own devices I would be spending the evening writing out a surrealist sketch I thought up on my run last night (think John Malkovitch meets my bad poetry) and oh yeah, also writing a blog post responding to Martin Heidegger- but instead I seem to feel guilty about these decisions (Guilt being: 'the uncomfortable certainty that we are not what we could have been.', thank you Martin) -

I feel guilty because I know that I can not just Be a philosopher. I cannot just Be a writer. I simply don't have enough to say, and people don't need to listen. When I met C I realized that HERE, in THEM, I had come upon someone who could just become a philosopher, could just move through the world and think and write and be themselves. Q recently told me she was proud of me for meeting so many people and living so fluidly, I said, I just want to be like C, I'm copying them, I stole them, I'm doing what they do. Applying this to Heidegger: if my true call to Being is this, writing, pondering myself and the state of it All, moving to the philosophical capital of the world (Melbourne, Australia), and living like a rich, white 6'8'' philosophy student- it's really just a bit self flaggelating isnt it? My qualm with Heidegger's focus on individual ascension is the problem of the collective - which I'm sure an entire movement has already said but seeing as I've never taken philosophy I'm coining it now - Heidegger seems to misunderstand that while he is a bright shining individual in his own mind, he is really an ant in the scheme of human development. As was the problem with C, and perhaps all narcissists- that while it may feel incredibly rewarding for them to be reading, processing, saying all the time: they fail to recognize that the collective has built the pedestal for them. I cannot be a philosopher because I need to get back to work, there's something more here that I can add to benefit ACTUAL ants, and not the even less important lives of C and long-dead German thinkers. The pursuit of individual ascension is like learning how to juggle. A few very strange people might find it fun at parties while the rest of us wish we could turn back to our conversations and stop watching the years of strenuous practice forced out in meaningless and fleeting seconds.

A Return to Nihilism:
Speaking of meaningless and fleeting- So why care about actual ants then? It's all about the collective baby! Call me a biologist but, our purpose is to fulfill our biological role as humans on the landscape- a more complex asking now that our role has become reckoning with our own very-human eros. Am I saying that Heidegger would have been better off sitting in an empty room refreshing Ecosia than wasting valuable resources with all of his inks and papers? No, I'm saying that it's extremely Nazi of him to fail to understand that the people, small b beings, plants, and ants around him were facillitating his every thought. Of course, we can't all be bug scientists- and that's exactly what I'm saying. What I am Actually, Really, Truly saying is that I need to stop writing this and run a few datasets through the R script before my meeting this evening, and Heidegger should be thanking me.
ENTRY 27: July 4. 2022
My conciousness/being/thoughts are being pulled across the expanse and out of my hands - winds lifting up and taking many kites sailing in different directions. I can't seem to catch any of them, and while I enjoy watching them sail down the hillside, (name that tune) I feel a pitching fear that they are out alone, perhaps not to come back for .. the afternoon at least.

I'm not bad though, far from it, in actuality I feel so narcissitically beautiful that I could jump out of my skin, that my skin and myself and my perceptions of how they are seeing me are a thinning veil, that I have at once become so unabashed that I no longer know or recognize myself. Who am I when I am confident? Am I someone who texts D - the wandering figment that I swore off only a few long scrolls below? Becoming aware that he had entered my inner realm (the continent of europe) was a curse of course, forcing (you wouldn't understand) me to listen to the song that I assigned to my memory of him back when he stopped 'knocking on my door' freshman year.

When you decided to knock on my door / did you remember what happened before?
Did you agree we should let it be? / and did you agree...it's a must

Let's call the whole thing off / We just have had enough of us
Let's call the whole thing off / We just have had enough of us

Thanks for that, Peter Bjorn and John, you swedish fucks. This song always makes me feel better about D - counterintuive: since it is obviously (to me at least) about staying instead of going. Notoriously, NOT what D chose to do, when he set extremely clear and coherent boundaries for himself and chose to walk away from a relationship he knew would be difficult and painful for both of us- how truly gracious.

What does it mean that this ghost is travelling with his sweet european dad about 5 hours south of me? It should mean little seeing as he stepped into the same hottub as me only a few months before, to my great distress but .. survivable. The question is - will god bring us together in a fitful Melbourne-colored dream, or will we be normal, have no contact (because why would we?) and return to Portland on our respective, uneventful flights to continue our normal fucking lives. The distress comes from the inevitability of the latter, that even were we to meet - it would be impossible that anything could happen but a light hello and one of us running full speed into the opposite direction. The song comforts me because there is a decision being made, one that I continue to think that I am making 'day in .. day out' but three+ years later it remains a mental contract null and void by the time it's ever challenged.

I won't reach out to him, I don't care about him, we're calling the whole thing off.

And YET - my gut reaction is the opposite, even my interpretation of the song remains one of hopeless infatuation, insead of any real unbreakable resolve. How can my emotions remain so outside of my control? How can I be so different from myself 3 years ago, yet feel these same currents? And Another Thing! Jealousy runs rampant - jealousy that he could possibily be having a better time, seeing better places, and altogether ENTERING these cities that I have laid claim (in the self-centeredness and incoherancy only available to an American studying abroad) to.

Well, at least I'll always have C to distract me from my pining with..a vegemite sandwich. How is loving always felt most in the act of losing? (add citation) - actually I would argue- in finding, only ever the most unsatisfying scraps.
ENTRY 26: June 29. 2022
How do I come back to center? I feel horribly unfocused and distracted, as though I'm constantly bored and overwhelmed at the same time. I keep ignoring things that I must do, or should do, in favor of what? I lost the point of what we were all reaching for, and now I just keep drinking coffee. I fear that I was one flip phone purchase away from this fate but now, instead, have reached the bad ending.

Yesterday, in session (poetry)- T reminded us that we can always look for inspiration in our old scrawlings and in working with the exercises we share in group once and then retire to our notebooks. I like T because her notebook looks very much like mine, it's indecipherable letters conceal that she is actually one of the finest writers this side of the Mississippi -

In taking her advice to heart I was going to share the poem I started gingerly in group yesterday but in flipping through I discovered something else that seemed more Deadlines (Thoughtful):

I've followed you into the endless night, you are forever leaning on the chapped steps, fondly we circle each other, nights like these never happen, only coming in memory and daydream.

look into the burning color of the streetlamp above us, feel my hand where there is no hesitation, I see you're moving without thinking, let the light of the city swallow us in this night.

morning will never come here, only in the ache and love of the light above us, listen to it buzz, you can't hear me over the waking of the bugs in the foaming air, you can't walk, can't turn your head to me, you're locked in this crumbling stone, left perfect on the street side, painted in reflected colors, you are the sound, you are the holy vision.


Wow. Okay. I find this work interesting (look I'm teaching you how to make the sausages!) because I have this scene in my head that I can't be rid of: the steps, the street, the night, the street light, I wrote basically the same moment in my last transmission- not realizing that I'd already thought of it an unknown amount of days before..I'm stuck in this vision, like many others, that are at once fantasy and memory. The vision of the street lamp is very eternal to me, I often think that if I was a painter I would paint many empty landscapes with streetlights hazing off into the lip of oblivion, they are the most captivating figment to me, a childish wonder in the vein of 'where DOES the sidewalk end?' and staying with me in the questions of cultivated emotions in the grand scheme (game) of human society,

It starts simply:

The streetlight was placed near the road to light it for cars, and for passers-by. Many years ago the city planners took inspiration from other city planners and said, we will add streetlights!

Now the streetlight is a character, for me, as I was formed by the carefully planned (or perhaps not so, if you've ever been there) city of Auburn, Washington. I noticed that the streetlight also concealed, lighting only the small circle of sidewalk outside my house, and the rest? not the perview of those planners all those years ago, the desert if you will.

When I use the streetlight as a symbol to myself of mystery, love, desire, pain, everything overarching in my life and the question I'm always falling back on of- why I feel so drawn to it? the urge to write that is,

I wonder, was that also the designed function of the streetlight? to draw me (and the bugs) from my house to sit and stare from my steps - is the utilitarian act of the streetlight why this dichotomy draws me so? or is there mutual understanding between us all, that the streetlight always carries the precarious youth of the night with it too?


As I was writing this entry I took a large glug of the coffee I had left on my desk from yesterday afternoon and as the BOLUS of coffee entered my mouth I saw the still squirming body of a fruit fly be flushed with the liquid to become stuck to the inner side of the cup, a few centimeters below my lip. Perhaps that is my sign I should get back to things? Or at least make new coffee.

- huntr xx
ENTRY 25: June 28. 2022
I've lost the thread! but here's this you little hungry (non rap) scallions :

SOMETHING I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO WRITE:

We leave the bar in a hurry, she's stomping into the street and kicking the trash cans as she goes. the streetlights burn red this time of night, and I stop listening to her footsteps to focus on the drone of the flies around the lamps. she never looks back as I waver, and when I turn back towards the hollow buildings she has gone. the trash smells like rotting meat, a burning smell. above me, the moths and gnats fly in thin ribbons, feeding from the dumpsters.
--------
I have a horrible habit of rereading my own writing in a horrendous self-soothing fugue state in which I get absolutely nothing new accomplished and simply relay my own words back into my head as if I don't get ENOUGH of that living in my own brain day in/day out. Even this sentence I've probably reread several times and will continue to reread - (note to future huntr, stop getting meta, it's bad for you) -

But since we're having fun today and I'm procrastining writing an 'actual piece of worthwhile expression' (titled 'me being horny in class' or 'Joseph von Eichendorff der Gefangene, 1826') I wanted to reread (skim, it's 77 pages) the story that I wrote in 10th grade english for 30 points of extra credit that I definitely did not need. The story terrifies me not the least because it's the cringiest thing I've ever read, but also because it acts as too-expansive porthole into both a forgotten and formative time in my life. Rereading it is like skimming over a minefield hoping that I don't uncover anything too hot for therapy. It's too much information. plain and simple. I had forgotten how closely I collaborated with current little scallion, E, on this undertaking back in 10th grade. We have several emails together from various phases of the writing process (me coming home from school and writing furiousy for several hours during the month of November (I forgot to say nanowrimo but hopefully that clears something up for you))- I eventually completely incorperated E as two supporting characters utilizing both her first and last name respectively, gave her a love interest (that I know nothing about because I was too embarrassed to reread those parts), and just generally wrote a 77 page fan fiction- so what?

The story ends in a TWIST

why did we have to read so many fucking YA novels with twists? just give the kids Great Expections for the love of..


At the end you realize that the main protagoist was actually not experiencing any of the 76 pages of gritty teen adventure that came before. Instead, they were writing fan fiction in their room, romantizing the mundane events of their life and finding themselves unable to actually leave the house: unable to enter the reality beyond the door. I will include the final paragraph here in it's entirety, I suggest one particular little scallion be sitting down when they read this for reasons that will become obvious in a moment:

finding life: the final page

Damn, pretty crazy huh? Now that I believe in God a lot has started to make more and less sense to me, namely how I got away with not believing in god/signs/signals sooner? To be clear, although I used painfully relevant names, places and events for almost everything in the story- this final name was disconnected from me. I think I chose it because it belonged to the girl I never stood up for in middle school when she got laughed at for sticking her finger in an electrical socket and shocking herself during 6th grade history. A story I feel bad for loving so deeply that I continued telling it ... up to right now.

Well, sadly I don't think I'll be including any more excerpts from finding life, unless it becomes highly requested- those who wish to read more can check out Wattpad and find much the same writing style and content (with better sex) featured there.
ENTRY 24: June 26. 2022
Wait! I just remembered I didn't see my mom come home last night. Where was she this morning? Looking into the teal green of the next door stairwell I think about the beginning of the end, how she decended after the pregnancy, what had happened anyway? Where has she been for the last few years? The years she was in and out of treatment- and now she's gone forever? or just missing again? The question is why dad never told me, why didn't he say something when she was obviously missing at dinner? I can't ask him right now, I have to go to get my hair cut- I just called, 'do you have any appointments today?', 'does 10 pm work for you?' 'yes.' - I picked her up, meeting at the place where the red dirt slopes down the embankment in down-right dunes, a red desert at the side of the freeway. Why did I wear my broken boots? I need to run, we'll never make it by 10, and my boots are tied together in ribbon. I'm pulling her down the red sand, she's keeping up effortlessly until I get distracted, crossing the freeways back and forth to the bottom and the train station appears, I pull her in- I'm sure I see them, C, wearing my clothes- lingering at the edge of the platform. They notice me, and so does their partner standing between us, they are both morphing into people and people, their faces are fluid, what did they look like again? C smirks at me, I try and climb the red sand to offer a goodbye, the standard european hug offered out of necessity, not want, but the sand is suddenly too thick and I am sliding down, my muscles hard and slow, I'm crawling.

I don't have time, it's 10:01. We are at the destination. we're ordering pizza. 'wait, what if I want a haircut?' the waiter: 'that closed already'

'but I have an appointment'

'why would you have an appointment at 10 pm?'

She's ordering, I'm paying- the cashier (italian): 'that's 90 euros', I walk back to her, 'can we get it without the dessert?' She laughs, we'll split it. Maybe she looks like Lina? she's pulled me to the floor, 'I love being with someone who doesn't care about the rules' she tells me as I worry about the managements' views on PDA on their carpet. I'm remembering the times we've come here before, she's changed since then, gotten more carefree. But do I even like her? Back into the nighttime and we're at the walls, thick cement carved in thousands of pictographs. She looks up and smiles because there are thousands of honey bees carved in the ceiling. I really need to ask my dad about mom. Now I'm certain she isn't coming home. The pictographs begin to make sense to me, I can read them all clearly- every word in every language. If only I could remember what they said.
ENTRY 23: June 21. 2022 Berghain

Berghain is an imposing 5-story industrial building that looks a bit like what a city hall in hell would look like. Okay I'm embellishing, the outside is a grey-beige and has a collection of stickers and tags decorating the wire fences, the entrance is in back so you have to wander around the large complex looking embarrassed as men in giant boots snicker at you and walk confidently to the corral. When we got in line two short men in t-shirts sitting on a concrete stoop asked us if we knew where Berghain was, a joke as old as time. I will say I didn't start to feel the power of the building until we got closer, the line was underwhelmingly short, only 50 or so people, when I had been primed for hundreds, thousands. It's the greatest club in the world after all- we'll get there.

I had no reference for Berghain before coming to Germany, but the name did give me a feeling of intrigue, a light 'maybe I have heard that somewhere before'? C was the first person I remember saying Berghain to me, although I don't think I even heard what they said at the time, 'Berghain' simply fell into my conciousness through osmosis. Shortly thereafter the club got talked up by somehow everyone that I met. Yet, other than C, nobody had actually seen inside. I did some indepedent research, found the tourist guides about tips for getting in, the articles about the 'hardest door in the world', and I was absolutely hooked on it. I knew I'd get in, it was just a matter of how many times I'd have to try. Once I saw the rest of the line I was even more sure, the themes were queer, fetish and black lace- and I was wearing the lace corset I bought on Division with my ex girlfriend, slam dunk.

Once we were 3 people from the door I was able to read the paper taped above one of the three, large ALL BALD bouncers. It was 22 euros to enter and cash only. I had 10 euros in my pocket and whispered to F that we should just get cash and come back, I figured getting to the front and asking them if they had a card reader was not part of the Ten Tourtist Tricks, but F said lets just see if they let us in first. I think she wanted a bit more of a demonstration than I did, confidently striding out to tell her grandkids 'I got into Berghain but decided not to pay the cover'. But at this point the three people in front of us had already been turned away- the woman saying 'why?' and the bouncer saying 'because you asked'- and we were being sized up. I chose to look at the bouncer in front of the door only, keeping my eyes on his and letting C's greatest teaching run through my mind, 'if you want to be someone who fucks, you just have to pretend you are'. The bouncer nodded and motioned for us to go in. We were sheparded by more bald bouncers into a bright green room with boxes overflowing with confiscated bottles of every color of liquid. A friendly man (not bald) put a bright orange sticker over the cameras on my phone and explained the rules I'd already studied on clubguideberlin.de, we then stood completely silently at the counter until F resignedly explained that we actually had no cash and would have to return, they understood - once you're in Berghain, you're family - and we scampered back in with cash a half hour later.

The 'lobby' of Berghain is a cavernous room painted a hideous (my favorite) puke green, with people in various stages of undress/nakedness waiting at the GARDEROBE counter. One of many low couches sits to one corner with queers lounging delicately like a renaissance painting. These couches would become a theme of Berghain for me, every floor, bar, room, hallway, balcony, dungeon, bathroom, was adorned with a low couch seating absolutely effortless human connection. People lolled, or pulsed, depending on where you looked in the mass. You ascend from the decently-lit lobby on a black metal staircase to enter what has the feeling of an industrial warehouse. But you aren't actually sure what you're seeing because you can't understand the scale of the ceilings and the dimensions of the crowd - suddenly everything has become endless black fog, with only colored lazers - thick shapes like a Kandinsky painting - cutting across your vision in huge vertical spotlights. It was like finding yourself in the middle of a thunderstorm.

I knew I had to see every inch of Berghain before I could fully enjoy what was obviously the main attraction, so I began scouting the surrounding bar areas and upper floors. Moving around in Berghain involves slithering around on cast iron bridges and stairwells, as though you are always on a fire escape. People are everywhere, sitting in the walls, in the nooks, in the rafters. I found several bars quickly, including an upper section with ice cream (the fat fetish community salutes you Berghain). One of the bars was made of glass counters holding what appeared to be amber resin sculptures of mummified women. They lay flat under the drinks and clutched their hands together dreamily. The bar where I ordered my gin & tonic was manned by an excited bartender who forgot to give F her coke and left when I was about to pay. She jumped completely into the arms of what I assumed was her coworker but may have just been someone ordering a drink, hugging them tightly with both her arms and legs. community.

I know I use the word Labrynth liberally on this blog but I must emphasize the sprawling maze of foggy hallways that make up Berghain. The way that new rooms materialize, and change meaning once you enter them. It's a bathroom! you think, then turn the corner and are walking along a wall of human sized compartments, a woman is lunging out at you and ricocheting back to her partner. You enter a room with a balcony over the grand floor, everything is hazed in blue and suddenly you see that the room is only low couches and one long bed facing the dancefloor. Someone is sleeping on it peacefully. We were greeted by a Berghain regular at one point, a touching little moth who flitted to us to ask if we had been made uncomfortable at any time during the night. We smiled and said we had been having a lovely time, to which this transpired:

Regular: that's wonderful, it's been a great night for me too - I accidently did Ketamine instead of Methadone earlier - but I just sat with the bouncers and they kept an eye on me until I felt better

Me: you can do that?

Regular: yes! It's even written on your bracelet 'if you need support, please contact any member of our team' - sometimes they change it though, it used to say 'don't forget to leave'

Me: It's so nice that they would be understanding and kind about drugs

Regular: yes, lets hope there's nothing spiked floating around tonight- if you're ever holding a drink and looking away from it remember to cover it with your hand like this, and watch out for each other. But let's not talk about it anymore, I don't want to bring any more bad energy in here tonight-

END SCENE: Regular returns to the K-hole

I won't bore you with any further details of my personal imprint on Berghain (what I added to the global conversation) - what I will say is what Berghain whispered to me, that not anyone can cook, but a good cook can come from anywhere. I had wanted to talk about the intersection of exclusivity, "chosenness", beauty and confidence- but I'll save that for when I feel like shit again. Peace Love and Unity.
ENTRY 22: June 15. 2022 TW: ED

Ghost in (my) shell- I watched another Herbs & Alters video this morning and per usual it got my little brain working. Dorian was talking about the isolation of ED's and just like very broad strokes what happens to your body during periods where you're restricting. It was actually very validating because I often forget that I did in fact follow all of the signs/stages/acheivement badges of an ED. I think we all tend to downplay our traumatic experiences but the truth was that I was extremely isolated during that period of my life. To the point that I don't remember any of the small moments from that summer. I remember going to the red woods because that was when I entered marble-world, and I remember going to summer camp with L because I had to decide how much of an ED I wanted to present to the extremely impressional children around me. I felt guilty that I wasn't eating as much as them, because I knew that I should be their healthy, stable role model. I remember there was a presentation mid-week about the female athlete triad, the relationship between losing your period, losing bone density, and losing energy. The presentation was in a scared-straight style, telling the kids that if they lost their period for a month they would immidiately begin losing bone density and likely get a stress fracture. If they somehow lost their period for 3 consecutive months they would be medically diagnosed with amenorrhea and most definitely get a stress fracture and have low bone density for the rest of their little lives. I remember looking around the room of hundreds of kids sitting on the floor and just feeling this sinking shame, I hadn't had my period for almost a year at this point. I left the presentation and told L that the presentation was a bit much, I don't remember how she responded.

The other moments from that summer are completely lost to me, I think that I was spending a lot of time at home, but I have no memory of what I was doing. I think that I would visit M sometimes, since he was living 45 minutes away with his parents most of the summer, but I often had a breakdown before getting in the car to drive there, and wouldn't go. I was in deep shit, I have a few videos saved on my phone from that time and I don't think I knew who I was in any way, or how to speak, think, exist. Dorian spoke about the connection between ED and age-regression, which I think is a fascinating concept. They said that in their experience, periods of restriction often made them feel drawn to childrens activitys/toys- perhaps due to the hormonal supression of losing your period, or perhaps due to our societal understanding of thinness being tied to childhood/youth. I wonder if that contributed to my sudden decision to work as a camp counselor (a path I cannot imagine taking before or since), and further- if I was feeling afraid of growing up in some way? I think we all are afraid of ageing, but I also have moments of euphoria for being an adult, L and I drove to get coffee one morning before the kids woke up and the power of that- I had short hair and cool earrings and I felt like one of the older girls with piercings that would go to my dojo all those years ago. Still, I can have grace (thank you therapy) for the fear that I was feeling towards my own development at this time. I was on the cusp of completely re-understanding myself as NB/male and that was about to put a lot of things into a new perspective. I was feeling frustrated with sex at this time, and I kept telling M that I thought I was a lesbian. In retrospect, I've learned that having an ED just represses your desire for sex and really any feeling at all, so my confusion might have been less gender-caused and more just the bodily/chemical reality. Still, I can recognize that I was standing blindfolded at the edge of a very anxious-femme cliff, about to dive into a beautiful new conception of myself but only feeling the rock crumbling at the edge below my feet.
ENTRY 21: June 13. 2022
I can finally look back on the events of the last weekend now that we were all let down by the Strokes (I kid) and can move along with our lives. This was my first festival and I think I get it. It is (as every fucking person says) like a beautiful little bubble of solidarity, especially since I loved so many of the bands. I felt incredibly at peace, which incidentally is what my tarot cards predicted when I read last week (adding THAT to my confirmation bias). The come down is still a bit hard though, like how I never remember that alcohol has a come down as well.. I also missed M (is this his first mention in these transmissions?) since so many of the bands were ones that we listen to together. There was something absolutely girl-boss-exquisite about going with Q though, just the pure, raw love of friendship and listening to beautiful music together. I got to show her alt-J and she showed me Wolf Alice, and we both cried during Big Thief and my lord and savior Florence & the Machine.

At one point (before the entry of the mouth harp to the stage) Big Thief was singing about her mother, and that started hitting quite intensely. I wonder if when (when I don't) publish these fumbled pages into my manifesto I'll look back and realize it was all just me writing to my mother, finally filling our journal covered in dust in her bedside drawer. I started to cry because I realized that my mother didn't even know that I loved alt-J, that she didn't even know where I was right then, that if she saw me here she wouldn't even recognize me. Maybe that means I need to let her more into my life, she did reach out after my last instagram post- asking me to please tell her what the creature was featured there (a hedgehog mom?) and I haven't responded, so I suppose I'm the distant one in all of this. I think I feel a bit hurt though, since there are things that I try and tell her, and I always feel like she isn't listening. When I told her that I was going to Germany I explained that I was going for a semester, studying, all of it- and the week before I left she asked me who my host family was, and 'you're staying a few weeks? visiting Nadine?'. I know she's self-admittedly senile but it stung. I know this is a universal experience, that your parents never quite listen or know you, but I feel like mine might be particularly distant. It always feels a bit Dickens going home to the big farm house and us all sitting at the too-big kitchen table, saying nothing but keeping a traditional and severe reverence for each other (how warm indeed).
ENTRY 20: June 10./12. 2022
And here we are, arriving and leaving - on the train again. And where are we going? Q and I are an hour outside of Berlin, about to enter the ascension point, I slept for an hour last night and since then I've been pitter pattering about street trees, having a lovely time with Q, thoroughly appreciating the view as our train coasts into the daylight-

I knew that I was going to like Berlin, and so maybe that's part of the reason I do like it, so much. I don't remember if I felt this way about Portland too, that it was a dream- then became the only place that I could imagine myself being, then of course- after a few months reality began to set in. There are concrete things that I like here though, things I can pinpoint beyond just a carefully-curated global aesthetic that Berlin has managed to seed in my heart since I started German classes at 15. I like the wide streets, it makes moving through the city feel so peaceful, nobody is in your way or angry with you. On my run yesterday I felt that I could run comfortably anywhere in the city, and what a beautiful prospect for me. Berlin streets are quiet and lead into beautiful gardens and large swaths of undeveloped land, sections of forested swamps and fields right in the center of the city. It feels so balanced, the line between STREET and TREES (!) - I also like the people here, so far the festival goers and the shop keepers have all been lovely, someone rode by on their bike yesterday and told me I was doing great on my run, it's the little things.

I suppose I have conflicting feelings about this love I feel for Berlin. I'm weary of it, like all love, because there is always the possibility that it won't last. I'm not sure how I first felt drawn to Portland, likely it was catalyzed by Portlandia as sad as that is to admit (although I do love that show still), I think Portland represented a freedom for me that Seattle didn't. Seattle was a known quantity, my parents both understood and knew their way around there, we'd spent days there together, that was their city. But Portland could be mine, and it was marketed as open, queer, weird, etc. Was it everything that I expected? I suppose, but I realized that Portland has a slimy coating to it- an incredible and palpitable hypocrisy that is at once acknoledged in most circles (the ever present antifa mantra 'we hate Portland'), and simultaniously has only gotten more severe in the time I've lived there. I know I'm not the first to say this but the claim that Portland is a woke city while thousands of people are sleeping on the streets and in their cars -- it's unforgivable. Portland is a sham, it's people who are constantly presenting themselves as better/different/poor/cool while inside they don't even understand why they are doing any of it. Maybe that's just college, and of course I am no exception- I'm constantly presenting, seeing what works, adjusting, trying to put forth something at once grudge and at the other- professional. It's a ridiculous dance - but I haven't noticed it present here. It doesn't feel like we are clawing at each other, perhaps communal (!!) is more what I'm trying to say.

Anyway, I thought I should tell you all that I literally communicated with alt-J yesterday. We made a few friends at the show before and I was absolutely unhinged talking about how excited I was for alt-J. It paid off (like always) because this very tall fellow offered to lift me up on his shoulders for a song since he could tell that I was absolutely rabid. He said to just tap him when I was ready which presented an incredible decision to me of what blessed/perfect song I should choose to ascend to (having a vague knowledge of the set list from their Seattle show but of course unsure if their festival show might be different). I tried to go deep inside and know that I would feel when the time was right, and of course, as alt-J always does, I felt the moment perfectly. Of course, I should ascend to Chicago

an apparition lifts me up / from its shoulders I sit and see your face above the tree-line
your reassurances subtited in American English / I am calm as we sail down the hillside

It was beautiful, I was seen and loved and cherished by my favorite band for one little moment. Maybe sometimes, dreams do come true. Enough of this, I'll catch you guys later.
ENTRY 19: June 9. 2022 TW:ED

Oh God, I really should be getting started on my long run- or the coding I need to work on for D (not that one)- but I really want to write about something- or maybe just prolong the time until I need to move my body through space for 1.75 hours. I was speaking with a friend about this earlier this week, I think I may have come off fake deep and overly 'psychology major', but she was studying sociology so I'm not sure if she cared. But what I was trying to convey was the interesting nature of sport and exercise in the grand scheme of one's day, that we as humans have an innate need to move through space, in the same category as eating/drinking/sleeping. And you're probably thinking, okay you ableist cunt (reclaimed)- that must be so great for you but people can live really fulfilling lives without incessant movement, and I'm sure that's true - I'm speaking from within the confines of my own body, one that both liberates and holds me hostage, and saying that my body's need to fling itself through space is something that I find so primal. M responded to this saying, yes, it's about getting out of your head. And she's right, but also wrong. During the worst periods of my ED I could not run, but it wasn't physical, it was because I would stop at the edge of the track and cry, completely unable to control (IN THE MOST FUCKED SENSE OF THE WORD) my body, feeling only an overwhelming hatred, that I wanted to grasp myself in iron hands and shape myself into someone else. I couldn't move because moving was an invitation to be so inside of my body, which meant escaping my thoughts, but at that time they were indistinguishable. Every thought was body, and acknowledging any piece of myself was like pressing a seering pan into my head. So now we must emerge from this inexplicable (but so societally-crafted) line of thinking and explore 'now', when my body is okay-and I do not need desperately to be someone else. 'Now', I imagine myself as a vector in space, only lines crossing lines and true free movement becomes possible again. I MUST remember to see out, not in, and in the words of fellow mover (and shaker) Robert Frost, 'that has made all the difference'.
ENTRY 18: June 3. 2022
It's 5:30 am and I've already been asked if I was married. I made the age-old mistake of nodding to someone who had nodded to me on the train platform while we took our seats, and answered him when he asked me where the plug was for his phone. I should have realized that I was his target from the beginning, but of course I tried to give him the benefit- pretty soon I was sitting with a knot in my stomach while he stared directly at my downturned face, his scrawny leg splayed out towards me, implicitly blocking my escape route. It is in moments like this that I want to go beserk. What I actually say is 'I'm moving', but what I want to say is so much greater. Maybe I should have said more, because he came knocking at my new seat a few minutes later, starting with a wave saying 'it's fine' before coming to sit across from me again and tell me more about his phone charger. This time I said I wanted to sit alone, to which he suddenly pretended he didn't speak english, or perhaps was so shocked that I had actually said it, that I had to repeat myself and say please move, please do not sit here. He gave a look of grave mutual understanding, 'of course', and then sat one row back, still facing me, and staring somehow more intensly now with his head bent against the window, his eyes both scared and searching.

I've moved a second time, and now the sun is beginning it's peaceful rise, how comforting that cool blue sky comes. I read a short story yesterday, 'the Scarlet Ibis' recommended by B (who else?), and it did enliven something in me. The story is remarkably short, you could likely read it in a shorter time than this blog entry, but hits so intensely, guilt/loss/the strangness of siblings. T is going to be coming to Germany in the next month and it's been lightly on my mind. I'd like to share my website with him, perhaps in a misguided try at openness like my mom's shared journal approach, but nonetheless a try.
ENTRY 17: June 2. 2022
I have one more thing- I'd like to celebrate how far I've come in the last 3 years with writing, and with general cognitive function, by sharing a poem I wrote and TEXTED to D, on Nov 18. 2018. I'm also doing this to celebrate the loss of this cowboy from my psyche, for when I think of him now, I feel less than nothing, more like pity. Here goes:
    The night train is in my head 
    shaking my frizzy hair into my hands 
    my cardboard walls rumble with the gravel 
    as the train rushes through stagnant air 
    screaming hollow notes as 
    though it might arrive 
    suspending me for fear of missing 
    your soft knock 
    on my walls pulsing and 
    trembing to catch 
    my flushed body spread too thin 
    burning halls, fleshy streets, 
    yanking me 
    Back! Back! Here's the train! 
    desperately pressed to jagged walls 
    so thin I know the train will tear 
    right through and you 
    will hear the somber call and 
    you will come 
    But your walls are sturdy, quiet 
    as I send tendrils searching 
    the harsh night 
    for a few light footprints on the moon 
    heard so far between wake and sleep 
    It's only another dull thudding 
    on the tracks 
    My walls are glowing red,
    alarm bells at the station
    but you enter your silent planet 
    and sigh 
    for how wonderful to sleep so soundly 
    indifferent to the symphony next door. 
Wow, they really said.. For added context D responded to this saying 'I like this poem. Sorry I never got back to you yesterday'. If I was to revamp this poem now there's many words I would change- although I was interested to see my use of 'fleshy streets', a metaphor I used just early this week, 'cracks in the sidewalk/the stripes on your backbone'. I guess I wanted to share this since I just called someone else cringe, and it's hard to say that with this skeleton in my closet. I think after years of consideration of the big question (is it better to have loved and lost?), I always fall on the side of Florence and the Machine
you need your rotten heart, your dazzling pain like diamond rings
You need to go to war to find material to sing

Although- I'm still not sure what she's actually saying in that song. In any case, while I hate the player (not the game), I think this poem does capture something about living in the dorms my freshman year of college. The rampant depth of suffering exerted there - talk about ghosts in the walls - and the complete lack of control that I was feeling, which perhaps should have been noticed by a trained professional before it spiraled into ED marble-world a few short years later. With this, I'd like to say a soft 'git along lit'l doggy', and move on with my life, thank you for your service, D.
ENTRY 16: June 2. 2022
Well, I shared my poetry yesterday- in front of real, alive, people. I'll be honest, I think my words are only meant to be read against a garish 2000's colored computer screen, ever-reminding my readers that these sentences are contrived, expected, and could (and maybe should) have been written 25 years ago. I don't think that I do well with speaking either, but that would probably be aided if my poems were better. I did like performing 'small talk', since I think it warms the audience well to recieve anything else I have half-a-mind to throw at them. In writers' group before the reading we also did a small exercise in which we write until our hand hurts (or in my case, got too clammy to hold the pen) and then made a haiku with the resulting mish/mash. We all ended up sharing our haiku's at the reading so I will transcribe mine here
Heidelberg, you rap 
scallion - your wings warm and 
open like my page. 
I suppose I like it, mostly because I got to teach 40+ german and argentinian people what 'rapscallion' meant. I'd also like to remember the building that we used for the reading, called Palais Rischer- a three story, pink builidng standing right in the center of the old city. I learned about this building when I went out for drinks with the clarinetist (musician #2), but was mostly just tagging along with F and trying to understand if I was having a moment of crippling anxiety or , not. The clarinetist pointed at this grand, pink palace while we were outside the neighboring dive bar and told us that he used to live there, that it was an artist collective where 10 lucky, lucky people just collaborate- make music, paint, draw, fuck, host parties- to make matters worse, at this exact moment the clarinetist caught sight of a figure sitting poised in one of the third floor windows and said 'oh! that's my friend!' At which stunning point he called up to her and she looked down at us gracefully, her hair even falling slightly out the window. He asked her if she wanted to join us for drinks and she laughed softly, gave a flirtatious and so artistic 'no', and turned back to what I can only imagine was pondering her fucking existance.

Heidelberg, you rapscallion. Yesterday I entered the palace for myself, one of those moments that you just know is coming- just not sure what maze of decisions will lead you there. It was more organized than I expected, with a large performance space, stage, even wooden chairs stacked against the wall. A few artists were sitting in a small courtyard that could be seen through the wide palace windows, and god did they look the part. One of them had very close-cut black hair and wide billowing pants that looked unbelievably expensive, I think she was wearing those huge, white Balenciaga sandals as well (retailing for 546 €). She softly lit the candles in the window sills and then popped outside to water a few flowers. I hope that I'm telling the truth when I say, I did not envy her. Those sandals are cringe as hell. More broadly- the idea of a artist palace is a bit cringe unto itself, I understand the need for such collaborations (similar to the need for some to make harrowing sacrifices working on deadliest-catch style Alaskan fishing boats), but utmost broadly: what can you really say about the world when you are living like this? In the same vein as the girl who read a poem in response to Rupi Kaur that was really just saying the same words but longer- it's not the type of art I'm into. One of the people in my group asked me how Heidelberg could possibly be a 'rapscallion', I said it's funny because it's not.
ENTRY 15: May 31. 2022
TW: My Mom

I wanted to write about my mom today, I've felt it in the air the last few days, 'tell me about your mom?', 'what is she like?'. I'm often filled with - as Howe perfectly put it - 'a cherishing so deep' for my mother, as I think we all feel sometimes. I love to see my mother in me, I would love to simply live as her. Maybe there's more to say there.

My mother is an alcoholic, but you already knew that. I should say 'was', she wasn't drinking when I went home the last time, but I think that 'is' is appropriate, seeing as it lingers with us, unsaid and unheard in the fibers of my house. When I decided to talk with L about my mom I realized how badly I wanted to relive it all, over and over again just saying the facts and hearing what had happened, making it real so that I could know that I had not dreamed it. I wanted to tell her everything, every moment that I had felt that crumbling, that anger, hatred. I wanted her to tell me it was fucked up, and she did. She told me she was a child of addiction too, that I could go to Al-Anon, and that I would be welcomed. Maybe this isn't the best place to say it all, at the end of the day it's just a story- and in many ways I'm grateful that my mom taught me this lesson - that nothing is perfect. A funny thing happens when you tell a story, it is suddenly measured against, 'well how bad was it?', 'that's all?'. I know, dearly beloved reader, that you would never think such a thing, but it often happens that I do have those thoughts. That the words come out and I realize, that's all.

My mother's greatest flaw is that she cannot speak with me. She's always known this too, she asked me if I would like to write letters to each other when I was a child, so we would write in a book and leave it for each other to read. I love my mother, but how the fuck was a 7 year old supposed to write a letter? I wish we had a system like this now, but expectedly after a few weeks the journal disappeared and I believe she keeps it hidden in her bedside drawer. I'm sure I would cry if I read those letters now, so it's perhaps for the best that they've been taken from me.

I often wonder what would happen if I shared my most personal feelings and experiences with my mom. I think she would be hurt, I think she would laugh. I wonder if I came here because of this breaking point, to force myself to come to terms with the person I am, the person who is so incredibly different from my mother. I grip my idea of her so tightly, wind myself around it and tell myself that I cannot ever show that I have turned a corner. I am afraid of showing her how far apart we really are, that I love the thrill of vulnerability, that I want her to know my deepest secrets. My mother taught me the pain of dishonesty, of sweeping things so far under the rug that they reach our core, and simmer there. I do not ever want to have those moments with you, lovely reader, the moments when my father pretended to be asleep, when my mom scratched at my door and came begging to be let in, only to touch my face in cold/clammy fingers and ask me finally in a neauseous slurry 'have you had sex yet?', 'do you hate me?'. The moments I locked her in her room, back to the door as she knocked and begged like a child, until the next morning - when she would leave my cereal on the table, and we would be filled with that all-encompassing silence, still buzzing in my ears.

I hope you are okay with this, my beautiful and cherished reader- that I must relive these nightmares sometimes. Can you blame me for oversharing? When all I ever had to express with was a journal locked by my mother's bed. I hope that you let these memories float right through you, like dreams, the way that I do. I buried them into the anger then, kept them sealed in the oddest little memories, the perfect light shine of the Heineken bottle that soaked it all up, until that was almost all there was, just pictures of that bottle, always still half-full.
ENTRY 14: May 28. 2022
During my ascension/descension I finally got around to changing the website name, since the truth is I chose 'Cyber Hunter' in about 1 second (pretend like you didn't already know that). So why STREET TREES ? - personally street trees strike me as these incredible figments of artificiality in our daily lives, planted so fucking deliberately, watered and fertilized and cared for to create the perception of nature, where nature already lies. They are a perfect idea of nature, the story we create about living harmoniously within the natural world, and god do we cultivate them. Isn't that also the fiction of writing? Nature, the events, the reality above the cave has happened, has caused real change in me - and all I can do is view it from this human binary of good/bad, wrong/right, nature/infrastructure. What street trees do I decorate my mind with? Lovely and withering and formed into these perfect charactures of what is undoubtedly real, but so cloaked in the frality of words and archetypes that they become undoubtedly human.

Enough pitter/patter I would like to come back to how I am doing. Bad. It saddens me that other languages don't have the rhythmic beauty of the phrase 'dull ache of heartbreak', it helps somehow, reminds me that this is so human. I think often when I am in a depressive mood I wish that something would happen, like to be finally finished with something- have time for something else- but the last few days it feels like there is somehow nothing that I want. There is nothing that I can imagine happening that would shake this feeling, I know that it is simply what must pass. It reminds me of being sick, and my mom reminding me that I have to drink water. I'm back to trying to hold the line, follow my rules and stick to my routine and I hope that soon things will return to normal. It's funny how memory works huh? How each feeling is really just reopening a different feeling, one that happened a long time before.
ENTRY 13: May 25. 2022 This entry is written for me, please be careful wading through and do not read if you are in a vulnerable place, TW: ED

I've gone through a period of ascension, and decension, somehow simultaniously. I've relapsed and opened a part of myself that I fight to cover day in/day out, like noticing that a small thing seems to always make you cry. Where this thought took hold and multiplied in my mind I cannot pinpoint, although I have theories. Perhaps it was D, the moment that I fell off the deep end for likely the rest of college, or perhaps 'grew up' is another way of saying that. It may have began with S, someone perhaps equally fleeting and beautiful as the person who has just left me. S was the epitome of unrequited, I wonder if beautiful people feed off of the way that we throw ourselves at their feet. I wonder if S ever believes they are unworthy. It may have been caused by a simple change in scenery. In the fields of rural Washington, the last notes of the suburbs drying up as the roads turn outwards and languish, forgotten as they furrow towards the mountains. In the small town where my grandmother was crowned princess back in the 1940s, where I was torn to shreds (inside) every moment of middle school and then slowly built, carved like marble into an unshakable form. I could understand the rhythm of the people, knew every secret that they told, if you were beautiful there, you were beautiful, there was nowhere else.
And then one day I left, took my unshakable beauty and catapulted into a city where everyone was noticed, and so noone was. What did I have? It didn't sink in for a while, that I had lost something when I drove away from that little glimmering crystal of being someone in a small town. Not only noticed, but treasured, have you ever been told 'you are the most beautiful person I have ever seen'?
And what does it mean to be beautiful? Held in the eye of you/them/him, someone who reminds you of someone else, someone who you covet. C was exceptionally beautiful, which is what they told me at the bar. I must believe, before this pain took hold- freshman year of college when this dark snake wrapped around my unshakable form and laughed when I tried to fight it off, to reach again what lies beneath- that I would have let C go. I would tell myself, 'there will be others, love that they are gone, love that they have taught you something'. But instead I am left speaking with the snake, and it laughs that I would believe C, the absurdity, the audacity that I did not realize that C was lying. That I was so desperate to hear those words I looked past reality, my only reality- the coiled snake. And so the snake binds me to these figures, these stones sinking in my soup, cracking my skull with their smallest word, touch, the thoughts they do not have. The snake is devilish, it doesn't tell me that I am bad, it tells me that I am delusional for thinking I am good.

So no I will not eat, not yet. I am conversing with the snake, for maybe I can make it see reason if I can just hold a bargaining chip, the scrap of control that comes with bodily mutilation. There is so much pain here, for wanting to just have control, to have a body that is beautiful so that I believe it, so that I'm released. But what is beauty? Masculinity, the body that you covet, wanting to remember the fading memory of someone else. Is there anyone out there - another hopeless transmitter drinking cold coffee at 11 am and trying desperately to fix themselves - who would be released if they looked like me? What does it mean to be released, if when I was free I never even knew what this pain felt like. Now that I've left, I know too much to run back.

Ascension. C told me that they are in therapy too, and that the only way to move forward is with brute force. I was in an odd mood of using exclusively platitudes for 3 days, and responded with 'fake it until you make it'. Pain comes heavy on me, souring my recollection, but also there is exhilaration coupled to it- the excitement that I have hit on something. Like when I think about my friends in that little town, and start to cry. C is gone now, and we will likely never speak again. But I have them too, I must remember that. In the forest of my own perception, skewed and upside-down and tinted in a thousand untraceable colors, within the marble, the kafkaesque nightmare/freedom of being the main character of this world. C is gone now, but in the story that I tell myself we could have never met. There is only one thing in this wasteland that I can control, and that is the story I tell. C helped me see the snake, not slaughter it (lanced in viscious and gruesome victory) but feel the weight of it, C was not lying- but beauty is so much more than biology or symmetry or confidence or masculinity- beauty is molding someone to the story we are telling. Cramming them into an archetype/a wish/a dream and soothing ourselves, whispering 'it is real, they are real', taking their ugly fragile body and measuring up, always returning to ourselves, little creatures lost in the thick of it.

I am not better, I am not soothed but I will eat. Relapse can be such a welcome word, quantifiable, expected, normal, 'everyone relapses at some point', but how much pain has come from this little phrase. Mom, relapsing- or maybe she was never out of it at all, because she seemed to never know when the snake had caught her. 'Fake it until you make it', eat until you are full. The rest will follow if you just stick to the steps, and slowly the inner realm will change, the clouds will clear and you will be happy that you met C.
ENTRY 12: May 16. 2022
I'm afraid I did not sleep

I didn't sleep last night, and I forgot what it felt like. I forgot the moment of relief when the sun rises, and you no longer need to worry about what you are doing and where you will end up and how you will get home and if you will get any sleep, because it's all over. I forgot that I used to get high off this feeling. It's been years since I just stayed up a whole night, but I used to do it so often, unbelievably often, it seemed like every night back when I was 17-18. F and I would stay out until my shift began at 4:30 and then I'd sit in the lifeguard chair as the early morning light appeared through the window I faced. And the accomplishment I would feel, knowing that I'd broken the societal rules and gotten away with it. I have more to say but the tiredness just hit me, maybe that's important to say, too. Also I saw a hedgehog and read my last entry aloud to actual people, who am I .

Later that same day: I regret to inform myself that I must now write a 250 word aufgabe (assignment) describing the city of Heidelberg for the ever-emotional Kreativ Schreiben 2. I'm supposed to use the city descriptions we read in class, from the likes of Joseph von Eichendorff, Friedrich Hebbel and the brothers Grimm to eloquently and creatively relive my first moments in the town that shines "gleich einer goldenen Krone (like a golden crown)".

My first assignment and translation are linked here for curious little readers: GERMAN TIME
ENTRY 11: May 13. 2022
I think I'm starting to get used to living here, and I no longer feel a drumming anxiety when I go to bed or wake up in the morning. It's more like a sharp bolt that passes right when I start to look at it. Maybe through this art and my time here, I'll be able to begin interrogating the very core themes that I've felt surrounded by since childhood. I'm talking about my fear of being alone, of being isolated. The fear of being left completely abandoned, of having nothing. When I was a child I tried to run away once, I was serious about it too- I wanted to be completely in control for once, to lead my own life probably in a Boxcar Children fantasy. Yet, there has always been an unease, like thinking about the life of your aquaintance, the girl you barely knew, and her home, and her room and the people she knew that were all completely normal to her. And she says all the things that she is supposed to, and she talks to all of those people and lives obiediently in her house, but all the while she is trapped there, she could never enter your life, your room, wake up in your bed and survive there. Just like you can never enter hers. This pre-destination terrifies me, that we are all locked in/driven in like nails to a society that we do not even see or understand. I want to be alone, but I'm terrified of losing this thread to reality. What if I did completely unhook my life from these scenes and memories? What if I convinced myself that the bedroom I remembered and the words my grandmother used to say to me had happened to that other girl, that they were never part of me? What could I be, if I was so completely in control? I feel like I'm always playing with this fear, seeing how close I can get to it before it gets too intense, and I fall back to myself again.
ENTRY 10: May 12. 2022 TW: ED

Yesterday, I went to a poetry workshop hosted by T, a new friend that I had met the night before at the jazz club (go figure). I'm beginning to feel a bit more connected with the Heidelberg community, and even spoke to a few strangers at the jazz club, unprompted! I suppose I feel proud of the work I'm doing, especially after getting hyped up by my therapist yesterday afternoon- but I know I still have a long way to go. I complained to lovely therapist L that I felt like I had regressed, that I was disappointed that speaking with strangers has gotten progressively more difficult- she validated this and told me that if we could bottle the fearlessness and energy of a child we would be superhuman, that societal messaging tells us we are never good enough, that we are always unworthy and uninteresting. She also reminded me that as I move into ED recovery, I will no longer have that as a numbing agent/coping strategy, which can often lead to increased anxiety. This gave me some optimism, since it feels logical/tangible and makes me think my anxiety might even decrease on its own as I become more used to the feelings I had been covering up for the last few years. Not being able to use restriction as a crutch for social anxiety is difficult, in a very direct way that I hadn't fully grasped before. I can no longer convince myself that I must be interesting for people to talk to, because I'm slowly starving myself. Instead, I have to find new and more sustainable ways to convince myself that I'm interesting, like being the judge/jury/executioner of an poorly aligned html website.
ENTRY 9: May 10. 2022 I haven’t been able to write much in the last few days as a friend from many years ago came to stay with me. One of the good parts of growing up is getting to say things like that, 'I haven't seen her in 6 years, I'm excited to meet her again.' F is someone who has inspired me at many points in my life, and laid the groundwork for me being in Germany at all, she's someone I can see myself in- but also the way that German culture has shaped her, and the way American culture shaped me. The last few days F showed me the weaknesses in my anxiety, how resistant I am to speaking with strangers and how uncomfortable I find meeting new people. I think something happened to me in the last few years to cause this, because I think I used to feel excited when I spoke with new people, but now I often feel like something is wrong, like I'm saying the wrong thing, like there is a pressure in the air, like I'm starting to disassociate. I feel like I lose the thread of what we are all doing-

What is a conversation supposed to be? When do we know that it has gone well? Or badly?

F (perhaps seemingly) has none of these thoughts, she has no resistance to walking up to a group of strangers, she'll go door to door in her building meeting her neighbors- and it works - F is rarely alone. She is loved and respected, and she has many people she can call on for help. I still believe that my most precious value is COMMUNITY - yet this outreach process seems so unnatural to me, I feel like I'm making myself jump into cold water, does everyone feel that way? After a few days of watching F work, I felt more confident around people. I walked into my friend's apartment and felt that it did not matter where I stood, what I said, but that nothing would go wrong. I'm sure this confidence will dissipate, but I wonder if it's part of what I'm supposed to learn here. Logically- I know there are a few reasons why my anxiety may have increased in the last few years, I lived through an eating disorder, I felt and named body dysmorphia, I asked to be viewed as queer and non binary, I met people who manipulated me. Even listing these, and having my generalized anxiety diagnosis close to my heart, it's painful to realize that you are no longer as strong as you were before. It's sad to see that your mind is injured, has grown cold and frightened and that as I learned to name these feelings and cope and heal, there were always parts of myself that fell away, I couldn't possibly hold it all.

ENTRY 8: May 6. 2022 (Friday) Creative Writing
Yesterday was my first day of creative writing class, held in a thin room on the third floor of an intimidating block of building on the Neckar river bank. How's that for syntax? I sat centered at the back of the class, my back to a oversized glowing window looking out over the river and the CASTLE, how quaint. My teacher was incredibly attractive and I can already tell its going to be a long term. The class reminds me of being in my sophomore year english class. We work on creating more complex sentences and building feeling, not simply stringing facts together. It's funny to me that I struggle with this so much while writing in German. In our first exercise, I wrote 5 sentences about what I had done yesterday, translated they read "I went to University Place at noon. / I ate a pretzel with cheese. / I met with my friends. / We talked about our day at school. / I went home and was asleep by eleven." My friends shared their sentences and I immidiately realized that my pretzel story was unbelievably lifeless. My hot professor corrected my sentences and said nothing about them, although he had made a cutting remark about German level when the class started (letting us know that if you happened to be an A2 level (my placement score) there was no shame in switching to the easier class as they still had spots available). I can tell that this class is going to be emotionally difficult for me, as one tiny hot professor telling me I can't write could seal my fate and spell the end of Cyber Hunter altogether. Perhaps I should start providing translations of my blog posts, although I'm guessing my posts would decrease in complexity and length until I'm writing to you all about pretzels and cheese exclusively.
On a more global scale- what does it mean to be bad at your passion? And what is a passion anyway? I often wonder if I got the idea that I could write from my second-grade teacher, who asked us to write a creative story- the results of which were surprisingly similar to what I produced in my current class -I actually remember exactly what I wrote, it's only one sentence hanging on the wall in my mom-mom's house. It is exerpted here in it's entirety:

'I love the seaweed' said Trevor, a ten-year-old boy, as we swam deeper into the dark secrets of the sea.

From my scattered memory, I had fully intended to complete the assignment and continue my fan-fic style deep sea adventure, but my teacher liked my first sentence so much that she gave me an alternate assignment, coloring a special page with my sentence as a gift for my mom-mom. That small action conviced me that I had potential as a writer, a thought so fragile yet persuasive that it still occurs to me as I sit against the window in kreative schreiben 2. Maybe one of the sentences I'll write here will have the same draw as my second-grade sea shanty, and I'll finally make it big- but I'm guessing there's a bit more to it than that.
ENTRY 7: May 1. 2022 (Sunday)
Anxieties : Today I want to investigate this word, as today has been an anxious one for me. On a etymological level, I love the 'x' in anxiety, it captures a feeling of unease but also of uniqueness, what would our lives be if we were never afraid?

My anxieties have become a bit more managable, after learning to see the steps that lead me to these feelings, I'm more able to rationalize that they are only manifestations of deeper questions that ground my life. I often feel anxious when I feel that I am taking the "easy" way in my life, that I'm not steering true to myself. Today I knew that I would feel anxious, as I was sleeping most of the day after staying out most of the night. Even rationalizing this decision to stay late at the Mannheim club, since I knew that experiencing the late night club scene was more important to me than a well-rested Sunday, I still experienced self loathing and fear today. Drinking adds to my anxiety as well, for many obvious reasons, too straightforward to bother mentioning. I think I'm deeply afraid of who I am becoming, as though my body and self were a runaway train- and as my microscopic decisions build myself- every tiny moment becomes integral to me. me being me constantly. me never letting myself drop, because what if I'm really not that great? It quickly becomes too big, there is no self and there is only a collection of every moment that the people in my life share with me. I was only me to the people in the club last night, and when I saw noone today, I was effectively erased for those many hours. More than that, my interactions that define me aren't even mine, they exist only how they are percieved by the other. My therapist would respond to this (speaking of the self being kept in the other) by asking me to consider my core values and beliefs, those that exist regardless of my small daily decisions. It doesn't need to get so big, I can simply value community, value love, and the decisions I make will always align with that in some twisted way. Of course I can act unethically, but I am acting as myself and following these guiding values, and when I make mistakes I am acting as someone who values love, and the mistakes that come with that.
ENTRY 6: April 29. 2022
(Friday)

And so another day begins, I can tell this is going to be a slow one, I’ve already spent most of the morning working on the site. I’d like to do more today but maybe this is enough. It’s interesting the things we value in our day, and the things that feel like wasted time.
I spent about 3 hours this morning creating a flower border, which felt a bit meaningless—and yet I would work 3 hours at the lab washing glass wear, and feel fulfilled. I think the question comes down to what will pay off, and what time will be forgotten about. When I was in 5th grade I would stay in from recess every day to work on my wix.com class website...and look at me now. More broadly, there’s the question of my intentions for the day—how do I want to feel at the end of it? Perhaps I should be one of those people who meditates, because I often feel like this question causes me anxiety that is never resolved. Maybe someday I’ll even be like that activist who set himself on fire (an anecdote I’m sure will soon be lost to time). I think I’m feeling like I haven’t fully taken advantage of my "time in Germany" today, but isn’t it funny how that anxiety just further detracts from my time here? Maybe if I do some Duolingo I’ll feel better.
ENTRY 5: April 28. 2022
(Thursday)

It's sunny today, and I can't see what I'm typing due to the glare on my computer screen. Today I worked on connecting CSS to my existing code so that I can make more complex pages, namely add a flower border to my poems page. I was inspired by B to give my site a bit more of a narrative structure, so that you feel a bit more guided through the (cyber) space. An artist that I greatly admire (M) posted a book excerpt yesterday that resonated with me. It was setting a scene in great detail, describing a landscape rebuilding after a flood. I wish that I could write a book in which I just establish scenes and settings. Perhaps there's more room for poetic liberty when describing a scene, since some places can feel truly magical or dreamlike, even in our daily lives.
I'm on the train now, facing backwards as I'm pulled through the warm countryside. A bee landed on the smooth plastic at my elbow and I watched it until it flew away. My neighbors on the train seem sleepy and subdued in the mid-afternoon sun, as though they are resigned to the hot summer months ahead of us. There is a breeze now, and coolness in the purple rocks where the lizards live. We enter each village like a snake in the grass, surfacing long enough to steal a few weary passengers before diving back in the cool, green meadows.
ENTRY 4: April 26. 2022
(Tuesday)

Today was my first day of German school. The google translate extension on my computer translates the name of my class to 'Mermaids, Robbers, and Gold-Diggers: 18th-19th Century Ballads' which I think may be a slight mistranslation but I appreciate the ambiguity of "Gold-Diggers". One thing about Germany is their doors, they are ridiculous. I get nervous enough walking into unknown buildings searching for my class on the first day, I can't also be faced with opening giant wooden doors that look like they haven't moved since the pre-industrial era. My professor was nice though, and smiled at me after I stumbled through my three sentence presentation on types of metaphorical (nicht nur topographical) boundaries in ballads. This was a few minutes after I had to reveal to the class that I could not name one (1) single German ballad. Luckily I wasn't the only one. Later I realized that almost all of the German texts I had read last term for German literature were, in fact, ballads. We live and we learn.
ENTRY 3: April 25. 2022
(Monday)

It's the start of a new week, and my laundry is in the dryer. Highlights from the last weekend include but are not limited to:
- Getting a tour of Heidelberg and solidfying (by who's metric?) my first new german friend. L graciously led me through the Philosophenweg (Philosopher's Walk) and taught me the German word for bug (Käfer). We met a comically deshelved (one-eyed) man in the marktplatz who was selling old newspapers and his own paintings. I bring this up because if there was ever a character worth commiting to text, it was him. During the hour that he talked with us he had to run off twice to retrieve prints and at one point his STRAW HAT that had blown away. He asked me if I wanted his card at one point and I accepted, thinking it would be a quick business card transaction. Actually, he took out a post card and began writing his name (Beppo), email, phone number, and then giving me an unending list of media recommendations beginning with the name of the french art dealer 'Ambroise Vollard', and ending with his favorite NPR tiny desk concerts. During this music discussion it was discovered that we had actually both been at the same jazz club last Tuesday for the open jam session, so that bound us in a very quaint and special way. As much as he talked, I'm very much hoping to see him there again tomorrow. Some characters just write themselves.

- Yesterday Q and E travelled with me to Stuttgart for the Frühlingsfest (spring festival). I think we were all expecting some sort of flower-filled street fair with spring baskets carefully crafted by local artists. Actually it was a carnival, with a slight Vegas theme. However—for reasons that I probably need to explore more in therapy—I felt great the whole day. It was like living without anxiety, and feeling consistently at peace with the world around me. I caught myself just feeling content, and in the mood that makes me say that everything feels like a dream. If I had a bullet journal, yesterday's square would have been bright green. Maybe someday I'll be able to isolate the steps to that feeling, but for now I'm just happy to feel it.
ENTRY 2: April 22. 2022
(Friday)

We made it to entry 2!
Today has been a day, I've drank a lot of coffee and ventured to the store for brezeln (pretzels) and a bag of mixed wafer cookies that turned out to be delicious. I've been enjoying trying new food here, since I have a tendency to only eat my 15 safe foods back in 'the states'. I think for my second entry I want to have a take, just to start exploring the range of expression a blog can provide. I have a lot of ideas for my site, and more occuring by the day. Yesterday I entertained having a page dedicated to the bugs I find, and today I realized that I could create a page where I review every forensic files episode that I watch. The concept of having a highly niche passion that no other person cares about or engages with is in a word, exquisite. I think that may be true passion and perhaps even what it means to be human. All that to say, my take is actually about LA musicians. If Seattle is grunge, LA is jazz flute. I think that's all I have to say for the moment.
ENTRY 1: April 21. 2022
(Thursday)

Welcome to my world,
I've wanted to make my own website for a long time. One of my favorite authors has a website that she writes on every day, she even publishes a book every few years with the entries. I have two of her books, and I like that some days she writes multiple pages and other days she writes a single word, or just a title. I've been inside a lot the last two days, but it's felt nice. I can finally make a place to put my thoughts, and I like that it's completely mine. I also enjoy the format of writing within Visual Studio Code; it makes my words come out in pretty colors and tries to autocorrect my poetry with programming commands. I've been trying for years to find the perfect notebook or format to make myself write. I'm sure this isn't it, but I like it for now.
Today I woke up late and spent a few hours adjusting the site. I've been so pleased with how all of the coding has turned out. I know it isn't perfect, and I think I'm doing a few things wrong, but I feel like it looks authentic to how I wanted it, and how often does that happen? Eventually I got on the bus and bought some household items (can opener, thread, notebooks) and even found some leather pants that have been on my list. All was going exactly to plan until I got on the wrong bus going home and ended up seeing a bit more of the city than I had wanted. That's mostly how my days go here, I sit on the bus and think, or try and listen to the other passengers and identify the words on posters and billboards. It's lonely, and pleasant, and different for me. I didn't eat great today, better luck tomorrow.