I have no faith my passivity will protect me. I have no faith in anything except failure and human evil. All that allows me to remain calm is heavy doses of psychiatric medication and total acceptance of death.
If guillotines come and my head rolls? So it goes. If I waste away and starve in this ancestral home? Frayed infrastructure snapped? So it goes. The waters of time and history will wash over my bones. Fossils alone. My only preference is that I die here. In this bed of our madness. In the House of the Rising Sun.
Sometimes I wear out my welcome. “Like a sad whore who’s stayed too long at the party,” as Naomi Campbell quips in American Horror Story: Hotel. A lifetime ago, I was the club slut who never wanted to go home. Ever end the night. Rest. Give it a rest. There is only rest when the meat suit demands it. Not until the end.
I don’t know how or why I’m still alive, either.
My ego is dead. Along with competitiveness. Ability to form human relationships beyond the par-asocial. A paranoid par-asocial parasite ping ponging along. Come sing the song.
I am shocked to approach my 44th birthday. Began digging into parts of my will. Tasks I intended my executor to do. But if I’m still here, might as well. Ebook self publishing my manuscript back catalogue. I don’t know if anyone wants, needs, or reads these iBooks I fling the the winds. Year’s of life’s suffering and copyedits. In hard copy therein.
In 2005 I was told, “Why don’t you write something like J.K. Rowling. I began this project. A queer femme Harry Potter. Strictly for adults. Where the magic is mental illness. I had no idea then that Rowling would turn out to be such a dreadful TERF.
My project is a series of books with interlocking characters surrounding Lena Cosentino. The protagonist from “Jet Set Desolate.” I have been writing and editing these manuscripts for a decade. Scaffolding, Hollywood Hedgewitch and Grieving Through American Horror Story came out in 2020 as free ebook iBooks.
Neon Hysteric, I hope to put out in 2021. It’s the third book in the series, connecting Jet Set Desolate to Hollywood Hedgewitch. Manifesting a series where now there are scattered points. My other fetal manuscripts are still too rough in draft.
My timing is terrible, as is my ability to promote things. In a time of national tragedy it feels beyond inappropriate to make a fuss over book releases. It seems profane. Self indulgent. So, once again, my books are released to crickets. Enter the void. I await their slow burn simmer over time.
That’s the thing. I’m playing the long game. Far more grave then Yahtzee. Interweaving theme, influences and text. A warp and weft of cultural fabric. Continuing long after I’m dead. Passing on to the new creatives who come up like flowers in an endless field. My own meat suit becomes mulch to the new.
I will die. There is no question. Whether by liver failure? COVID? Suicide? Or old age. I accept that. I am trying to leave something behind. To be read. Hated. Enjoyed. Studied. By whoever. Wherever. Whenever. I believe in accessibility. Thus free, non-copyrighted text. I’m Bipolar terrible with money. Taxes. Business. The anti-socialist socialist.
“From each according to his ability, to each according to his need,” — Karl Marx.
Despite absorbing my political consciousness through anarchist semen, it remains my main tenant. Socialism. These texts. These paintings. These videos. Consume or disregard, it is completely your choice. By Social Security and genetic accident my needs are met. So I give what I have made to you.