Nocturne: Eye of Andromeda

Night.

Samhain approaches.

Full blue moon.

I lie prone stoned.

Play Marianne Faithfull’s

“20th Century Blues — A Night in the Weimar Republic.”

The grey cat yowls.

I flip the porch light on.

Go outside.

In black with Bind Trump sigil.

Mask of cherubic Satans.

There are two gallons of coconut oil

In the box outside.

Apocalypse prep.

The House of the Rising Sun closed down.

In cube centimeter node.

For an indefinite future.

My consciousness

And corporeal form inside.

“Alexa, how long until the election?” I say.

“There are seven days until Election Day.”

Then the unknown.

“Rapellendum mallum quod minatur mihi,” I say.

Cast a warding cube in rombus.

As above,

So below.

Two pyramids.

Faceted stone.

An single eye surveils.

As I am surveilled.

“Giving good as you get,”

From a song long ago.

The screens I watch,

watch me, I know.

“His house is in the village though.

He will not see me stopping here.

To watch these woods fill up with snow.” — Robert Frost

Any day now it will snow.

Any day now my period will come.

No men since Obama.

Yet

I do not feel

In my body

The tumescence

Of womb blood.

Glutted bloat.

No.

There is nothing inside me,

But a lean wash of coffee.

Cold.

Black.

Birthday Countdown

September 30, 9:05 pm:

In three hours is my forty fourth Birthday. I google myself. Discover the birthday surprise of top billing.

“You arrived when you were meant to arrive” a mutual says on Twitter. Finally, I am the most famous Andrea Lambert. At least at this moment. After decades of dedication. It thrills me beyond belief. I don’t even know what to say. Don’t say anything.

I curl up in a sheet on the bed. Watch “The Royals.” Drink cold black coffee. From a disability supply cup. Eat blackberries. A few days after the last day. Folklore says one is not supposed to eat blackberries on this day. The Devil kisses blackberries after the autumnal equinox. Ave Satanas! The berries are ripe and juicy. It is a full moon. I will silently howl into the void. Howl at the moon. On this page.

9:18 pm

“It’s my time,” I declare to great aunt Theda’s hardwood floors and the cats. The blue moon above. Throw away the blackberry carton. Consider the project. To write through counting down until my birthday. For this blog entry.

My Entropy column, “Dining with a Cursed Bloodline,” is on hiatus until 2021. Given how much is in flux with the election. How dangerous it is to be listed as a journalist these days. How much of a soul sucking disaster 2020 is so far.

So much will change in the next quarter. I won’t know what’s going on politically, personally or literarily until 2021. I do not anticipate a smooth transition of power. Given the circumstances. Prepare for a coup. Or infrastructure collapse. Or the apocalypse. Spend my birthday money on a an apocalypse prep sized tub of brown rice. A water pump purifier. To use in the stream out back. Stream water looks and tastes wonderful. Is lovely to swim in. But drinking unfiltered fresh water will give you giardiasis.

“Be prepared,” is the Girl Scout motto.

9:35 pm

I have an optimistic cottage core agrarian survivalist plan to living off the land. This family land I live on. This land was Mexico long ago. Belonged to the indigenous Washoe.

Laura Ingalls Wilder books gave me a lot of ideas. I wish I realized as a child what a horrible settler racist Wilder was. I didn’t understand race. A child raised to think I was white in Southernmost California.

I am a person of ambiguous mixed race: Spanish, Mexican Indigenous, Italian, Swedish, English, Slave owning white. My closest living white relative has a nose job. There’s a lot going on. I don’t know what to call it, Other people decide that. Based on who and where they are. Men said I looked, “exotic.” I think know what that is code for. What I think about that doesn’t matter. I don’t have enough information. Without a genetic test.

My DNA is likely already on file somewhere. I do not doubt the efficiency of the Federal government. If they wanted me dead, I would be. I don’t plan on giving them any reason to make it so.

What race I am doesn’t matter to me. I’ve always been this person. Lived in this body. With skin this color. Hybrid vigor. Or white adjacent. That matters more to other people. The current president. Second civil war on simmer on the national stove.

I am not trying to do anything other then what I am doing. Of have done in the 6.66 years since I have been sober. From my substances of abuse. Cannabis is excellent harm reduction for alcohol and harder stuff.

Some of the harder mistakes that makes my first novel Jet Set Desolate, so controversial. I am not embarrassed of my past. It just is.

10:15 pm

I hunger. Microwave frozen chicken strips that my ex wife left. Her frozen food contributions were a dubious divorce settlement. When the apocalypse comes, that ham would be good barter fodder.

I take the hot breading nuggets out of the microwave. Try to eat. Am not even sure if there is chicken within. They’ve been in the freezer for a long time.

That divorce feels like a lifetime ago. Feels farther away then the pain of my domestic partner’s suicide. My life has settled back to pre-legal wife rhythms and calm. I realize I can’t be a wife to anyone. Of any gender. Or none.

“It’s the first take on the female stag thing,” Dante Zuniga-West, author of Rumble, Young Man, Rumble, said of Jet Set Desolate. At CalArts. In 2006.

10:32 pm

I put the hot empty plate in the dishwasher. Of the House of the Rising Sun.

“It’s not for me to say,” as goes the Johnny Mathis song, whether or not Jet Set Desolate was ahead of it’s time. No one at CalArts in the late 2000 was okay with a queer cis femme conducting herself as I did.

Jet Set Desolate is available internationally, through Amazon and IPR License. In my website stats I note new countries, lately. Am thrilled.

“Wilkomen, bienvenue, Welcome,” as begins Cabaret. In Weimar Berlin. In Weimar America, to other parts of the world, my writing could represent Xennial American decadence. I don’t know. Mais bienvenue, restez un peu dans mes mots, si vous voulez. Il y a si plus de choisir de. Amusez-vous bien.

11:00 pm

In one hour I will be forty four. In this year of our Horned God and Three Faced Lunar Goddess, 2020.

In the bathroom I consider what witchcraft to involve in the transition, if any. I had planned on doing a hoodoo spell to break the psychic tie to my ex legal wife. I might be hallucinating that These periodic psychic flashes of where she is and what she is doing.

To break ties with an ex lover, hoodoo suggests burning my public hair, Angelica root, rosemary and onion skin. I’ve been gathering the materials since this phenomena first occurred.

In tonight’s episode of, “Psychic or Psycho,” I shave my pubic hair. Grown out it for the first time in twenty years. Wash it down the drain. I’m not doing that hoodoo this full moon. In times this dire, all intel is… something. Dubious entertainment.

I mentally sign another vow of celibacy. This one for however long I solely shall live. My first first vow of celibacy began when I began growing my grey hair out. Documented in my Entropy essay “Dinner Whore Celibate.” I decided when the grey touched my shoulders I would take a lover. Kept that vow. Married her. It didn’t go so well. This time the question is whether my hair or my body flatlines first. I’d like it to be the hair.

11:43 pm

My first Facebook, “Happy Birthday,” comes in. From a CalArts mentor in the United Kingdom. Par la magique des fuseaux horaires, it’s October 1. Already, in European time.

Imaginary fireworks go off in my head. Nine minutes until October 1, 2020 in Pacific Time. I cut a slice of Raley’s Tiramisu. Pack a bowl.

11:55 pm

I impulsively take a creamy bite of birthday cake a few minutes before midnight. Tee hee. Delicious.

11:59 pm

I put on red lipstick. Grey eyeliner. The rest of my face. A long gown with stars on it. A gold doubloon necklace from my Latin grandmother.

12:00 am

It’s my birthday! So it begins.

The Grief I Won’t Stop Speaking

I lift my head from the black sheeted bed before midnight. Tears in my eyes. I remember the dead. Or those dead to me. Those I loved. Who either perished. Or I lost touch with. Through the viscitudes of time and distance.

“There’s a grief that can’t be spoken, there’s a pain goes on and on…” Les Misérables plays. I feel close to the grave. This time of year. Autumn. Fall.

The anniversary of my domestic partner’s suicide. A gouge cutting through my heart and soul. To pour forth tears of blood. Again. And again. I am like this every year. It’s almost eight years since she passed.

I remember many a dear friend. Who I no longer know is still alive. The morbid ritual of checking the Social Security Death Index. I’ve done it for years. Checking to see if old friends were still alive. Somewhere out there. Looking for what I fear.

By 2020, the Social Security Death Index is no longer free online. It feels like an act of grace. More losses I cannot bear tonight. I weep nevertheless. Into the black sheets. Remembering the woman who once stood beside me. Held me in brief yet perfect love.

When I remarried. Seven years later. I could not sleep in the same bed as my new wife. I was too scarred. Too afraid. To wake up to another corpse. Another vale of tears.

I saw a rift coming. Pushed that wife away. Aware my own intimacy issues prevent me. From in person human relationships. We divorced. I must be alone.

I have lost no one to COVID. Yet. That I know of. Those last two sentences strike like deep bells gong.

“For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.” My own death I am less worried about. I am one door in the grave already. It is those few people left in my life that I love. My parents. Sister. We are all getting older in the times of pandemic apocalypse. 200,000 dead does not go unnoticed.

As relieved as I am, that divorcing my wife. removed my only disease vector. My grief creeps close tonight. The veil is thin.

It is the week of the waxing moon between the witches sabbath Mabon and my birthday. A full moon on my birthday? Perhaps will rouse me.

The plunge from yesterday’s mania, to today’s grieving, is like falling off Niagara Falls. A plunge so far. So deep. That I am always shocked. When a few days or hours later. I rouse again. In mirth. Anxiety. Psychosis. Or consumption.

I cannot get off the Schizoaffective go round, it is a carousel ending only in that final transition. To final rest. I am not ready yet. It is a strict rule I have. I will not be the active agent of my own death. It will surprise me. As natural.

Yet the pain goes on and on.

Antisocial Socialist

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.

My Words Are Not Needed

My words are not needed. Yet here they are. Tumbling out in a torrent. I write to bring myself out of the numb cocoon. Of video game avatars. Actors faces on screens.

I dive into the virtual imaginary for months. To forget. Forget the divorce as it rages through my life. California burns. Portland burns. Louisville. I lose count.

Curl fetal in a womb pod of bed. Television. Echo Dot. i- devices. Speak to no one for weeks. Months.

I rise to make bowls of rice and Kim Chi. Do yoga. Java Monster cans pile in a grape embossed wastebasket of antique metal. Ten pills a day. Keeps me put away. In this house of my ancestors. Instead of a padded room.

The America I was once spoon fed? A shattered blueprint washed away. By water. By time. My the waters of truth. By the erasing of lies. The lies in history books I was taught.

Here where I lie at the turning of the years. The waters of history wash over me. To make something new. A new nation. I do not know what. What shape. What form.

I am too mentally ill. Inactive. Not educated in modern subjects. To define what. This stolen land will be. Others more skilled are already on that. Fighting for it in the streets as I type. In the Courts. Congress.

I lie in a bed. Staring at riot footage on my Twitter feed. For ninety nights. Go full nocturnal. Why see the day when the sky is ashes? Why open the blinds, when all I see ahead is doom.

Quarante jours depuis l’élection.

Quarante jours et il y a un selection.

Et tout je veux est de suvivre

Dans cette maison, ne pas ivre.

C’est possible?

Quarante jours depuis l’election

Je fais les étoiles brûlée

Quarante jours de cette attention

Quand mon corps commence à mourir,

Est-ce qu’ils écoutent pour le fin?

Fireside Address: Illegitimate

I lie in bed fully dressed. A white slip lace under black dress. It is March 12, 2020. The day that Coronavirus explodes. Everything changes. I don’t know what will happen next. 

This morning, I switch the news on. The news I did not know my TV could access.

“Coronavirus, corornavirus, coronavirus.” Repeats over and over from the screen. Louder than I knew, yet echoing across nations. People. Panicked and in pain.

Now it is night. I listen. Do not hear anything but AHS: Murder House. Usual evening TV fare for the wife and I. Screams. Myths. The supernatural. An long evolving story like the tail unwinding of a snake.

If the horror is on a screen? Presented as fiction? I used to believe exposure therapy would free me. Instead it bound me tighter. The horror is within and without. Indistinguishable from the president’s morning’s speech.

All I can do is singsong rhymes to old songs melody. REM’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It,” as mournful lullaby. For what once was. At the cusp of never being again. Unknowable change. Unknown future.

“C’est le fin de la monde comme on le sait, et je suis triste. Désolé.” High school French lodged in a deeper part of the my brain. Triggered by listening to Les Misérables on repeat.

Wikipedia readings about MK-Ultra CIA experiments flicker to memory. I discard them, being on a different antipsychotic now. The one that makes me want to paint and write plays over thirty hour days. Reddit conspiracy theorists are probably already on whatever the hell that story is/was/could be. I’m afraid to look.

Science fiction. I call it fiction. I’m back on my old antipsychotic now. Saphris helps me sleep. Like falling in a river of the water of life. A dream about old friends. A long walk through the wilderness. Together in harmony. From idyllic Girl Scout hikes? There is a feast. There is always water. Different iterations repeat. I do not know. I will never know. 

“Qu’est que faire?

Qu’est que sait?

Plein de la peur.

J’attende a mourir.

Pas de mot.

Pas plus dire.

Tous que je peux et lave ma derriere.”

This is no time for such frivolity. Nursery rhymes in the age of toilet paper rationing.  I am not on the front lines. I can only wash my hands. Pray. Cry. Release my archives before death quick or slow.

I am in willing self quarantine. As is usual. Agoraphobic plus Schizoaffective PTSD. I haven’t been outside for a while. I am no longer psychologically capable of leaving the House of the Rising Sun for the duration of this crisis.

I don’t know what will happen. I wait.

Thoughts on Performance

Performance in the theatrical sense implies backstage. A binary of public and private. Dressing room to take off makeup and uncomfortable head dress. Green room, to nibble baby carrots with other participants.

I tend towards dying arts that thrived in my childhood. The Old Globe Theatre in San Diego where I cut my baby teeth on “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and “Othello.” In graduate art school, I saw a lot of experimental theatre because it was happening all over campus near constantly. What else does a carless thirty year old in the dorms have to do at night? Otherthen drink too much red wine.

I have never been an actor, but learning how to perform my writing and ride along with the energy of a crowd was a thrill. Being in queer performance art in Los Angeles and West Hollywood was last I was on a stage. Played Los Angeles Pride in 2015. When I still could be around people. Now I perform via tech device when I get the urge. Thank you, Internet.

In a satiric YouTube video I make called, “Behind the scenes at Lambert Studios,” I film and splice clips of my house’s interior where DIY solo YouTubing occurs. Bathroom as dressing room. Comfy covered porch as green room. Costume closets #1 & #2 bursting with fantastical clothes I wouldn’t dare wear past my door step. Invaluable now. I can barely leave my house as it is.

I wrote thirty eight experimental plays with my only the interior of my home as settling in 2018. Same number as Shakespeare, says the Echo Dot. Guess we’re both stoners. Writing down the voices in my head as other characters. With myself as the one human in the script. An effective way of putting my psychosis to work until I could sleep.

A family friend theatre amateur in Reno judged the script I sent him as not even a play but a free verse rant. He suggested I actually see and read a few plays. Errrrr….. This experimental was unstageable in Reno’s pay to play theatre scene. In that way he did tell me what I needed to know. “The Buttcracker,” and “Menopause: The Musical,” is the level of performance in this biggest little backwoods. I couldn’t get tickets for that musical, because the Pioneer Center doesn’t allow online ticket booking with an out of state phone number.

I’ll bite my tongue now because all I need is a slander lawsuit. Along with death threats have came lawsuit threats, only spoken anecdotally but apparently I qualify for giving away my life and pain away for free online. Not all opinions are positive. I use my own life as material. I can’t make this shit up. I try so hard to be ethical, but people are unscrupulous.

I dropped the class “Narrative Ethics,” at CalArts after a brutal critique deemed an essay “performing an ethical disaster.” I was wasted drunk when I wrote most of that text, true. As a queer from the eighties had a lot of feelings about HIV and how to navigate writing about it in such difficult ethical waters. I got reamed in workshop for having feels about Rent.

At CalArts, experimental writing and critical theory were vaunted over populist heartstring pulling.

Some high art groupie trying for snark said, “Oh AIDS, that’s so sentimental and passé.” At a David Wojnarowicz retrospective in Los Angeles. At the end of the 2000s. I wanted to throw my plastic cup of red wine all over her white rabbit jacket. If I wasn’t so intimidated simply to be there. A decade later, I will hex a bitch in such situations. Maledictus erit.

My Schizoaffective auditory hallucinations make crowds intolerable now. Mass shootings are common in this Wild West. Lax gun laws guns are considered way more important then adequate healthcare. October 1 is not only my birthday, but Las Vegas’s most dire massacre.

I don’t fight, I just leave. I fled a family outing to see my uncle perform in the Reno Philharmonic this summer. For all that I love his music. That many potentially armed Nevadans were terrifying to multiply marginalized me. Incapable of inconspicuous. Even at something as wholesome as a classical music picnic.

I may never be able to sit in a theatre again.

Onset of Tardive Dykinesia

It is difficult for me to leave the house. I have what I can afford delivered and do without the rest. My multiple mental illnesses are degenerative. Diagnosed in the Prozac Nation nineties? It’s been pills with unknown long term side effects ever since. Enabling whatever hoopla I manage to pull off. Thirty years on nonconsensual antipsychotics that were known since the 1950’s to cause tardive dyskinesia? Unpredictable loss of bodily control. Jerking movements. Motor control difficulties. Dizziness. Accidental difficulty walking until that capacity is lost. I wondered why I was so dedicated to assistive technology and setting up voice recognition within my home.

I swallow what passing pride I have left. Order a recommended shower chair. I slipped and hit my head, so showering became a PTSD trigger. I take baths. Until the addition of Freddie Mercury Lambert, Jasper’s cat. Nevada Jacobson-Lambert, from my first marriage, started shitting in the bathtub to act out. Blended families aren’t easy. Even with these cute little fuckers. No wonder I smelled like a polecat doused in sickly sweet Velvet Tuberose.

All I want to do is bathe and have a cup of coffee. I’m only forty three. Prozac Nation’s Elizabeth Wurtzel was 52 when she passed, as this essay was written.

I can no longer drink coffee without it spilling everywhere. I grit my teeth and drink cold coffee from an adult convalescent sippy cup now. After enduring the “Summer of straws,” where abled’s on Twitter expressed that the Disabled, many who could not drink fluids at all without disposable plastic straws, were acceptable subhuman collateral damage for saving sea turtles.

Cans of unassailable sweet tart tasting energy drinks were my constant sidekick. Cans don’t spill if my hands shake or jerk uncontrollably with tardive dykinesia. Known side effect of a lifetime of antipsychotics. The reason I now walk strangely, fall on hardwood floors when I wear socks. I can only wear flat shoes outside. Exquisite platform heels gather dust behind flat boots. Encouraging agoraphobia because I’m embarrassed of flailing in public and something more humiliating or life destroying happening. The psychiatrists I’ve had must have all known this would happen as it been common psychiatric knowledge since the 1960s. Did they not think I’d live to see it’s full development?

I don’t even have to ask why I don’t matter. Society told me with all those shots of non consensual Haldol in my ass. Long term effects from these antipsychotics were never researched, says my research, yet other recipients of these human experiments must exist if it was being used in the 1950s. That’s how time works. Certainly reads as no scientist in seventy years thought the quality of life for older schizophrenics is worth their time.

It makes me feel like no one can be trusted. The medical establishment relied upon all my adult life for medication pulled Melania Trump, “I don’t care, do you?”

2015 was the last good year.

But wow were my concerns trivial, no wonder no agent would take this book. So I’m playing film studio because my wife works long shifts and I can only watch so much TV. Having a bit of a dumb existential crisis over, “Why am I bothering to do all this when it’s not important, practical and who cares?” Perennial artist question, esp. as my lie is empty other then my wife and cats. Here’s the next three chapters:

Before Trump drove America to ruin, I used to be able to write books about taking nice little California train trips , trying to decide about marrying and even still care about becoming famous (HAHAHAHAHAHA right?) Yeah, I have real problems now.

But for what it’s worth, if this story is amusing you? Thanks so much for watching.