I don't think new starts really exist. I, at least, have never thought "OK NEW START" and then actually gone and been different. It's always been either gradual or unexpected.
So I thought of starting a new blog, to distance myself from all of the angst of this blog, but... I decided not to. I did change the layout. I like it. Only took half an hour or so too. The magic of automated design tools! I'm big on the minimalism at the moment. I suppose this layout isn't that minimalist... but for blogger it is. If you want all that following or archive shit you have to scroll. Just as it should be.
So anyway I re-started this habit for my CEP. Don't worry, it's not going to be one of those blogs, full of artistic posturing and "my goal for this project is..." every other post. That's just the thing! When people say they like process, they don't want codified this-is-what-I-did, they want detritus, bits that fell off preserved in amber.
So anyway, when I get around to writing this, which will probably be at the end of today so no one will really read this apart from me, it'll be... experience, I guess.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Friday, October 16, 2009
Amy - Hoped She'd Never Have To Use This Blog Again
Ahh the hopelessness blog. Yaay.
Maybe I'm just sliding back into depression again. I hope not, but maybe.
I was going to write you an email, (in the course of my secret blog, I've gotten used to using 'you' ambiguously, to mean someone in particular but not necessarily the same person each time, or even to mean more than one person at once. In short, don't assume 'you' is you, even if at one point it was) but I decided I'd write here instead.
I fell, yesterday. I made a mistake. I allowed myself to be manipulated. I tried, I tried to express the following:
When I try to talk about your eating, at least one of these things happen:
I can't help. This, this whole thing, is your blind spot. You don't have any clarity, I think. That's the most profound illusion, that there's some reality that you're always in contact with even if you don't follow it. No, there is no reality, you're contacting something else masquerading as reality, just like everyone else is. Don't trust it.
When I came into the kitchen and saw the truly pathetic amount of food you had in that bowl yesterday... that was the worst feeling. It didn't make me angry, or annoyed, it just made me so... sad. Really really sad. I resolved not to discuss it, feeling too hopeless to even try to engage with it. I ate. I hated it, I wanted to spit it out. Every mouthful was full of the knowledge that I was eating the food you had rejected.
Of course, you wouldn't let me keep silent. I would have gotten away with it if it weren't for me burning my hands on the plate.
This is where I fell. I allowed my words to be twisted, as they have been so many times before. The moment there's enough ambiguity, the misinterpretation is enacted. You heard what you wanted to hear. You resolved that, to me, it no longer existed.
I lost it, there, walking down the hill. I don't know if you noticed. "It's not yours," "you can't just take it away." That's not how it works. It's obvious. Anyone who spends enough time with you will notice. Earlier, you'd said I wouldn't even know if you hadn't told me. I find it amazing that you believe that. It's almost comic. How stupid must you think I am?
And what's more, how dare you. Has it somehow escaped you that this is incredibly difficult for me? Do you know how hard I try to make it this easy for you? Do you know how it feels to have a mouth full of someone else's self-destruction? Do you know how it feels to know that I'm helping you to do it? That I'm complicit? I try so hard for you, and what do I get in return? The tolerance of a bear trap, and constant evasion. The least you could do is not make me feel like shit for trying to help. I'm not that awful, really, I'm not.
It doesn't have to be like this. Just stop treating me like I'm your enemy. I asked for honesty partially because I don't let secrecy alone. I pick at it. Don't talk to me like a few chips, an apple, and a meagre dinner is somehow going to make me happy. "At least I'm eating something." isn't much consolation I'm afraid. Tell me you ate so little because you're trying not to eat more than x calories a day. It's simple, it's true. I can feel what it makes me feel and then move on. I can deal with it. Rather than all this dishonesty and guessing.
And, please, stop thinking you can protect me from it. You can't. Trying only hurts me more.
~~~
It makes me want to do things. I want to perform, I want to make art. I want to never eat when I'm with you. I want to consume all the calories you cut out. I want to fast. I want to do all of this. But I know you won't let me. Oh the irony.
Maybe I'm just sliding back into depression again. I hope not, but maybe.
I was going to write you an email, (in the course of my secret blog, I've gotten used to using 'you' ambiguously, to mean someone in particular but not necessarily the same person each time, or even to mean more than one person at once. In short, don't assume 'you' is you, even if at one point it was) but I decided I'd write here instead.
I fell, yesterday. I made a mistake. I allowed myself to be manipulated. I tried, I tried to express the following:
When I try to talk about your eating, at least one of these things happen:
- I get callous and care-less in an effort to not let it penetrate too far.
- You don't tell me the truth.
- You get angry or irritated or upset.
I can't help. This, this whole thing, is your blind spot. You don't have any clarity, I think. That's the most profound illusion, that there's some reality that you're always in contact with even if you don't follow it. No, there is no reality, you're contacting something else masquerading as reality, just like everyone else is. Don't trust it.
When I came into the kitchen and saw the truly pathetic amount of food you had in that bowl yesterday... that was the worst feeling. It didn't make me angry, or annoyed, it just made me so... sad. Really really sad. I resolved not to discuss it, feeling too hopeless to even try to engage with it. I ate. I hated it, I wanted to spit it out. Every mouthful was full of the knowledge that I was eating the food you had rejected.
Of course, you wouldn't let me keep silent. I would have gotten away with it if it weren't for me burning my hands on the plate.
This is where I fell. I allowed my words to be twisted, as they have been so many times before. The moment there's enough ambiguity, the misinterpretation is enacted. You heard what you wanted to hear. You resolved that, to me, it no longer existed.
I lost it, there, walking down the hill. I don't know if you noticed. "It's not yours," "you can't just take it away." That's not how it works. It's obvious. Anyone who spends enough time with you will notice. Earlier, you'd said I wouldn't even know if you hadn't told me. I find it amazing that you believe that. It's almost comic. How stupid must you think I am?
And what's more, how dare you. Has it somehow escaped you that this is incredibly difficult for me? Do you know how hard I try to make it this easy for you? Do you know how it feels to have a mouth full of someone else's self-destruction? Do you know how it feels to know that I'm helping you to do it? That I'm complicit? I try so hard for you, and what do I get in return? The tolerance of a bear trap, and constant evasion. The least you could do is not make me feel like shit for trying to help. I'm not that awful, really, I'm not.
It doesn't have to be like this. Just stop treating me like I'm your enemy. I asked for honesty partially because I don't let secrecy alone. I pick at it. Don't talk to me like a few chips, an apple, and a meagre dinner is somehow going to make me happy. "At least I'm eating something." isn't much consolation I'm afraid. Tell me you ate so little because you're trying not to eat more than x calories a day. It's simple, it's true. I can feel what it makes me feel and then move on. I can deal with it. Rather than all this dishonesty and guessing.
And, please, stop thinking you can protect me from it. You can't. Trying only hurts me more.
~~~
It makes me want to do things. I want to perform, I want to make art. I want to never eat when I'm with you. I want to consume all the calories you cut out. I want to fast. I want to do all of this. But I know you won't let me. Oh the irony.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Steve - Is Nervous
Ugh, shower too hot. Sleep messed up. I feel really disorientated, like I can't trust my own thought, or if I tried to write then my grammar would be all messed up. I only realised half way through that sentence that I am writing. See what I mean?
I think I might go for a walk.
OK walked. I'm wearing a girl shirt. It's a wonderful shirt, and I feel okay wearing it. I'm going to have to grind down that fear of having other people see me in it, but I'm wearing it for just wearing rather than camwhoring, and I went outside my room, so it's downhill from here I hope!
Also, I need to get over my weirdness with boys.
I think I might go for a walk.
OK walked. I'm wearing a girl shirt. It's a wonderful shirt, and I feel okay wearing it. I'm going to have to grind down that fear of having other people see me in it, but I'm wearing it for just wearing rather than camwhoring, and I went outside my room, so it's downhill from here I hope!
Also, I need to get over my weirdness with boys.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Steve - Feels Pretty
Listenin' to Psapp, wearing my Psapp shirt.
Today the world and I feel beautiful.
:)
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Steve - Is Overworked
So much work. I can feel myself burning out. Actually, what I can feel is that sensation of the fire-hoses being turned on in me, and all motivation towards work fading away into apathy. Recovery mode, I suppose. This isn't good, because I still have lots of work to do.
I've been sleeping loads, too.
Yesterday I made an order at an alt-clothing site. I bought 7 items, four of them clothes, amounting to just under £70. I've been being good with money so I can do these things, I guess? *shrug* It was more weakness. Anyway, the point is that none of them were men's clothes. I once read about concepts that, once you realise them, you can never go back, you are never the same again. A couple of people have chastised me for introducing such concepts to them, but anyway. For example, when one considers what freedom means, what freedom really is, one can never go back to the ignorance-is-bliss state they were in before. They are either depressed by the fact that they are not really free, or empowered by the will to gain that freedom.
It's the same with me and sex, I think. The more I think about my sex, the longer I am alive and not feeling happy being a man, the more I am compelled to do things about it. Reading about it, talking about it, pretending to be female online, writing about it in considerable depth, small acts of genderplay (I've got red nails at the moment, I like to pretend they're a girl's hands. My peers find the striking red nails and the lazy growth of facial hair to be quite a disturbing clash), and now... well, still relatively small genderplays, but greater than before.
I've been trying to think of a name. It's been on my mind for a month or two now. I really like the name Amy, but I know an Amy so that wouldn't be good. I figured I might call myself something neuter. Maybe a colour, or the name of a disease, or a mineral, or a plant, I dunno. It's the easiest lie to tell, really. I want to see someone just... eat it up, completely.
I've been sleeping loads, too.
Yesterday I made an order at an alt-clothing site. I bought 7 items, four of them clothes, amounting to just under £70. I've been being good with money so I can do these things, I guess? *shrug* It was more weakness. Anyway, the point is that none of them were men's clothes. I once read about concepts that, once you realise them, you can never go back, you are never the same again. A couple of people have chastised me for introducing such concepts to them, but anyway. For example, when one considers what freedom means, what freedom really is, one can never go back to the ignorance-is-bliss state they were in before. They are either depressed by the fact that they are not really free, or empowered by the will to gain that freedom.
It's the same with me and sex, I think. The more I think about my sex, the longer I am alive and not feeling happy being a man, the more I am compelled to do things about it. Reading about it, talking about it, pretending to be female online, writing about it in considerable depth, small acts of genderplay (I've got red nails at the moment, I like to pretend they're a girl's hands. My peers find the striking red nails and the lazy growth of facial hair to be quite a disturbing clash), and now... well, still relatively small genderplays, but greater than before.
I've been trying to think of a name. It's been on my mind for a month or two now. I really like the name Amy, but I know an Amy so that wouldn't be good. I figured I might call myself something neuter. Maybe a colour, or the name of a disease, or a mineral, or a plant, I dunno. It's the easiest lie to tell, really. I want to see someone just... eat it up, completely.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Steve - Is Angry
I'm going to use this place to document my anger now. At least it's more productive than fucking depression all the damned time.
I'm so... upset with the world, with my culture specifically I guess. It's pathetic. It really really is. I'm talking, of course, about recreational drugs (inc. alcohol).
Here's a hint: if you don't feel something, perhaps you shouldn't be. If you want to feel euphoric, go seek out something substantial, something real, something that will build you or your world rather than trash your very limited time. There are feelings drugs cannot give you, and they are all the better for it. They are genuine, experienced only by people who are truly experiencing. Even and especially the feelings drugs can give you are far more important when they are in context.
Imagine a life without whatever your drugs of choice are, and then you'll see what's wrong. What would you do if there weren't any drugs to act as pressure valves? FUCKING DO IT. I am so sick of being cheated out of living life with company because other people would rather settle for the easy option and fortify their pointless lives with drugs than actually fucking... live.
Go fucking dancing, go listen to music so loud you can only hear the beat, go medicate your mediocrity away. It's fucking pathetic. I am so close to just blanket giving up on drug-sluts. I don't have enough life to waste on you.
In fact, it's not even drugs at all. It's people who are too fucking spineless to actually LIVE, drugs are just a painful, obvious, and debasing reminder that this is the case. Forget your career [aspirations], your parents, social pressures, whatever it takes, and do what you actually want to do. Otherwise, kill yourself, because it hurts so much to see you going to waste.
I hope we can share it, but it doesn't seem likely.
I can't describe how much this hurts me.
I'm so... upset with the world, with my culture specifically I guess. It's pathetic. It really really is. I'm talking, of course, about recreational drugs (inc. alcohol).
Here's a hint: if you don't feel something, perhaps you shouldn't be. If you want to feel euphoric, go seek out something substantial, something real, something that will build you or your world rather than trash your very limited time. There are feelings drugs cannot give you, and they are all the better for it. They are genuine, experienced only by people who are truly experiencing. Even and especially the feelings drugs can give you are far more important when they are in context.
Imagine a life without whatever your drugs of choice are, and then you'll see what's wrong. What would you do if there weren't any drugs to act as pressure valves? FUCKING DO IT. I am so sick of being cheated out of living life with company because other people would rather settle for the easy option and fortify their pointless lives with drugs than actually fucking... live.
Go fucking dancing, go listen to music so loud you can only hear the beat, go medicate your mediocrity away. It's fucking pathetic. I am so close to just blanket giving up on drug-sluts. I don't have enough life to waste on you.
In fact, it's not even drugs at all. It's people who are too fucking spineless to actually LIVE, drugs are just a painful, obvious, and debasing reminder that this is the case. Forget your career [aspirations], your parents, social pressures, whatever it takes, and do what you actually want to do. Otherwise, kill yourself, because it hurts so much to see you going to waste.
I hope we can share it, but it doesn't seem likely.
I can't describe how much this hurts me.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Steve - Caves
Okay, fuck you, this is a special occasion.
The loneliness hasn't gone away, but... today has just been SO GREAT I'm making an exception.
Actually, today hasn't been that bad, but it's given me enough to feel morose about, so that's what I'm doing. I figured I was starting to get better, actually. I came back here, and I was suddenly able to get out of bed, and my room was tidy, and I could eat decent and even try my hand at a little moderately creative cookery (if you call getting Ragu sauce to taste nice cookery). I've even been reading a tonne, and that's something that usually takes a lot of energy out of me. I haven't been feeling great, but better than I was.
Unfortunately, I think that was a rather unstable process. I'm putting random emo grainy piano music on repeat again.
Yeah, so today I got an email. I've been applying poststructuralist thought to all these correspondences, amusingly enough. Seems to me that all the horrible things said are just as true as all the nice ones, even if we ignore the energy is that is generally reserved for things said to hurt. What makes the things we say in happy nice frames of mind any more true than the things we say in horrible hurtful frames of mind?
I'm not even going to keep these pretences anymore. It was pretty delicately executed, pretty beautiful, that you kept your name 'til last. Pretty fucking devastating too. I bet it gave you satisfaction, didn't it? I hope it did, it did for me. That's probably what ended it really, that twist of cruelty.
Help me? 'Help you'? Are you fucking kidding me? I don't even know what to say to that. How many times did you save my life? HOW MANY TIMES WERE YOU THERE FOR ME?
Not hard to find. Right. I know, I'll just phone up the girl who again and a-fucking-gain purposefully distances herself from me! Maybe I'll get another of those emails that somehow manage to be spiteful and uncaring at the same time. At least this one didn't end with a promise that we can go through all the same again.
I am sick and so fucking tired of you, of this. I'm controlling, great, sure, do you know how much control you've abused over me? So many things you could have just... not said, but you did. So many times you held the balance of power so firmly and yet somehow accused me of the same. I've always been honest with you, to the extent words let me. If I'm made of words, you're made of lies.
Yes, I'm pathetic, well done, you got me good there. But what gives you the right to make me feel like this? You didn't have to, no one forced you, you could have just left it and just been cold until I ran out of effort. Did you do it for my good? Certainly not. You did it for your own. Your peace of mind, your satisfaction, your sadistic pleasure? Why else would you go into gender? Do you somehow think you were doing me a favour? No, you didn't, so why did you do it?
Is it because I didn't tell you it would hurt me? There are some things you don't have to be told. Some things are just... unsaid, without words, ain't that a novelty? Well, here's something I'll tell you straight out: there comes a point where you can't blame your failings on other people anymore. You're very close to that point. Soon enough, it won't be your fathers fault, it won't be my fault, it won't be even be your issues' fault, it will be YOUR fault. Sort yourself out. Fuck all that shit you said about growing 'apart' and grow up. I loved and love that good part of you, and now I know how to find it: take all the apathy, all the that self-destruction you do, all the family, all the boys, all the girls, all the words, take all of that away and you'll see it. Stop fucking compromising, this is where it has got you.
And you know what? I'm not going to be there to help you with this one. You'll do it or fail to do it on your own. I'm not going to be that boy you left behind, that boy you kicked around and then finally took pity on enough to end it. I'm not going to give you that. I am going to be the girl who burns. Burns as hot as my heart is beating right now. Burns with the accumulated pain of all the self-harm you lost in numbness. Burns with your throat after your body fails to subject your mind to its will. Burns with everything you put through me for this. Burns to remind you what you should be burning. And until you have,
Never, ever, contact me again.
The loneliness hasn't gone away, but... today has just been SO GREAT I'm making an exception.
Actually, today hasn't been that bad, but it's given me enough to feel morose about, so that's what I'm doing. I figured I was starting to get better, actually. I came back here, and I was suddenly able to get out of bed, and my room was tidy, and I could eat decent and even try my hand at a little moderately creative cookery (if you call getting Ragu sauce to taste nice cookery). I've even been reading a tonne, and that's something that usually takes a lot of energy out of me. I haven't been feeling great, but better than I was.
Unfortunately, I think that was a rather unstable process. I'm putting random emo grainy piano music on repeat again.
Yeah, so today I got an email. I've been applying poststructuralist thought to all these correspondences, amusingly enough. Seems to me that all the horrible things said are just as true as all the nice ones, even if we ignore the energy is that is generally reserved for things said to hurt. What makes the things we say in happy nice frames of mind any more true than the things we say in horrible hurtful frames of mind?
I'm not even going to keep these pretences anymore. It was pretty delicately executed, pretty beautiful, that you kept your name 'til last. Pretty fucking devastating too. I bet it gave you satisfaction, didn't it? I hope it did, it did for me. That's probably what ended it really, that twist of cruelty.
Help me? 'Help you'? Are you fucking kidding me? I don't even know what to say to that. How many times did you save my life? HOW MANY TIMES WERE YOU THERE FOR ME?
Not hard to find. Right. I know, I'll just phone up the girl who again and a-fucking-gain purposefully distances herself from me! Maybe I'll get another of those emails that somehow manage to be spiteful and uncaring at the same time. At least this one didn't end with a promise that we can go through all the same again.
I am sick and so fucking tired of you, of this. I'm controlling, great, sure, do you know how much control you've abused over me? So many things you could have just... not said, but you did. So many times you held the balance of power so firmly and yet somehow accused me of the same. I've always been honest with you, to the extent words let me. If I'm made of words, you're made of lies.
Yes, I'm pathetic, well done, you got me good there. But what gives you the right to make me feel like this? You didn't have to, no one forced you, you could have just left it and just been cold until I ran out of effort. Did you do it for my good? Certainly not. You did it for your own. Your peace of mind, your satisfaction, your sadistic pleasure? Why else would you go into gender? Do you somehow think you were doing me a favour? No, you didn't, so why did you do it?
Is it because I didn't tell you it would hurt me? There are some things you don't have to be told. Some things are just... unsaid, without words, ain't that a novelty? Well, here's something I'll tell you straight out: there comes a point where you can't blame your failings on other people anymore. You're very close to that point. Soon enough, it won't be your fathers fault, it won't be my fault, it won't be even be your issues' fault, it will be YOUR fault. Sort yourself out. Fuck all that shit you said about growing 'apart' and grow up. I loved and love that good part of you, and now I know how to find it: take all the apathy, all the that self-destruction you do, all the family, all the boys, all the girls, all the words, take all of that away and you'll see it. Stop fucking compromising, this is where it has got you.
And you know what? I'm not going to be there to help you with this one. You'll do it or fail to do it on your own. I'm not going to be that boy you left behind, that boy you kicked around and then finally took pity on enough to end it. I'm not going to give you that. I am going to be the girl who burns. Burns as hot as my heart is beating right now. Burns with the accumulated pain of all the self-harm you lost in numbness. Burns with your throat after your body fails to subject your mind to its will. Burns with everything you put through me for this. Burns to remind you what you should be burning. And until you have,
Never, ever, contact me again.
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