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Sunday, 20 August 2000 (lead poisoning) 9:49am Eating and sleeping. Sometimes I really wish I could do without either of them. Of course, I know that falls into the "be careful what you wish for" category, but, y'know, wishing one way or the other ain't gonna change anything, so I may as well. I'm having the kinds of dreams which make me afraid to go to sleep at all, may John Waters forgive me my disrespect. So yesterday Dana and I went to have the dresses for the wedding fitted. I discovered not only that the corset from Gallery Serpentine will work nicely (something I'd been worried about), but that I'm capable of being fitted under the watchful eye of two bouncy preteen girls. There is, after all, no such thing as optimum conditions. It wasn't so bad, really. It was the daughter of the woman who who's assisting the actual designer of the dresses (flowcharts available upon request), and a friend of the daughter. I got the feeling they were slightly weirded out by me at first, but of course that's not an uncommon reaction at all. And I get the impression I'm hardly the first, shall we say, gender variant they've met. I'm the first to admit that I'm not entirely comfortable around children, either, but after a while I think we warmed up to each other. Indeed, we got to that inevitable point of comparing scars. Don't ask me how, we just did. I showed them the dog bite on the back of my hand from when I was four or five, and described the scars on my legs from the operation in kindergarten. They were suitably impressed by that one, although I decided against going through the buet/stripey/legging removal process which would have been necessary to show them. In retrospect, I'm a little surprised I didn't point out my most obvious scarring: the telltale signs of electro which were still visible on my face. It isn't literal scarring (i hope i hope i hope), though it's enough to make me look like I'm walking around with a communicable disease. Didn't even occur to me at the time, though, and they didn't bring it up, either. Which I guess is a good sign.
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Saturday, 19 August 2000 (the blessing of the pig) 7:21am Another dream of Bolinas. Symbols. Lee, The Ex, the town itself, Tiff, the journey which has gone from indefinite to interminable—all symbolic of something, something I either can not or will not fathom. The recurring theme is that I'll find my home there, that I'll find whatever it is I'm looking for there. But it's nothing more than images created by my subconscious (or unconscious if you're a stickler for semantics), and they only have as much meaning or power as I choose to grant them. No matter how real or painful they feel. No matter how great the sense of loss and desperation when I open my eyes...
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Friday, 18 August 2000 (c17h19no3) 8:30am When I'm depressed, I clean. It's not all I do, but it's way up there on the list, the time-honored tradition of making external changes to compensate for an internal dilemma. The living room is now a bit tidier than it was before. Not much, but some. The piles are arranged in more aesthetically pleasing manner, at least. I also finally convinced sfgoth and Pegasus to play nice with each other, and have downloaded my mail for the first time since November. I've been quite embarrassed about this, since every so often my inbox gets clogged and mail starts bouncing all over to hell and back. I've also gotten a few diplomatic nudges from the sfgoth admins about it—terribly patient folks, I must say. For as much of a strain as I've put on their server (for which I'm not paying a red cent), they'd be well within their rights to boot me off entirely. I really respect the hell out of people like them, or Cami or Costanza, who run their own. Something I've been considering myself, if only to see if I can wrap my brain around something like that. I may not like the answer, but that's seldom stopped me before.
Just one of many things I'm embarrassed about, really. Sometimes this last year
or two feels like it's been an adventure in wrong turns, bad decisions and
bargain-basement folly...
but let me get to the point 3:21pm Is it possible to be free when still under the eye of those who had once willfully denied you? Is there any chance for self-respect? sometime after midnight I finished Permanent Midnight. It's one of those pieces of writing which is so searing, so brilliant, so honest, I wish I'd written it...yet I'm very, very glad I didn't have to. Hopefully I'll never inflict upon myself the kind of suffering necessary to write on that level.
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Thursday, 17 August 2000 (forever, now) 6:45am Whoops. Looks like the forecasts earlier this week were off: today's going to be the last hot day, not yesterday. Swell. One more day of "beautiful" weather. I'm sure all that direct sunlight will make many people very happy. 12:28pm It seems only logical that on the days in which I most want to burrow away I should have to deal with meetings and sunlight. I have nothing against the rest of the world, I just don't want anything to do with most of them. The first meeting was in this building; the next one, unfortunately, will involve walking to a different building, with precious little shade between points A and B. This is a bad thing. It's never good to be aware of your skin. It only brings attention to itself when something is wrong. Oh, there are some positive sensations—after a good massage, perhaps, or the evaporation of water. Otherwise, it shouldn't be constantly reminding you of its presence. As mine is doing right now, and will be doing much more so when I go outside in a couple hours. As the transbay bus went into the Webster tunnel leading to Alameda last night, I was looking out the window at nothing in particular. For a few moments the lighting was such that I was looking at the silhouette of my reflection, and I could see very distinctly my facial hair. As distasteful as I find it on a personal level, the word "whiskers" seemed appropriate. Each one seemed distinct and somewhat menacing.
Even though a number of those were surely zapped last night (but not all), it's as
though I can still feel them right now. And they're hungry, like aggressive, snapping
sea anemones. The moment I step outside
into the sunlight, they're going to turn towards the sun and try to reach it, drawing
in as much heat and energy as they can, basking in it...
The temptation now is to just leave. It requires going into the sun, but that was bound to happen anyway. At least I can beat the rush on the train. Yeah. Fuck it.
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Wednesday, 16 August 2000 (cop shoot cop) 8:53am The world looks just the same, and history ain't changed...but I'll be going back next Tuesday. There's definitely something in there, something I can use. It certainly spoke more directly to me than years of being dragged to church ever did. Meanwhile, this fucking week plunders forward. I'm going to see my endocrinologist in a little while for the same ol' every-three-month song and dance. ("How can you be on Meridia? You have gained weight!" Et cetera.) Then to work for the afternoon, and then to get zapped. Nothing new under this particular sun, which promises to be especially hurtful today. just don't let yourself get trapped.
I'm afraid it's too late for caution, my friend. But the sentiment is appreciated, all the same.
But what about the hormones? I pointed out that hormones tend to result in weight gain, and that the Meridia was to an extent countering the effects of the hormones. Again, she shook her head. "No, no, no..." I changing my approaching, saying that I've read in many different places that taking hormones will often result in weight gain. She grudgingly agreed that yes, it often happens...but she clearly didn't see that as any excuse, either. She went ahead and wrote me another prescription, a typically Pyrrhic victory for me. Once again, I had to talk her into prescribing me something I wish I wasn't taking to begin with. But I still haven't found the courage to go off it. I really don't know if it's done me a damn bit of good in the last year and a half (did anything done me a damn bit of good?), but like a junkie, the high is long gone; I just need it to feel normal. Apparently the pharmaceutical companies have been knocking at her door again, as she suggested I try Xenical. Guess she doesn't remember that the last time she asked I flatly refused. It's the stuff which prevents a third of the fat from a given meal from being digested, like a culinary morning-after pill. Um, no. When she took my blood pressure, she arbitrarily chose my left arm, rather than my right. Normally she does my right, but hey, whatever. I was somewhat uncomfortably reminded of Jerry Stahl in Permanent Midnight eternally wearing long sleeves to hide the countless track marks on his arms as I rolled up the sleeve of my fishnet, preparing to explain away the week-old scracthes. (I say "somewhat" uncomfortably because I was born in 1973, meaning I'm just old enough to be able to idolize junkies. Maybe it's the art they produce, I don't know. Certainly seeing what cocaine did to Tom scared me away from that sort of thing on a personal level, but the fascination with the dionysian life, even/especially from a distance, remains. I suspect the following generation won't get the allure, but I could be wrong.) Cats, you know. You can have the front claws removed, but those back ones... As it happens, I didn't have to explain a thing, for she took the reading through the sleeve. Insisted on it, even. My breasts continue to be underacheivers—according to her there's been no real growth since July of last year, and if it ain't happened by now, it ain't gonna—and she suggested (in all seriousness) that I should consider implants. I merely nodded. It would have been pointless to argue her on it. I have no intention of ever getting implants, but she's just doing her job. She asked how my appointment with the plastic surgeon went, the one she'd recommended to me when I asked her about getting an orchie a while back. I told her that I hadn't yet spoken to him—this was greeted with a very surprised look—mainly because I'm wanting to finish with electro before I seriously pursue anything else. She seemed satisfied with my answer, and said that it was entirely up to me, that I should go at my own pace and not let anyone pressure me into doing anything I didn't necessarily want to do. Ironic, because she's applied that sort of pressure before, subtly and otherwise.
Still, it almost felt like I was just using electro as an excuse. I know that's not the case—I'm
quite serious about wanting to finish up and move on, even if I'm not entirely certain to where—but
it sounds hollow to me sometimes. Maybe it's just the fear that when I'm finally through with zapping,
the question on my mind will be Now what? And that I won't have an answer for it.
you know, i've been saying this for too many days 11:35pm I think I seriously dozed tonight; I don't remember hearing most of Willie Nelson's Teatro. (Go ahead and laugh, but it's a great album. Two words: Daniel fucking Lanois.) That was towards the end, and it was a vast improvement over the start of the session, the predictable sweatfest. I hit the Green Death a little harder than usual tonight, and it seemed to work. Sleepy is good. I also went ahead and made an appointment for week after next. Then the week after, no doubt. And again, and again.
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Tuesday, 15 August 2000 (equanimity) 6:55am It's back up, finally. Turning the dsl's modem on and off seemed to do the trick. That didn't work the first time I tried last time, so I don't know if I waited too long this time around or if I just got lucky. I'm not going to worry about it too much either way. What I'm more likely to worry about is the fact that it's getting hot again. Allegedly it'll peak tomorrow then cool back down by the weekend, but as it's peaking it may possibly reach triple digits everywhere but in the coastal areas. I live in the coastal area, but tomorrow after work I'm not going home but to Alameda to get zapped—very much not a coastal area. It was equally hot a few weeks back. For whatever reason, my body doesn't really begin to sweat until after I've stopped moving around and started to rest. As a result, I was already on the table when the sweat started making its way down my brow. I couldn't do anything about it, either. What made it borderline tolerable was that he'd already begun zapping and the vicodin hadn'y yet kicked in, so I was pretty much able to ignore the chinese water torture-feeling of the bead of sweat as it inched its way down around my nose...
Guess I'd better expect more of the same tomorrow.
There. I said it.
The key, of course, is to actually be good at what you do, and at least I'm not obsolete just yet. Can't help feeling like I'm getting there, though. A more immediate destination is the drop-in meditation class at the San Francisco Buddhist Center this evening. I have no idea what I'm expecting, except that I need to keep my expectations as low as possible. What I want/need is an epiphany of some sort, to find whatever it is I've been looking for, for them to take one look in my eyes and say come in, we've been waiting for you. we can help. For me to leave there feeling like maybe, just maybe, my life has taken a slight shift for the better, and that I won't be disappointed this time. Disappointment is a result of my own expectations, of course. I do realize that. When someone or something disappoints me, it's not a problem with them, it's a problem with me. If this turns out to be not what I'm hoping it'll be, then it just means that I'm looking in the wrong place. But if it works, whatever "working" is in this context...hell, I may even finally rent Kundun. Seriously, though, I'm very conscious of the tendency of Westerners to pillage and bastardize Eastern philosophies. (Not that I'm implying Scorsese did that, mind you. On the other hand, I really hate the thought of seeming like I'm following in Richard Gere's footsteps, y'know?) And there's a lot of potential for chicanery amd pure bullshit—Transcendental Meditation® comes to mind, and I'm sure a quick perusal through the yellow pages in Los Angeles would probably reveal of wealth of similar scams. It's hard not to feel...I don't know. Trendy, somehow. Or maybe this somehow makes me feel even more like a yuppie. (Again, I'm young, I work in a city and I'm a professional, my outward appearance not withstanding. I'm a yuppie.) For that matter, my college roommate Chip claimed to be a Buddhist, though it seemed to extend no farther than the occasional lip service and a small buddha figure on his dresser. Otherwise, he came across more like a sexist, homophobic, misogynistic xtian more than anything else. In any event, I need to be careful on many levels...
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Monday, 14 August 2000 (lubucration) 9:50am So we went to four movies this weekend (Jim Jarmusch's Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai, a bizarre little Australian film called The Interview, John Waters' Cecil B. Demented and But I'm a Cheerleader) and never once set foot in a multiplex. I'm rather proud of that. I couldn't help noticing, though, that Cecil and Cheerleader both include tiny goth girls as supporting characters. Darn you, Hollywood, when can we start seeing tall goth girls in movies? We're not going to let you taint the self-image of our youth with your impossible standards any longer!
(Ha! You see, what makes it funny is that neither of them qualify as "Hollywood" movies, and, you
know, people are always complaining about the way people look in movies, and now I'm bitching about height,
and...oh, never mind...)
—still, though, every now and then your chest clenches up and it's like you can't breathe—that hasn't stopped and isn't ever going to stop—and you deserve it—you're stuck— 3:38pm Per her request, I've sent my mother some pictures of me for possible mantle display. I decided on prints of pictures I used for the journal April and July; I figure they shouldn't freak her out too much. As these things go, they're not extreme. I wonder how she's referring to me now, to people not already in the know. If she says she has three sons and a daughter, or if she refers to me as her son and only goes into the embarrassing details if necessary. The April headshot in particular, I don't think she could get away with referring to it as her son without doing a lot of explaining...but it might be necessary either way. I don't know. I don't know what those pictures show. My subjective reaction is entirely too strong. I know what's going on behind those eyes, and I can't disassociate myself. I can't begin to guess what someone else, someone who doesn't know, might think. This is the first Monday since late June in which I won't be getting zapped; the appointment for this week is on Wednesday. There's a temptation to cancel it. I've had approximately 24 hours of work in the last two months, and that ain't slouching. There's definitely progress, absolutely no question of that. I could probably shave right now, and except for a bit of discoloration on my upper lip, there wouldn't be evidence of a shadow. The remaining hair on my cheeks are almost entirely blonde, the heaviest concentration of dark hairs being below my chin, and even those are scattered at best. Besides, I'm going with Dana this weekend to get the bridesmaid's dresses fitted (and to make sure that the corset is in fact a proper fit, something which I've been unable to tell for sure), and my face will surely be an ugly, spotty red from the recent zapping. Not to mention I'm extremely tired of the process and would love a week or two off...
But, no. I simply can't stop, not yet. I'm too close. I can't give up now. If I can keep it up through the
end of September, I could very well be done for good.
The question becomes, then, how much longer before I start demanding better service? Before I realize I have the right to be treated better?
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Sunday, 13 August 2000 (slip away (a warning)) 8:44am "Sunday." Different from "Saturday" in that it signifies the planet has revolved once more. Before too long we'll start calling it "Monday" for that same reason. Otherwise, it is arbitrary, meaningless. It is has no significance whatsoever. There is nothing for me to be afraid of. Nothing... 10:32am The dsl isn't back up yet. It could be hours, days, weeks. In all things, you don't get what you paid for—you get the absolute smallest amount they think they can get away with giving you. The trick, I suspect, is to not want in the first place. 1:04pm So, for reasons probably too depressing to considering, I brought my Palm along to Shrine. Certainly I'm not the only person I've seen using one there, and I had a hunch it might come in handy. (Is that a pun? I hope not.) I started out writing by hand, but I found it much faster to cheat and use the keyboard option. For better or worse, I compose faster using a keyboard than longhand—even if it is pecking with a stylus. At least it isn't hunt-and-peck in the classic sense, seeing as how I know the keyboard layout very well. It was my best friend when growing up, with the possible exception of Mary. Then again, maybe that's why Mary seemed to enjoy getting on the keyboard so much, out of jealousy. But I digress.
Meanwhile, back in what passes for the present time, another Sunday passes by blameless and anonymously. I've gotten into the habit of reading my journal from a year ago each day. I wonder how long I'll keep that up before it gets too painful.
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Saturday, 12 August 2000 (driving sideways) 7:55am The peak viewing time of the Perseids meteor shower was at 3:30am this morning. Unfortunately, by 2am the fog had started roll in on the coast, and I couldn't think of anywhere else to go to see it. (Bolinas would have been perfect, but that's very much in pipe-dream territory. Sometimes it seems that place has reached a Shell Beach-eqsue significance in my head. I guess that just goes to show how much humans need symbols.) Alas. 8:26am The dsl is still down. Oh well. Easy come, etc. 10:57pm Shrine. Suddenly, I want to go to Shrine. Badly. I wouldn't be able to wear makeup, of course. Indeed, I would be at my most drab since my first time there, in January of last year. When everything changed. No matter. It's high time I stopped feeling so restricted by such things.
I don't know who's DJing or if there's a band playing or if any of my
friends will be there. Anodyne's a safe bet, of course, and maybe Sara or Tiff.
Never can tell. One way to find out.
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Friday, 11 August 2000 (sublimation) 9:08am I got home last night to find the dsl had crashed and burned. It didn't register on me too much, though, as I was in the middle of doing the same thing. It started on the way home. I was looking out the window, trying to find something to focus on, something else to think about, and the tears started welling up. I'd been keeping them back for most of the week, somehow, but no longer. I suppose it could be hormonally induced mood swings. That would explain a lot, really. It's been a long time since I've had them, bit that doesn't mean it can't still happen. Whatever the cause, it felt real enough. The overriding sensation was one of pure isolation, and that it was something I'd brought on myself. Worse, my pride and complacency over surviving the ordeal of last year resulting in me letting my strength run dry. In the face of another emotional crisis, I had nothing left. iwannaliveiwannalovebutitsalonghardroadoutofhell I don't believe in god (or widdle baby jeeezus or nasty ol' Mr. Splitfoot), or the supernatural on any level. There are times when I wish I did, because I know it can bring a great deal of comfort. But it's not a leap of faith I can make. It would be dishonest, and that form of dishonesty isn't something I can handle right now. I need to be as honest with myself as possible. To do that I need to go inward, to cut through all the layers of noise and chaos on the surface. And to not be afraid of what I find in there. To accept it, regardless of whether or not anyone else does. The meditation book I've been reading is touching on a lot of themes which had already been on my mind. It doesn't get too New Agey and/or metaphysical, thankfully, although there were some passing references to clairvoyance and telekinesis. Oh well, there are a lot of rational xtians who genuinely believe in the cannibalistic/vampiric weirdness that is transubstantiation. (I don't know what point I'm trying to make; the last couple sentences may have merely been an excuse to use a lot of big words.) What it seems to boil down to is to just fucking relax. Take it as it comes. I try to do that, I really do, but sometimes it gets to be too much. And I'd like to think I'm not too proud to be able to admit that I need help. Not in the 12-step/higher power sense, but to be able to look inside myself. That's really what the last few years have been about. If not, they've been wasted. I know there are things inside of me which can be accessed under the right circumstance. Usually drugs are required, but I believe that's not the only way. When I first did 'shrooms, and a few months later when I did acid, I saw something (with my eyes closed) which I've since described for want of a better term as "god"—but which I also knew to be internal, not external. It was like a double-ended spigot with a steady flame issuing from either side. The eternal flame, my mind called it, that is life. It was a hallucination, yes, called forth from the chemicals of the drug interacting with the chemicals of my brain. But it was still ultimately a creation of my brain, of my mind, of me. And perhaps not a creation so much as a representation, a symbol to allow me to visualize something which did not exist in the dimensions which my senses could perceive. I suspect that Shakespeare may have been right: there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. (Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 5, for those of you following along at home. And please, at the end of the show, donate generously.) Except that the mysteries may not be on the outside...
But there aren't any angels. Sorry about that.
see? all happy now! until the next time you feel something verboten and the fire rages and the door slams and the world spins off its axis. it'll happen again and again because you're just so fucking inexplicable. because nothing you do can ever possibly be "understood." it doesn't matter how real it feels to you. why can't you just be the way you're expected to be? and when you will realize that you'll never meet those expectations? oh, why even ask? never, probably. fucking wretch. until you have the strength to get out of the cycle, it'll just keep on turning...and we all know you don't have the strength. you got yourself into it, and you can't get yourself out. don't expect any sympathy from anyone else. 6:43pm The San Francisco Buddhist Center in the Mission offers free, drop-in meditation classes every Tuesday night at 7pm. Possibilities...
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