April 11th, 2022

a night where i felt odd

10:23pm

feels like a novel has passed through my head since i curled up under the blanket maybe an hour ago a flickering kaleidoscope comprising the absolute elaboration of my condition, my overall perspective, the degrees of granularity & honesty making it an event, an occasion. curled up wanting only to get up & write & transcribe & describe but even as all the words come i know the words fail, the words are uncountable fragments of my unitary condition that in each moment i apprehend & understand in its unfragmented unelaborated entirety, but still i want to transcribe the plainness & honesty in the hopes of doing any good, of serving any use but words fail me, every statement every value every virtue will unfold into gaudy unwieldy needs to elaborate & clarify & define until it balloons into a maze & i fail to be understood. curled up with the body of potential text growing, trying to keep track & remember each statement, things inevitably slipping away

April 12th, 2022

12:29am

i am in the oddest mood tonight. i didn't get much sleep last night, i guess. but this very odd mood hadn't taken hold until i left the room where i record the spoken segments of my college radio show. i had been in that little room for four hours, & these four hours had been occupied by obsessively perfectionist scrutiny of enunciation, of alternating between the record & undo buttons, of take after take after take, of hydration & desperation for my mouth to not make salival noises when i made movements with my tongue that were inevitable parts of speech

i muttered to myself the whole way home, thinking the whole way about my inability to transcribe it all, how maybe it was a bit of a tragedy since i was thinking so little, which made the words sincere, surely. well, i was thinking so little aside from the thought of transcription. does that discount the sincerity?

i am sat on my bed, at my laptop. i have just drank a decently significant quantity of alcohol fairly quickly, & i have done this solely for the purpose of eliciting a particular capacity to write in an unfiltered manner. i would ideally like to encapsulate my entire universe in this text post, but i certainly will not achieve that

the reason i would like to encapsulate my entire universe in this text post is that i am convinced that i am sufficiently devoted to protecting things inside myself, things everyone else might be letting the entropic world erode away, that i can keep them alive if no one else does, that i can trust myself to keep them intact & alive if no one else, & i can benefit the world by externalizing them in the hope of keeping them alive in the world, so long as i can maintain a careful enough relationship with language that i make them understandable

the only thing i wound up transcribing from my muttering during my walk home was a desire for someone who will collaborate with me on the mutual pursuit of a holistic sweetness rather than just making me, as presumably a romantic partner, the focus of their compartmentalized sweetness. this was at the tail end of desirous mutterings about... well, about _, of course, the phantom. it's April so my name is playfully April instead of Alex for the month of April, as in the past two years

2020 when my queue was one of my favorite songs each day & the hallway had just flooded & the smell of mildew became an unconventionally nostalgic thing with the intrusive whirr of the floor fan keeping me company & i frivolously came up with the idea of being April in April as an element of this second childhood i felt immersed in, seemingly largely as an effect of-

so i amble home in the chilly air in 2022 & i mutter to myself, April & the phantom is the frivolous reference i intended to arrive at, an amusing circumstantial collusion of independent factors, but to the point i'm trying to arrive at: what did i see in _ in that May of 2020? smiley emoticons & simplicity & most of all a kind of ideology consisting solely of a determined love for animals & perhaps this is an expression of a larger ideology of a suspended naivete, yes i think this is an elaboration of those thoughtless instinctive mutters in the chilly air. & when i arrive home i feel the need to jot down in Notepad:

dragged out into the chilly air so that i remember i can exist in chilly air & cuddle in the backyard grass
unconcerned about the stains & bugs once i find out who you are & we can unlock what we both know is right

i often worry about my incapacity to need anyone but the reality is that i simply don't know who it is that i need, because everyone has something they need & in the total absence of that someone they have nothing to feel they need, no direction, no map, but a piece is missing & in my hour spent curled up under the blanket i frantically elaborate this & here i try to elaborate some important qualities

no drama, no soul mate, no destiny, no fate, no intensity, no really,

in April of 2022 i take another large sip, noting this in the interest of signposting any potential shift in the quality of the writing past this point in the post

no drama, soul mate, destiny, fate, or intensity, this now feels like one of the things i've protected in myself. what i need feels like the texture of the front cover of a children's book that was bound in perhaps the 1930s, so subjective a metaphor you won't understand, it's already collapsing, but i try to regroup & bring to you any meaning:

nothing climactic but something like family, whole comfort, neutral presence, neutrality, no dramatized comfort, no climactic comfort, an equal, an other without anything else, something like a sibling but detached from all the antagonisms & mutilations by this world that can possess a sibling, can words ever communicate the mundanity & the simplicity, for christ's sake stop putting a red line under "mundanity" i resort to it so often & it may as well be a word, why should i resort to "mundane quality" or the like

what do you do when you become close to someone but then you find they tend to send you pictures, to force you to consider things, to breach your hermetic chamber, your safe place, hermetic because the informatic world is so unspeakable

everything is cheapened, even consigning my condition to the medium of words is a cheapening but then to try to make sense of oneself on perhaps a microblogging website, an ecosystem whose fundamental particle is discrete acts of the consignments of conditions to words, this is exponential cheapening. i want to be known, i want to connect with you, whoever you are

love is corresponding signals. people are bundles of signals. i come back to this over & over lately. everyone else compulsively banalizes themselves, no one is willing to linger at my idiot pretentious abstraction serious asdfghjkl; whatever i'm saying but it's so real, it's all that's real, but playfulness is all that's real too, & can these mechanical framings be playful? maybe. i'm drunk, but do you understand? i'm trying to be something. i'm trying to be something that disproves solipsism & this drunkenness makes all flows come forth & it might be so coherent beyond the typical outcomes of drunkenness perhaps. the condition of drunkenness sets in & i am released to total impulse & perhaps honesty, every word seems to have a meaning & there is no consideration & everything serves my immediate purpose of approaching a horizon of honesty

i can't believe-

i can't reference-

surely you recognize-

i-

i-

i-

i don't know-

hyphens indicate the extent of my comfort-

the glass of vodka is empty

& i hope that at the end there is a body of text unlike anything i might have produced

maybe we try to cultivate the spirit of that "suspended naivete" referenced in an earlier paragraph communally, well i'm not sure anyone else even does but follow along with me here, but despite this being the only channel of communal communication it has the inexorable effect of cheapening, of distancing from the true spirit, god the true spirit is so simple & i only want to share it but it's too simple to be shared & i don't want you to have to dwell in these things anymore i want to show you something like the flowers & the raccoons living under _'s deck to whom he fed soft serve ice cream from the cone obtained from the drive-thru

you don't know what the hyphens represent

my fundamental belief is that this world incessantly corrodes at exactly what you need, it corrodes at something inside yourself that is so exactly what you need, something so fragile that i want to see protected, the neutrality, the modesty, the sibling, the simplicity, the woody brown color, the un-aestheticized pastoralism & the comma-separated examples that flow from my fingertips so naturally in this state that i feel so relieved

i have thought about the hyphens every single day but i'd prefer not to admit that, & it's the one danger of this drunkenness exercise - that i might veer into my hyphens. but there are such potent barriers that i believe not even the maximum state of drunkenness will break them down

i believe that my commitment to sincerity delivers me from any repulsive

i can't figure out what the words after "repulsive" are. & the bold text ends

one phrase that fluttered through my head while i was curled up under the

here, drunk, i write whether or not you'll understand, & that's the beauty: not concerning myself with whether you'll understand. it's like The Residents' "theory of obscurity"

(i seem intent on elaborating a "theory of obscurity" on obscurity.html!)

((my fingers' relationship to the keys is so natural that it only becomes more direct in an impaired state))

one phrase that fluttered through my head while i was curled up under the blanket: "

oh god, what was it?

i love feeling your considerations pass from paragraph to paragraph

you see meaning in a line break. we are in tune. i smile. i write

one phrase that fluttered through my head while i was curled up under the blanket: "

i laugh. i love making a tumblr post. i love being more devoted to the content of a tumblr post than most. post rhymes with most

one phrase that fluttered through my head while i was curled up under the blanket: "

no i started typing it but it's too weird maybe

okay it's only weird under the lens that i'm inebriated & it incorporates the word "sexual" but it's not actually like i'm delving into the "inebriated sexual" territory of my head, it's just a legitimate path of personal inquiry

basically:

when i was young i read these gross stories on the internet depicting violent incest & it opened the breadth of my imagination up to the realm of violent incest, & so when i say i want to be close to someone with the unfettered & undramatic & unclimatic & natural synergy of a sibling:

well it's why i once posted the Molly Nilsson lyric

philadelphia, by molly nilsson

"i wanna be a sister to you, but do things normal siblings don't do"

Christ i thought that was on genius.com but it wasn't so confidently finding the lyric for a drunken person was so protracted & confusing. anyway that's a good lyric

anyway uh approaching the idea of incest makes me nervous because i'm a bit disqualified from communicating with a precision that makes it very clear that there's nothing strange or deviant going on, it's actually very simple & not that complicated:

i learned early on that closeness invites the possibility of sex & so closeness to those within the incest taboo

oh my god it's so stressful like i have never desired or contemplated incest obviously. i think you get what i'm saying by this point, that it handicapped closeness

okay with that established i can divulge the condition i thought about the hypothetical one i need, which was: oh god what was it. trying to remember. ok. hang on. it was: [... thinking ...]

i don't know. i tried to remember but i only remember the gist. it was like...

oh god why can't i phrase the gist properly

[...]

that was where i paused my typing for a long time, or at least what felt like a long time

sigh sigh sigh, it's like how there was a point in time when i distrusted asexual cuddling because even though it felt like a sort of pure thing i was convinced at the time that it was my body's "pure" lure toward a state of affairs that could lead to a sexual state of affairs, like you get them close to each other for the sake of a kind of pure expression of affection like two asexual tiny cartoon characters hugging each other on a greeting card but then that invites the pheromones to swoop in & compel them to be sexual, so the whole time it was just a trick, & the fact that something which felt so affectionate & pure the whole time was ultimately only a trick... the negation of that purity is an immense tragedy, to me

but that's all nonsense because it was all only a product of the ephemeral philosophical position of love being a superficial thing draped over sex but the reality is that love is real

[...]

sigh this is basically the point where i have stopped typing because despite the drunkenness i feel like i have gotten so wrapped up in considerations that the initial wave is over

.

[...]

something i intended early on: no cynicism, no sarcasm, no detachment, no caffeine, no sugar, no neon, no artificiality. these go back to muttering as i walk home. no alcohol, no cheapness [... ->]

[...]

there's a worrying sense that, even through this exercise of freeing flows, this string of prolonged pauses in typing indicates that i've succumbed to something

[...]

i muttered about how i need to learn to paint & create & open myself to creating & being because it's so important to learn to be someone who loves & is worth loving than to simply wish for someone worth loving because if everyone simply wishes then no one makes themselves the one who is loving & so no one's wishes ever resolve. i've seen it put far more succinctly but it's hard to do that right now i guess. the adage is something like: "be that person you wish for" or something like that

i want to create the painting that makes someone smile, is what i thought on the walk. but what if you sent someone a hundred beautiful paintings & they just come across as interchangeable fractions of the deluge of content, & then i can only make one painting in the time it takes me to send a hundred, even if i put a lot of thought into the elegant expressive composition

but as an additional counterpoint what if my having painted it makes it special. or what if it doesn’t

[-> ...] it's so hard to keep one's mind on these things, these oppositions to negative qualities. it's so easy to slip back into sarcasm or just riffing on jaded aspects of modern accelerated culture. i don't want to be jaded. please. i don't want to confront. something i thought very early on, under the blanket: i don't want to develop callouses. i want to be soft & pliant no matter how much i'm cut. i thought in the gas station full of sugar & alcohol & caffeine: maybe it's immature (& weak) to never want to toughen & harden & adapt, but it's what i want. i want to remain uncalloused & intolerant of what is wrong, of what is selfish, of what is antagonistic, i never want to adapt, i want to do this with virtue instead of weakness. i never want to change my standards. i want to remain with the judgment of a child, the judgment a child imposes on the affected world, it's what i want

.

i'm scared of losing my closest friend of three years

because he loves me

he loves me

we're in a relationship

he's not sure if he can remain in contact

if we're not in a relationship

too painful to see me not love him in return

too painful to see me love anyone else

but i suspect he might understand benignity

i am in an endless search for just one other person on the planet who i think really understands the quality of benignity

but i feel like i can't meet someone at age twenty

& then never romantically know another person ever again

& i feel like i need to spend a month with the friend i met in December

it feels like the way forward as opposed to stagnation & restriction of breadth of experience, it feels like diversity, it feels like life

but it breaches the conditions of the continuation of our romance

& thus the conditions of the continuation of our friendship

& thus the conditions of the continuation of our communication

& thus the conditions of the continuation of connection with perhaps one other person who understands the quality of benignity

the clipart he sends me

to don romantic restriction merely for friendship

oh, but for even one friend who will come to see me

& a friend wants to come to see me

i love you

.

do i love anyone?

.

the purest love is akin to a brother & the thought i couldn't conjure before is that even in the absence of any impulse to think of a person sexually (that is not something i want) i do need the assurance that to do so is not repulsive (that the sporadic realm of thought is safe from judgment, i suppose? what am i trying to say?) just so that i can be asexually close to someone & feel safe & be confident that it is indeed asexual

.

i'm alone until sorts of intensity come :( i have no neutral equals & siblings :( i am silence until exceptional spikes of social activity, until meetups

.

jeez the closeness tangents i think still just seem weird but it's entirely an artifact of drunkenness muddling my articulation, actually, i think. i think i've made myself clear enough for it to be sympathetic instead of freakish. it's not freakish, i just can't get a handle on the stupid topic. it's rooted in the fear of the inappropriate presence of sexuality, thus the positive absence of sexuality, making it explicitly asexual, not an odd sexual thing. jeez

what do i care if strangers on the internet read this book that i'm forgetting as i write it, like a cartoon character walking along planks of wood, nailing each plank to each subsequent plank, the previous plank inexplicably floating in the air? the strangers are the external world, & the external world is immutably real, incontrovertible, as incontrovertible as my internal world. honestly only reflects what is. what is is what is. do you get it? maybe there's so many paragraphs that it's just dragging on by this point. maybe to read all of this will just burden anyone. when am i going to publish this? the typing of all of this is the event of the night, the strange & seemingly exceptional night when i mutter as i walk home. when does that act of publishing occur? what is the final sentiment to appear in the post?

i hope it was an adventure for anyone at all

each act of honesty brings the totality of life closer to its natural state

have i been honest?

could inebriation, in its limiting of my rational consideration, lead me to regard half-honesties as inebriated acts of honesty?

we'll see i guess

12:35am

pt. 2

i've lost track of exactly what i want to say but i feel a bit empty if i still feel drunk but i'm not focused on typing. i shouldn't have concluded the first post i guess. have i at least touched lightly on every aspect of that "absolute elaboration of my condition" that occurred to me while i was curled under the blanket? it feels like if i haven't at least touched upon it then it has slipped away. it feels like it was so long ago by this point

i had a couple paragraphs that were distinctly too much

using my thumb & index finger as pincers tightly grasping my opposite brow ridges as i think

alcohol is relinquishing control on purpose then coming to terms with having not had control

the ultimate catharsis would be to release into a tumblr post what was so tough to say even to my good friend but let's not jump straight to going through with that ok?

if i add anything more it will be edited in above this line. this is because i feel the urge to publish this & display that the exercise is ongoing, that it's not concluded like i indicated in the last post. the urge to display this is elicited by the emptiness i feel if i don't try to continue to type

November 17th, 2022

1:37am

tried to try drunk unfiltered nonstop writing again but it's just these feelings & images that are more true than the words i could try to slather over them, a sense of being locked in, (locked in with these images & feelings, incapable of expressing.) some vague mental image of a purple wall or a person committed to something, a fear of lack of commitment or of a character of untruth, or a fear of failure to exist for lack of attention span - there are things i have read that made me exist more than i did prior & i nearly didn't read them. i have to write something. i already wrote one thing & relegated it to the drafts, now if i write even more & relegate it to the drafts i'll only feel more locked in. like many people i am sort of afraid. prevalent among my ongoing fears is of being corrupted by... well i had three things & i forgot the third. i had this stream of words that accumulated in my head before i started writing & i wanted to rescue them from slipping out but i wasn't quick enough & that hurts. but i am afraid of being corrupted by... too long of loneliness, or by long-term effects of parental neglect, i think. (& maybe, for the third, by my own hunger??? i don't know.) i feel so lonely. i am intensely grateful for my finally-friend but i am harassed by a sense that i cannot exist enough for them, that i'll never be able to talk to them as much as anyone else they know talks to them, or maybe that i'll never be able to rise up to some above & beyond level of dialogue & expression that could be uncommon but that everyone ultimately deserves. i'm afraid even of asking "would talking about what happened help any" because of a sense that even though it is a good thing to ask, the fact that i'm following a pre-written line to deliver for the duration of that sentence makes it feel like sandpaper on my head to deliver & i'm scared it feels that way for whoever else too. so wrapped up in fears & avoidances & awkwardnesses that i can't unpack until it's too late

why is my friend the only one? who really exists? okay, i know everyone really exists, that i am stuck in my own world blinding myself to the really-existence of every last person, but: some people really really exist, & where are they? i am so alone along some vector i can never describe, i am waiting sagging staring draining greying for all time waiting for my world to finally reveal itself to me, for someone who really exists to me to finally come out of hiding, in disbelief that it could be such a tall order, that everything could be so infrequent & hidden & difficult. for something like me to finally please reveal itself & welcome me. & i will follow the standard course of being afraid that i cannot exist & converse to the degree that compensates it for how absolutely grateful i am for its existence, fear of insufficient commitment, fear i cannot commit to our mutual project, fear that i am undeveloped, quivering, grey, mush, cowardly, gravitating towards thought-terminating cliches & lazy concession to culturally dominant routes of thought, stereotypes. i want so badly to exist. i want to finally rise to the call of existing once i have someone to exist for. someone else worth existing for please come & hold my hand & guide me along & instruct me in this process so that i can exist adequately for the initial first person worth existing for, please & thank you. i promise not to spend exactly three-thousand, three hundred & twenty-one words wholly embarrassing myself

"someone just please understand! even just one of the billion things i want to see understood ? but maybe if i was real i'd have a trillion things i want to see understood. i promise not to embarrass myself to someone who understands even two hundred & fifty million things

like very many other people, i am kind of scared < this is how i imagined opening the first post that was relegated to drafts