False alarm. Foraging alarmist, that I am. I deliberately refuse to unlearn generational trauma, I carry them whole. I stay while I plan everything. I want you to know me a bit better, I want to show myself somehow.
I don’t really go out. I shed personalities like snake skins, but I’m not messed up in my head, not anymore. At a summer camp last year I drank myself stupid every day and tried to learn some Billy Evans, to no effect, but I don’t usually drink. I stopped talking for a month in high school. I have an ongoing fascination with ugliness; but I tell everyone, “I want to do beautiful things in life.” I please.
My paucity of life gives me meaning; I ration my experiences and memories like wartime cereal, and that is the only way I am highly disciplined in the subliminal chaos of my bedroom, my desk, my coffee shop writing routine, my Rilkean nurtured solitude. I don’t like people I can’t write about. The nature of my education falls just one step behind when it became fashionable to be proud of who we are; so I reluctantly acknowledge that some part of my mind is stuck this way. I prefer bodies that don’t look like my own. I enjoy marble statues and things that exude the Western academe, I like formal occasions. I believe in Andy Warhol mantras and the need for proper rhetoric, although they fall into a boring disorder when they manifest in my own life. I berate every hour of my life spent not reading. I should read more, and write more, in my own language. I don’t consider English mine, it’s a crass temporary solution.
Perhaps this is not an entirely charming picture. But not everything I write about here is true. And even if they are, they are never true for long.
Meanwhile, I let the world come to me. What else would you like to know?